It was spring 1990. He was visiting Manhattan, and I was profiling him for Vogue. So far he had talked to Donatella (there was also dish about Elton John’s birthday party and an order for Princess Diana to discuss), read the papers and part of the pile of magazines that dominated his suite at the Carlyle (““I eat magazines really, I eat the news’’) and packed for the evening flight to Milan.
Downstairs in the dining room, Versace ordered a salad and told me I must immediately read Nobel Prize winner Naguib Mafouz (““He can fly, really. He is magic’’), but he also expounded on the merits of Rolling Stone and Entertainment Weekly. Within the past year he said he had visited Turkey, Japan, Sudan, Vietnam and Egypt, and implored me to visit all of them. In Egypt he slept for 16 days in a tent near the pyramid. He drove from New York to Los Angeles ““in a big old American car.’’ He slept in motels and went to Las Vegas.
For dessert, he allowed himself a single bite of “gorgeous” creme brulee, and said, “The only dream I have in my life is to be in outer space. I pray, “God, I hope the aliens come to Como gardens’.” In the lobby we spotted a former president instead, and Versace was almost as excited. “It’s Mr. Reagan,” he said, craning to get a glimpse of him in the elevator. “He has had a lifting. I know he has. Is Mrs. Reagan here? I must see her. Is she still wearing Adolfo?” In the car he told the driver to head for SoHo, a fact that made his companion, Antonio D’Amico, who was mindful of the 6:20 departure time, extremely nervous. But Versace was adamant, so off we crept downtown while he explained why all his frenzied soaking up of culture was so important to his craft. “You need a life. Inspiration is something you have to have inside.”
When we finally got to SoHo he went into a prolonged swoon, first over the sight of so many leather jackets on the people on the street, and then over a group of elderly neighborhood women. “I love those old ladies. I love the hyper-realism of America.” We roared through Rizzoli’s, an antiques store, a half-dozen art galleries. He said he looked forward to designing in the ’90s because now that women had established themselves, he said, “maybe they can go back to dressing like women.” At last he was ready to go to the airport. As he climbed into his car, two young Italian boys whispered, “It’s Versace, it’s Versace.” He grinned and blew me a kiss. “They make me feel like I’m the pope.”
The last time I saw him was last fall at a party at his new Manhattan town house, hosted by him and Vogue editor Anna Wintour. The guest list was a typical Versace mix: Jon and Dorothea Bon Jovi; Elizabeth Hurley; JFK Jr. (but no Carolyn); Merchant and Ivory; Matt Lauer. The food was delivered to the second-floor dining rooms by an outside elevator built for the occasion. Before dinner we munched on quail eggs and sevruga and checked out the Picassos. Afterward Elton John played. When I left, after midnight, I was reminded of something Versace had told me that day six years earlier. “One life,” he said, “is not enough.”
