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Shoot the Widow: Adventures of a Biographer in Search of Her Subject
The first rule of biography, wrote Justin Kaplan: “Shoot the widow.”
In her new book, Meryle Secrest, acclaimed biographer (“Knowing, sympathetic and entertainingly droll”—The New York Times), writes about her comic triumphs and misadventures as a biographer in search of her nine celebrated subjects, about how the hunt for a “life” is like working one’s way through a maze, full of fall starts, dead ends, and occasional clear passages leading to the next part of the puzzle.
She writes about her first book, a life of Romaine Brooks, and how she was led to Nice and given invaluable letters by her subject’s heir that were slid across the table, one at a time; how she was led to the villa of Brooks’ lover, Gabriele d’Annunzio (poet, playwright, and aviator), a fantastic mausoleum left untouched since the moment of his death seventy years before; to a small English village, where she uncovered a lost Romaine Brooks painting; and finally, to 20, rue Jacob, Paris, where Romaine’s lover, Natalie Barney, had fifty years before entertained Cocteau, Gide, Proust, Colette, and others.
Secrest describes how her next book—a life of Berenson—prompted Francis Steegmuller, fellow biographer, to comment that he wouldn’t touch the subject with a ten-foot pole.
For her life of British art historian Kenneth Clark, Secrest was given permission to write the book by her subject, who surreptitiously financed it in the hopes of controlling its contents; we see how Clark’s plan was foiled by a jealous mistress and a stash of love letters that helped Secrest navigate Clark’s obstacle course.
Among the other biographical (mis)adventures, Secrest reveals: how she tracked Salvador Dalí to a hospital room, found him recovering from serious burns sustained in a mysterious fire, and learned that he was knee-deep in a scandal involving fake drawings and prints and surrounded by dangerous characters out of Murder, Inc. . . . and how she went in search of a subject’s grave (Frank Lloyd Wright’s) only to find that his body had been dug up to satisfy the whim of his last wife.
A fascinating account of a life spent in sometimes arduous, sometimes comical, always exciting pursuit of the truth about other lives.
From the Hardcover edition.
In her new book, Meryle Secrest, acclaimed biographer (“Knowing, sympathetic and entertainingly droll”—The New York Times), writes about her comic triumphs and misadventures as a biographer in search of her nine celebrated subjects, about how the hunt for a “life” is like working one’s way through a maze, full of fall starts, dead ends, and occasional clear passages leading to the next part of the puzzle.
She writes about her first book, a life of Romaine Brooks, and how she was led to Nice and given invaluable letters by her subject’s heir that were slid across the table, one at a time; how she was led to the villa of Brooks’ lover, Gabriele d’Annunzio (poet, playwright, and aviator), a fantastic mausoleum left untouched since the moment of his death seventy years before; to a small English village, where she uncovered a lost Romaine Brooks painting; and finally, to 20, rue Jacob, Paris, where Romaine’s lover, Natalie Barney, had fifty years before entertained Cocteau, Gide, Proust, Colette, and others.
Secrest describes how her next book—a life of Berenson—prompted Francis Steegmuller, fellow biographer, to comment that he wouldn’t touch the subject with a ten-foot pole.
For her life of British art historian Kenneth Clark, Secrest was given permission to write the book by her subject, who surreptitiously financed it in the hopes of controlling its contents; we see how Clark’s plan was foiled by a jealous mistress and a stash of love letters that helped Secrest navigate Clark’s obstacle course.
Among the other biographical (mis)adventures, Secrest reveals: how she tracked Salvador Dalí to a hospital room, found him recovering from serious burns sustained in a mysterious fire, and learned that he was knee-deep in a scandal involving fake drawings and prints and surrounded by dangerous characters out of Murder, Inc. . . . and how she went in search of a subject’s grave (Frank Lloyd Wright’s) only to find that his body had been dug up to satisfy the whim of his last wife.
A fascinating account of a life spent in sometimes arduous, sometimes comical, always exciting pursuit of the truth about other lives.
From the Hardcover edition.
- GenresNonfictionMemoir
256 pages, Hardcover
First published June 5, 2007
About the author
Meryle Secrest
28 books33 followersMeryle Secrest was born and educated in Bath, England, and lives in Washington, DC. She is the author of twelve biographies and was awarded the 2006 Presidential National Humanities Medal.
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Displaying 1 - 7 of 7 reviews
October 3, 2011
"For me, the essence of penetrating intelligence is exemplified by the forehead, and his was as serene and sweeping as any I had seen," writes biographer Meryle Secrest of one of her subjects, Kenneth Clark. When Clark had addressed her high school assembly just after World War II, "he seemed to be standing in his own spotlight." The only person who ever matched him for charisma was John F. Kennedy.
