Beautiful: The Life of Hedy Lamarr

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Hedy Lamarr came into my life—unexpectedly, that’s for sure—one day in the early 1960s. From the minute she greeted me at her front door, I also knew she was a True Original. Hanging prominently on a wall behind her was the ugliest painting I’d ever seen, a wild mix of grays, blacks, and blues, liberally doused with what looked like sand amid colors that seemed to swirl like water circling a drain. I must have blanched, which she interpreted as dumbfounded approval of what I was looking at on that wall. “I painted it,” she said with great pride. “I call it ‘Umbilical Cord.’” I ask you: Who wouldn’t adore an amateur artist who chose as a subject not apples, boats, or trees, but an umbilical cord? I suspected we would become great friends, and we did.

From that moment on we spent a great deal of time together. What surprised me most about Hedy is that she was nothing like the glamorous, mysterious image she projected on screen. She dressed simply. Loved to kick off the shoes. Liked simple foods. Laughed often. Adored charade parties, although game playing was definitely not her strong suit. She liked to do simple things. Picnics. Walks on the beach. Riding bicycles.

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