First, I must declare an interest. I have never met Nicholas Haslam. As everyone else has, this makes me uniquely qualified to review his book without partiality. But not without interest, for Haslam is an intriguing man. I think there is more to him than meets the eye — whichever Nicholas Haslam it is that currently happens to do that. He is the easiest person to send up — but that surely is not the whole story. Then what is? — and can we read it here?
There are some useful questions to be asked about the subject of a biography/autobiography. Has this person justified their existence? On balance, have they done good in the world or harm? Have they made best use of the talents they were given? Have they added to the gaiety of nations?
Haslam has been a pretty colourful addition to the life of the last 50 years, fizzing around the world like a Catherine wheel since adolescence and not allowing himself to fizzle out yet, adding fun and joie de vivre, style and good manners, jokes and puns in a kaleidoscopic cocktail. Nothing wrong with that. But what about the rest? Is there a ‘rest’? Is there anything below this glossy, amusing, society surface that is what Haslam chooses to show us?
The clue to this sort of thing usually lies somewhere in childhood, and he is most anxious to lay a clever trail to the day he saw an encampment of raggle-taggle gypsies in the meadow near his home, and a flame lit inside him as he responded to their free, romantic, careless existence. Is this all?
The most obvious intimation of something going on beneath the fashionable surface is that Nicholas Haslam can write wonderfully well, though he doesn’t always bother. Listen to this, about a New York visit to ‘the legendary Consuelo Vanderbilt’ who
sat in her pearl-grey boiserie salon overlooking the East River, amid the most perfect examples of French 18th-century furniture. Her face — atop the long white neck familiar from the Boldini portrait … turned inquiringly towards one as she talked. With a wreath of blue-grey hair above the delicately drawn features, her weightless body clothed in mauve-grey chiffon down to her pointed satin shoes, she seemed delicate as a bouquet of sweet peas seen by moonlight. I was aware that we were, though in the midst of modern, milling Manhattan, witness to an ethereal echo of a vanished world.
That is perfect and no one who can write like it does not also read, and read widely and well. But I don’t think a single book is mentioned inside the pages of this one. I wonder why? Probably because he was required to show off in other directions. ‘We want the names dropped, Nicky, the royals, the parties, the balls, the interiors, the glamour, the gossip. Never mind the fine writing.’
So we get Tallulah and Wallace and all the Dianas, we get Tony and Margaret and Roddy — oh, you know, and the lovers, natch. Interesting about them. Every one is described as the most stunningly handsome man in the history of men, the one with the sexiest mouth, longest lashes, blondest hair, yet when in photographs, some look quite — well, not plain, Nicky Haslam doesn’t do plain — but a bit ordinary. Blame the camera, or distance lending enchantment? There’s more to it. Coming bang up to date and rushing through to the end as if he’s bored with this whole book thing, he talks about his present interior design business and the young people who work there. ‘Humour and good looks are essential. I can teach almost anyone to draw in a fortnight and how to decorate pretty soon after, but I can’t make them beautiful.’ That sees off the rest of us then. But the whole world is not beautiful and even Nicky Haslam can’t make it so. Why pretend?
As so often, the past is better done than the present and the American past best of all. Everybody’s childhood is special and backlit in the memory, but I seem to have read about Haslam’s innumerable times in autobiographies of the period, and the Eton years too, though Eton shows its best face by quickly recognising, as ever, where the young Nicky’s talents really lay and letting him spend as much time as possible in the drawing school. But he was never intended for childhood, let alone school; he wanted to fast-forward to being a grown-up — though, once he grew up a bit too far for his own liking, he back-pedalled via a face lift and an embarrassing period of dressing like a street boy.
The middle years were best, when he was working for Vogue in New York, and having exotic affairs which took him to the South of France and Arizona. He has always known absolutely everybody and still does, though the everybodys have got a hell of a lot richer and the commissions grander and a slight air of desperation creeps in, of not wanting the party to end. Most of the people he knows feel the same.
I read this book twice, searching for something more. The answer to the questions is easy enough. Has he done good? In terms of making people appreciate beauty and a good time, yes. Is that enough? No. In terms of being a generous, kind and loyal friend — and this is not by his own admission, one reads between the lines — most definitely. Has he done harm? Probably not. Has he buried his talent? Never once. Justified his existence? Ish. The caveat is that I don’t believe he has done himself justice in this breathless, intriguing book. I wanted more of the best writing, though occasionally toned down a bit. Because when he describes something — a place, a time, a mood — he takes us there. That is not as common a talent as some suppose. I wanted to know more about what he believes or doesn’t, thinks and feels when he is alone. I wanted the other Nicholas Haslam. I’m sure there is one. Meanwhile, the one he chooses to give us is the best company and unequivocally adds to the gaiety of nations.
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