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With the possible exception of Bernard Berenson, none of her other subjects in this memoir about writing biographies - Leonard Bernstein, Salvador Dali, Stephen Sondheim, Romaine Brooks, Frank Lloyd Wright, and Richard Rodgers - hold much fascination for me. The segments on Clark are the most interesting, and maybe not coincidentally given the man, have the most charm. Secrest goes to Saltwood Castle to interview Clark for a Smithsonian article. As soon as lunch is finished, Lady Jane Clark goes off to bed, and after a tour of the grounds Lord Clark makes a pass at Secrest by the fireplace, notwithstanding her unsexy outfit - a tunic and matching pants which, she says, made her look like Robin Hood. Clark liked the ladies, although that's not precisely how he put it in The Other Half: when apart from Jane, "Naturally I got into trouble of a kind which I need neither specify nor describe."
Secrest soon finds out that Lady Clark is a notorious drunk, which Lord Clark as a concession to family reputation (Jane was still alive, and reading manuscript drafts) had left out of his two memoirs. Once Jane Clark has died, Secrest felt that "his life with Jane seemed to be one of the stories K had wanted me to write." She was angry and combative when sober, and calm and tranquilized when drunk; thus her alcoholism "had its large compensations" for Kenneth: "he came into his own. I began to get hints from others of the extent to which he aided and abetted this transformation."
The main problem Secrest has writing about Clark is that all the stories he tells her have already been published in his memoirs, "usually word for word." "His anecdotes had settled into well-worn grooves, as so often happens with people who have been interviewed too much. The façade had become the man. More than once, very courteously, he had mentioned that he knew perfectly well I was trying to probe beneath the surface, but there was nothing there."
The book's title comes from an utterance of Twain biographer Justin Kaplan. "Shoot the widow" is the first rule of biography; family members - in particular the widows - will always try to direct your writing and prevent you from writing what you feel needs to be written.
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With the possible exception of Bernard Berenson, none of her other subjects in this memoir about writing biographies - Leonard Bernstein, Salvador Dali, Stephen Sondheim, Romaine Brooks, Frank Lloyd Wright, and Richard Rodgers - hold much fascination for me. The segments on Clark are the most interesting, and maybe not coincidentally given the man, have the most charm. Secrest goes to Saltwood Castle to interview Clark for a Smithsonian article. As soon as lunch is finished, Lady Jane Clark goes off to bed, and after a tour of the grounds Lord Clark makes a pass at Secrest by the fireplace, notwithstanding her unsexy outfit - a tunic and matching pants which, she says, made her look like Robin Hood. Clark liked the ladies, although that's not precisely how he put it in The Other Half: when apart from Jane, "Naturally I got into trouble of a kind which I need neither specify nor describe."
Secrest soon finds out that Lady Clark is a notorious drunk, which Lord Clark as a concession to family reputation (Jane was still alive, and reading manuscript drafts) had left out of his two memoirs. Once Jane Clark has died, Secrest felt that "his life with Jane seemed to be one of the stories K had wanted me to write." She was angry and combative when sober, and calm and tranquilized when drunk; thus her alcoholism "had its large compensations" for Kenneth: "he came into his own. I began to get hints from others of the extent to which he aided and abetted this transformation."
The main problem Secrest has writing about Clark is that all the stories he tells her have already been published in his memoirs, "usually word for word." "His anecdotes had settled into well-worn grooves, as so often happens with people who have been interviewed too much. The façade had become the man. More than once, very courteously, he had mentioned that he knew perfectly well I was trying to probe beneath the surface, but there was nothing there."
The book's title comes from an utterance of Twain biographer Justin Kaplan. "Shoot the widow" is the first rule of biography; family members - in particular the widows - will always try to direct your writing and prevent you from writing what you feel needs to be written.
September 6, 2012
In a lifetime of writing biographies of famous men, Meryle Secrest has been tempted on more than one occasion to do away with their surviving wives. Widows are the inconvenient keepers of the flame, who watch over the biographer's shoulder and forbid forays into intimate matters that might compromise the reputations of their husbands. For Ms. Secrest, "widows" are not simply the spouses of dead subjects: They are anyone who might block her access to private papers and privileged information.
Having written lives of Leonard Bernstein, Stephen Sondheim, Salvador Dalí, Frank Lloyd Wright, and other celebrated figures, Ms. Secrest is more than qualified to bring us behind the scenes to witness the hazards and frustrations of the business. Her new book, "Shoot the Widow" (Knopf, 256 pages, $25.95), chronicles her mood swings, false starts, and — above all — delusions that her subjects can be easily snared.
Sometimes it begins well. For her biography of Sir Kenneth Clark, the august art historian, Ms. Secrest initially had her subject's cooperation. "Say what you like," Clark's son told Ms. Secrest. But family members rarely mean it when they endorse openness. They admire your work, what you have done with some othersubject, but then they discover that you have got it all wrong when it comes to themselves!
