The Hours & Days by FRANCES VON HOFMANNSTHAL

I am writing this article while seated on the kitchen floor of my father’s home where once there was a table. My papa passed away a few months ago and we are clearing out the house. The paintings that have hanged for 40 years have left their outline on the walls; the wall clocks have been removed; there are no glasses in the cupboard or wine in the fridge. An era has come to an end. It’s the home where I grew up

and I can picture it in all of its detail. It’s done in the Victorian style and set over two floors. On the ground floor there was my father’s study, the darkroom and what we all referred to as the “canteen.” In reality, it was quite a small space where prior to the photo sessions one could put on makeup while seated at a dressing table, as seen in a photo of Dame Helen Mirren.

Upstairs were my parents room and one for guests that my father often used for his photography sessions. On the Empire style bed writer Edward Albee and actor Ian Holm posed. As a matter of fact there isn’t a room or corner of the house that my father didn’t take advantage of for a few snaps. Some were captured sitting on the stairs: I remember actor Ben Whishaw with that incredible expression. My room even became a set: it was perfectly circular, sitting in a turret. My parents put a ladder in it so you could escape via the balcony if needed – in theory, a romantic idea. The house’s interiors were a playful mix and match between the inherited 19th-century furniture and modern and functional pieces. Yet what gave it most of its character were the pieces received in exchange for a photograph: a painting by an artist, for example.

When my father photographed someone, the atmosphere was electric. There had to be absolute silence. When the session finished, there was a buzz, a signal to go downstairs to meet the subject while they looked at the Polaroids. Then everyone was invited here into the kitchen for lunch. We would sit around a very simple wooden table on slim chairs, which are found in many of my father’s photos: fashion designer Isabella Blow, with her flamboyant hat accentuated by the black and white prints, came out well. In the apartment where I now live with my husband and our three children, I was able to bring those chairs but not the ambience of our home. That’s impossible to recreate.

When two people decide to live together the coming together of different backgrounds yields contrasting effects. The window in the kitchen where a young and handsome Rupert Everett was shot looks out onto the garden. It is totally green save for a pink camellia and a fuchsia, which my father adored as they reminded him of the sihlouette of ballerinas. But no other flower was allowed: colors could be a distraction from the photo sessions. The garden was a backdrop for many photos: once more Rupert Everett, who hid in the ivy, or the one of Rachel Weisz, who was quietly seated in the fountain, the subject of many jokes. I remember that someone put a bottle of wine in the mouth of the fountain and it seemed like water was no longer gushing from it. It happened during one of our memorable parties. In this house where I was raised I was taught to watch and listen but above all to ask questions. Of course, sometimes I was a little confused like when I came home to find David Bowie standing on a pedestal in the garden!

Over the years, I watched my father, always focused, approach his work. To produce one photo he meticiously documented everything about his subject. In the picture of Julian and Jacqueline Schnabel, for example, the drape on the bottom references the artist’s work. My father was precise and demanding in everything: he could write hundreds of letters to those who managed a building inaccessible to the disabled or spend hours with students at the Royal College of Art, which he oversaw. When I started thinking about doing a book about him, I wanted to include various aspects of his work and life through the stories of those who knew him. I have included an essay about his first appearances in Vogue UK: it was exciting to find in the archive letters from the then director, Audrey Withers. There is also an article about his contribution to London’s cultural scene in the 1960s, a piece on his book Private View dedicated to British artists, and one on his first marriage to Princess Margaret.

Sandy Nairne, former director of the National Gallery, writes instead about his portraits in words my father hated because he felt them to be too pretentious. There are tributes and essays on his architectural projects, such as the Snowdon Aviary at the London Zoo designed with Frank Newby and Cedric Price. His documentary and film work is remembered. There is also “Tony’s Twinkle,” an amusing article written by Tom Ford about his sense of style and wardobe.

If I were to publish a book now that my father is gone, it would have tones of regret and would be full of never asked questions. The book I put together with him in the last years of his life is instead permeated by his voice, his charm, his sense of humor, his obstinate determination and his reflections on an extraordinary life. I am very grateful for the hours, days and years spent browsing, with notebook in hand and millions of questions, the albums, boxes of Polaroids, letters and photographs. He was always enjoying a Bloody Mary, which today I drink in his honor. I miss him every day and hope this book may be my tribute to him. It was certainly made with much love. (As told to Valentina Bonelli).

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