3/31/2024 0 Comments Savage grace true story![]() "London ends by giving one absolutely everything one asks," Henry James wrote in his preface to The Golden Bowl the city was, in his opinion, "the most possible form of life." Whether in Boston, where she was born to a family of modest means called Daly - or Hollywood, where once upon a time she was given a screen test - or New York and Paris, where she created salons for herself - or such resorts as Long Island's East Hampton, Ansedonia on Italy's Argentario, and CadaquƩs on Spain's Costa Brava, where she was forever taking houses in season and out - or, finally, in London, where she had acquired a penthouse duplex in Chelsea - Barbara Baekeland could be counted on to turn heads. A friend had once said of her that she had the quality of intelligent flamboyance. ![]() The rust-colored skirts and bronze shoes she favored suited her beauty - the bonfire of red hair, the milkmaid skin. Even in summer, when everyone would be wearing white, she persisted in dressing like an autumn leaf. All her life - and she was only fifty when she died, a little later that afternoon - Barbara Baekeland was partial to fall colors. The leaves in Cadogan Square had turned and were dropping in the gardens. Friday, November 17, 1972, dawned hazy and cloudy, but by three o'clock the sun was shining with unaccustomed benevolence for London.
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