Sir Kenneth tried to control everything — even paying some of Ms. Secrest's interviewees on the sly. Such maneuvers lead subjects to believe they've got their biographer in pocket. But, as Ms. Secrest illustrates, they must part ways when the biographer asserts her independence.
How do biographers get into such fixes? Ms. Secrest explains: Biographers want access. They are agreeable. They seem like good friends. But to write a credible life they have to get the goods. Subjects as sophisticated as Sir Kenneth might be assumed to have wised up: The biographer, in the end, cannot be controlled. "To hell with you all," Ms. Secrest finally had to tell his family. Only then could she write her book.
But how could a writer as professional as Ms. Secrest repeat her errors? Ah, that's where the self-delusion comes in. This time it will be different, the biographer thinks. I have such a good subject and great access! Well, there is no access without acrimony — a truth understood only in retrospect.
Ms. Secrest writes beautifully and perceptively. Her description of a dying Dalí (she got to see him only once for an unauthorized biography) is harrowing. Stripped of his joie de vivre, Dalí was barely able to talk because of the thick tube in his nose. When Ms. Secrest tries to interview him, she finds the layers of his personae had shriveled to a shrunken figure. And yet she describes the scene so vividly and with such a delicate attention to pathos that she conveys a great deal about Dalí in his final days.
Ms. Secrest has alternated between dead and living figures, choosing her subjects according to her interests and what she thinks the market will bear. She is honest about her miscalculations, and even admits to a certain flatness that enters her prose where she has not been able to capture her subject.
I would argue with only one of her opinions. In her biography of Mr. Sondheim, she decided not to pursue the composer's sexual experience. She equates interest in sex with the trend toward salacious biographies critics have recently deplored. But surely the sexual nature of a subject (alive or dead) is, to modern minds, a part of the whole person.
But would Mr. Sondheim have been so cooperative if Ms. Secrest had done a "Kitty Kelley" (her codename for salacious biography)? Putting aside what I see as an injustice to Ms. Kelley's unauthorized biographies, it seems to me that in this case Ms. Secrest paid too dearly in this case for her access. Perhaps she was spooked early on when playwright John Guare pointed out to Mr. Sondheim that Meryle Secrest's name is an anagram for "merely secrets."
I suspect Mr. Sondheim subtly restricted Ms. Secrest by suggesting she was only interested in secrets. She then had to prove how high-minded she was. This is a common enough trap for biographers, but it's better to risk full disclosure and the inevitable name calling (James Joyce called them biografiends) than capitulate to the kind of propriety that dooms biographical truth.
Having written lives of Leonard Bernstein, Stephen Sondheim, Salvador Dalí, Frank Lloyd Wright, and other celebrated figures, Ms. Secrest is more than qualified to bring us behind the scenes to witness the hazards and frustrations of the business. Her new book, "Shoot the Widow" (Knopf, 256 pages, $25.95), chronicles her mood swings, false starts, and — above all — delusions that her subjects can be easily snared.
Sometimes it begins well. For her biography of Sir Kenneth Clark, the august art historian, Ms. Secrest initially had her subject's cooperation. "Say what you like," Clark's son told Ms. Secrest. But family members rarely mean it when they endorse openness. They admire your work, what you have done with some othersubject, but then they discover that you have got it all wrong when it comes to themselves!
Sir Kenneth tried to control everything — even paying some of Ms. Secrest's interviewees on the sly. Such maneuvers lead subjects to believe they've got their biographer in pocket. But, as Ms. Secrest illustrates, they must part ways when the biographer asserts her independence.
How do biographers get into such fixes? Ms. Secrest explains: Biographers want access. They are agreeable. They seem like good friends. But to write a credible life they have to get the goods. Subjects as sophisticated as Sir Kenneth might be assumed to have wised up: The biographer, in the end, cannot be controlled. "To hell with you all," Ms. Secrest finally had to tell his family. Only then could she write her book.
But how could a writer as professional as Ms. Secrest repeat her errors? Ah, that's where the self-delusion comes in. This time it will be different, the biographer thinks. I have such a good subject and great access! Well, there is no access without acrimony — a truth understood only in retrospect.
Ms. Secrest writes beautifully and perceptively. Her description of a dying Dalí (she got to see him only once for an unauthorized biography) is harrowing. Stripped of his joie de vivre, Dalí was barely able to talk because of the thick tube in his nose. When Ms. Secrest tries to interview him, she finds the layers of his personae had shriveled to a shrunken figure. And yet she describes the scene so vividly and with such a delicate attention to pathos that she conveys a great deal about Dalí in his final days.
