The Hedy Lamarr I knew was a blithe spirit, a woman with enormous energy, curiosity, intelligence, and sweetness. The way the old M-G-M guard was always there for support whenever trouble loomed: good. The pain on her face when people seemed surprised that at the age of forty-seven she didn’t look exactly as she did at twenty-four: bad.
A birthday party she gave for me soon afterward: good. Many of the most memorable times I had in Hollywood during my early years there were connected to Hedy, good and bad. Laughed often.Īdored charade parties, although game playing was definitely not her strong suit. What surprised me most about Hedy is that she was nothing like the glamorous, mysterious image she projected on screen. ’” I ask you: Who wouldn’t adore an amateur artist who chose as a subject not apples, boats, or trees, but an umbilical cord? I suspected we would become great friends, and we did.įrom that moment on we spent a great deal of time together. “I painted it,” she said with great pride.
I must have blanched, which she interpreted as dumbfounded approval of what I was looking at on that wall. Hanging prominently on a wall behind her was the ugliest painting I’d ever seen, a wild mix of grays, blacks, and blues, liberally doused with what looked like sand amid colors that seemed to swirl like water circling a drain. From the minute she greeted me at her front door, I also knew she was a True Original. Hedy Lamarr came into my life-unexpectedly, that’s for sure-one day in the early 1960s.
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