“Come in, come in,” said von Bülow expansively as he opened the front door to Helmut Newton, the photographer, who had just returned from Monte Carlo for the session, and me. Von Bülow was standing in the marble-floored, green-walled, gilt-mirrored hallway of the Fifth Avenue apartment of his multi-millionairess wife, whom he was accused of twice trying to kill. In the background a very old Chinese butler hovered, watching the master of the house usurp his duties. On that May Sunday of the seventh week of his second trial, the Danish society figure was dressed in tight blue jeans and a black leather jacket.“This is the first time I’ve actually posed for a picture since my front and side shots,” says von Bülow in his deep, resonant, English-school, international-set voice.
"Fatal Charm: The Social Web of Claus von Bülow," by Dominick Dunne, Vanity Fair, August 1985
1 comment:
I had dinner (small group) with him last autumn in London, still quite the wit, a tattered old manish look, walks with a stick, which also works well as a prop for high held hand just below the chin, slow getting up out of a chair, made casual passing reference to having been in jail, very unshaven, utterly charming, ever the socialite, in short, good evening company. Too much to tell about in this tiny box, alas.
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