Ms. Secrest has alternated between dead and living figures, choosing her subjects according to her interests and what she thinks the market will bear. She is honest about her miscalculations, and even admits to a certain flatness that enters her prose where she has not been able to capture her subject.
I would argue with only one of her opinions. In her biography of Mr. Sondheim, she decided not to pursue the composer's sexual experience. She equates interest in sex with the trend toward salacious biographies critics have recently deplored. But surely the sexual nature of a subject (alive or dead) is, to modern minds, a part of the whole person.
But would Mr. Sondheim have been so cooperative if Ms. Secrest had done a "Kitty Kelley" (her codename for salacious biography)? Putting aside what I see as an injustice to Ms. Kelley's unauthorized biographies, it seems to me that in this case Ms. Secrest paid too dearly in this case for her access. Perhaps she was spooked early on when playwright John Guare pointed out to Mr. Sondheim that Meryle Secrest's name is an anagram for "merely secrets."
I suspect Mr. Sondheim subtly restricted Ms. Secrest by suggesting she was only interested in secrets. She then had to prove how high-minded she was. This is a common enough trap for biographers, but it's better to risk full disclosure and the inevitable name calling (James Joyce called them biografiends) than capitulate to the kind of propriety that dooms biographical truth.
October 8, 2016
A memoir by a writer of biographies! This entertaining read moves back and forth between the author's own life and her adventures as a biographer. Her love of the arts inspired her to write biographies of Salvador Dali, Kenneth Clark, Bernard Berenson, Romaine Brooks, Frank Lloyd Wright, Stephen Sondheim, Leonard Bernstein.... She describes the daily travails of the biographer, whether it's dealing with protective relatives who want to protect the great man's legacy(Kenneth Clark), or trying to gain access to a still-living but jealously guarded subject (Salvador Dali), or having to realize that the idol had feet of clay (Bernard Berenson). All of this is described with a good sense of humor, which makes for fun reading. For Ms. Crest, biography is a process of discovery - not just of the original sources (letters, diaries, friends to interview) but of what makes the subject of the book "tick", what is the defining driver of their creative work? This inevitably leads to some interest in these subject's early life (relationship with mother and siblings), but it never turns into heavy-handed amateur Freudian analysis. At any rate, the book is not a compilation of mini-biographies, but more about how Ms. Crest approached the writing of each biography, and what obstacles and joys she found along the way. It's fun to watch over her shoulder as she is ushered into Salvador Dali's presence, as she meets Stephen Sondheim, as she waits for Leonard Bernstein to finish the rehearsal.
The author's own life interested me a little less, although as the book progressed, I started to feel a lot of admiration for the girl who grew up in Bath (UK), moved to Canada after WWII as a teen, and started off as bank teller, later as a poorly paid journalist in the days when newsprint was scarce and the men got all the plum assignments. Somehow she ended up living in DC and carving out a second career for herself as a biographer. Not an easy trajectory at all, especially if you realize that there were 3 children and two marriages somewhere in there as well.
The author's own life interested me a little less, although as the book progressed, I started to feel a lot of admiration for the girl who grew up in Bath (UK), moved to Canada after WWII as a teen, and started off as bank teller, later as a poorly paid journalist in the days when newsprint was scarce and the men got all the plum assignments. Somehow she ended up living in DC and carving out a second career for herself as a biographer. Not an easy trajectory at all, especially if you realize that there were 3 children and two marriages somewhere in there as well.
July 26, 2016
Justin Kaplan, a biographer of Mark Twain, called the first rule of biography: “Shoot the widow.” Secrest, a former columnist for the Washington Post, has written several biographies of notable people in the fields of art and music. In her autobiography she tells us something of her life, and examines the challenges of writing biography – the private truth versus the public façade, and appearance versus reality.” Her accounts of researching Kenneth Clark (of PBS “Civilisation” fame) and Richard Rodgers show how difficult it is to write a factual biography and simultaneously placate the family of the biographee who want control of what is written. She also tells of her “adventures” writing about Bernard Berenson, Salvador Dali, Frank Lloyd Wright, Leonard Bernstein and Stephen Sondheim.
March 9, 2012
I was fascinated by this book--probably because I just published a biography myself (although not, thank goodness, of a subject with living relatives or others with vested interests in her). Secrest's revelations of some of the twists and turns she encountered in dealing with individuals who held keys to her subjects' pasts, and these sources' expectations from her, provided an intriguing behind-the-scenes look at the craft of biography, and I enjoyed the way in which the twists intersected with her own autobiography. Every now and then I found the story line to jump erratically, but this is a minor quibble.
January 22, 2008
The author discusses her own life and her work researching biographies of nine prominent people including Bernstein, Dali, Frank Lloyd Wright.
March 30, 2008
Nice read... A good way to read several abridged biographies with out having to read full length biographies.
Displaying 1 - 7 of 7 reviews