The Hamptons stood outside of the flow of time. I could feel that right away. It was the mid ’70s, I had moved to Manhattan from London and my summer weekends were given over to exploring them, one by one. Southampton was Type-A fellows with pink flushes and lawn-green pants and women with hair the hue and texture of unraveled twine. I remember fancying that I was being a bit of a hit at a beach club dinner when one such flaxen goddess brayed—it was directed at her goddaughter, my date, but I felt ears fluttering room-wide—“Sure talks a lot, don’t he? I hope he’s good in the sack.”
A kind of there-ness mattered. As when a New York magazine fashion editor noted approvingly of a model who was up for a Hamptons issue that his Topsiders were scuffed, meaning that he was just right for a milieu where relaxations included tennis, bicycle polo, after perhaps a cocktail or three, not too much sea swimming because of that sullen undertow, and little boating—apart from a few zealots like the late Dennis Oppenheim, who kept a sleek arterial-red craft off Bridgehampton—but much tracking of sand into houses, partying and occasional groggy slumbering on sofas, indeed all the cheerful scruffiness of beachside life.
Writers and artists tended to lurk in East Hampton, Springs, Sag Harbor. And George Plimpton’s shindigs were convincing proof that The Literary Life—and how fusty the phrase seems now, as if translated from the French—not only existed, but could be fun. As for Montauk, well, that was a remote enclave practically as far away as Edinburgh is from London, where that paste gem of a movie, Cocaine Cowboys, was shot on Andy Warhol’s compound; that was where Peter Beard’s compound overlooks the best boulder beach I know (I collect rocks). And framing these variegated Hamptons was land where farmers actually grew crops, an ocean upon which fishermen, weathered folk who politely ignored the Summer People, actually went fishing. It was very real, even the delusions, kind of Yankee Fellini, and I was knocked out by it.
Then time did start to move in the Hamptons. The Eurotrash who were surging into Manhattan—and no commentary of a personal nature here, please—were fleeing the kidnapper, the kneecapper or simply the taxman and the detumescence of Swinging London, but they sure knew a good thing when they saw it and what they saw in the Hamptons was an unravaged Cote d’Azur, Costa del Sol, Costa Smeralda at a smidgen of the price. They pounced, with some taking a few minor precautions of the kind to which they had grown accustomed back home—the installation of bulletproof glass, say—so whenever a particularly choice property disappeared into unknown hands, whichever fallen foreign autocrat or felonious fat cat was in the news would make the list of suspects.
The Euros, though, being mostly laid-back, fitted into the Hamptons pretty sleekly—one started a winery, another a horse farm—but then American New Money picked up on the island’s charms and time in the Hamptons began to go into overdrive. In 1979 the financier Barry Trupin bought the place built for Henry DuPont on Meadow Lane for $700,000, renamed it Dragon’s Head and much to the ineffectual rage of many neighbors—he had blown off the zoning regs—had it transformed into a faux chateau, complete with a sizeable movie theater and a giant shark-filled aquarium.
Well, Trupin went bankrupt and sold, and the place was picked up by Francesco Galesi, who I knew and liked. Were there still sharks in Galesi’s aquarium or is this a false memory? Galesi eventually sold as well, and Dragon’s Head was torn down in 2009. It hadn’t been a freak, however. It had been a harbinger, an omen.
The first time I took a Jitney to the Hamptons it was, as I recall, an eight-seater tan mini-van, and one time I took a seaplane and waded ashore, but mostly it was a drive. And an easy drive. But I remember standing on that same Meadow Lane sometime in the early noughties, waiting as the traffic roared by. And roared by and roared by, and I was thinking this shouldn’t be happening here.
But life goes on. Reality TV came to the Hamptons, as did “Royal Pains,” and there were art fairs in the Hamptons this year three weekends running, with stands stuffed to the gills, and with local galleries dealing blue-chippy art.
I escaped to a party for It’s A Dog’s World, a book about Lucky Diamond, the “animal most photographed with celebrities,” amongst whom were Kim Kardashian, John Travolta, Bill Clinton, Snoop Dogg and Sarah Palin. On hand were dog sculptures made from dried flowers and promotional material for petURNity, mosaic urns for your dead pet, and I joined a group that included Rachelle Oatman, who paints humanized dogs, and pretty well. The subject of nail polish for dogs came up.
I asked a thin blonde in white who was carrying a small white dog with a blue bow in a large snakeskin handbag whether she would paint her animal’s nails.
Were there episodic TV shows, art fairs and fancy dog parties in the Hamptons 20 years ago? I doubt it. Will there be in 20 years?
And will there be interminable traffic jams?
I doubt it.
Read more entries in the Dan’s Papers Literary Prize for Nonfiction at danshamptons.com.