I can’t pretend to be impartial. When I look at the artworks in my house I say “thank you, Graydon” from the bottom of my heart. He hired me as a writer when he first became editor of Vanity Fair in 1992 and paid me a salary beyond my wildest dreams, which I mainly spent on art. Alas, the largesse only lasted two years. I was meant to interview Hollywood stars but none of them would agree to be interviewed by me – I was blackballed by the formidable publicist Pat Kingsley. So after only writing about eight articles in two years we reluctantly agreed to part. But still – thank you, Graydon.
He is an odd character – ebullient, apparently confident, he confesses in this memoir that he is always anxious. But he believes that an anxious editor is a good editor, and he really loves being an editor. Born in 1949, and growing up in Canada, where life revolved around skiing and hockey, he dreamed of living in New York, editing a big magazine, marrying and having a happy family. He achieved it all eventually, but it took a while. Although he never enrolled as a student, he got a job editing a magazine at the University of Ottawa called the Canadian Review, which attained a circulation of 50,000 but no profits. So then he landed a job as a floating writer at Time magazine in New York. As he says, Time is “now a digital husk” but it was then one of the most successful magazines in the world, selling 4 million copies a week, with salaries and expenses to match. All meals were on expenses and in five years, he says, he never switched on his oven. But after five years he was reassigned to Time’s sister magazine, Life, which “had become a zombie monthly, close to dead”.
