Sean Hepburn Ferrer - Audrey Hepburn, an Elegant Spirit

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La Vigna outside of Rome, 1955. Photograph by Philippe Halsman. Halsman Estate.

CONTENTS

to audreys grandchildren

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you

Kirk, for being the first to encourage this book.

Alan Nevins, my agent, your support and guidance were invaluable to a first-timer like me, and to Mindy Stone, your right hand.

Mitchell Ivers, my senior editor at Atria Books, you were the first to make this a realityyour vision, taste, and wisdom are surpassed only by your patience, considering that I was three years late delivering this work, and to Joshua Martino, your editorial assistant.

Judith Curr, Executive Vice President and Publisher, Atria Books and Washington Square Press; and Karen Mender, Vice President, Deputy Publisher, Atria Books and Washington Square Press; as well as Seale Ballenger and Louise Braverman, Atria Publicity.

Linda Dingler, Twisne Fan, Linda Roberts, Linda Evans, Dana Sloan, and Davina Mock, Production and Design; and Julian Peploe, Designer, for a beautiful layout and cover.

Jessica Z. Diamond, my visual consultant and photo curator, your careful and tasteful work have immensely contributed to the beauty and longevity of this book; and Ellen Erwin, the Audrey Hepburn Childrens Fund executive director, for being my right hand; and Paul Alberghetti, my partner and counsel; and Caroline Bloxsom, his right hand; and Ronnie.

To all the photographers, whose artistry and gifts to my mother have left our family a treasure of a photographic archive we will cherish for many generations to come; and that attests as much to their legacy as all these indelible images contribute to the legacy of my mother.

The photographers, their estates, agencies, and the organizations who, although listed here alphabetically, should all be in first position for their contribution of photographs to this book. Your generosity to the fund is invaluable and greatly appreciated.

Allied Artists Pictures Corporation, Richard Avedon, Ron Avery/mptv.net, Stephanie Belingard/Camera Press, Steve Bello, Lina Bey, Alessandro Canestrelli/Reporters Associati, Elisabetta Catalano, Columbia University Oral History Project, Howell Conant II, Fiona Cowan/Norman Parkinson Ltd., Sue Daly/Sothebys London, Foulques De Jouvenel/Colette Estate, Andrea Denzler, Werther Di Giovanni, Mel Ferrer, Foto Locchi S.R.L. Firenze, David Green and Tina Calico/Corbis, Irene Halsman, Yvonne Halsman, Jeremy Hartley, Hearst Corporation, Marcel Imsand, John Isaac, Mrs. Yousuf Karsh, Sally Leach/Performing Arts Collection at University of Texas at Austin, Kate Lillienthal, Carmen Masi/Photo Masi, Steven Meisel, Ruby Mera, James Moffat/A+C Anthology, Leigh Montville/Cond Nast Publications, Inc., Ellen Ornitz, Paramount Pictures, Irving Penn, Betty Press, Stefania Ricci/Salvatore Ferragamo, Vincent Rossell, Andre Schmidt/Colette Estate, Larry Shaw/Shaw Family Archives, Martin Singer/Irving Lazar Trust, Kevin Smith/Splash News, Bruce Stapleton/Playbill, Inc., Bert Stern, Norma Stevens, Michael Stier/Cond Nast Publications, Inc., John Swope Trust, Twentieth Century Fox, Unicef Photo Library, United Nations Photo Library, Universal Studios Licensing, Connie Wald, Warner Brothers, Bob Willoughby, Robert Wolders.

All who have read and shed a tear showing me with your heart that I was on the right path. My wife, Giovanna, and my children, Emma and Gregorio, who are my life, and my father and mother to whom I owe it.

To you.

New York City, circa 1967. Photograph by Howell Conant.

PREFACE THE SECRET

I am writing this preface almost nine years after Audrey Kathleen Hepburn-Ruston left us. She wasor should I say, ismy mother. I started writing this little book on January 21, 1993, the day after she passed away. It took me roughly four years to put the first words to paper.

The actual writing took maybe a few months. Its what happened before and in between that took some time. I am quite sure by now that everyone who loses a parent, as we all do sooner or later, could write a book. As it did for me, it might feel like the only book youll ever write. Weeks, months, years may pass between writing sessions. You too may experience something that can no longer be called writers block. You see, its not about you. It is about the one person in the world who is more than you! And in my case, it is about someone who was most dear to me, the very person who brought me here and saved me time and time again, when I needed her for my survival. Yet she was someone whom I couldnt help or save in the end. So I find myself endlessly rolling these few words like pebbles in the river of my story so that the smooth stones that emerge will be worthy of your time and her spirit. I want you to know... what truly counts, yet in a way that wont ripple her peace.

As one theory has it, our organs have varying life expectancies. For example, our lungs, the meekest and the most useful, have the shortest life span: roughly 60 years. Our brain, of which we use less than 10 percent and therefore the least useful of our organs, as well as our greatest liability, has an expected life span of somewhere over 150 years. In writing this book, I have discovered something new and exciting:

My memory will outlive all of them.

Long after Im dead, and long after my brain diesmuch later, of course (which is why Im planning on being either cremated or buried with a chessboard), I will remember all this... and the scents. I close my eyes and remember, through the noise, her scent: powdery, elegant, safe, strong, the scent of unconditional love. I look down and see her delicate hands, their skin so thin I can faintly see their veins, her nails round, soft, and clear. Yet these are the hands that have held me, carried me, talked to me. They caressed me, they walked me to school, and I held on to them when I was scared. Oh, how I miss them! What I would give to feel them running through my hair... in my sleep, once more.

What happened? My head is still spinning. Wouldnt yours be if your mother was Audrey Hepburn? My mother died in 1993, and still... shes everywhere: on television all the time, at the video store, in magazines, in bookstores, on huge billboards in airports and on freeways, downtown on a bus stop shelter, in every conversation I have sooner or later with everyone, in my work and in my thoughts, especially since I started writing this book, and in my dreams... sometimes.

Talk about larger than life. She weighed 110 pounds and measured five feet seven.

How fortunate that our memories of her are good. They leave a gentle wake, like a sunny empty room that feels good. Its there, at times stronger, at times gentlerthe perfect combination of sweet and sad. The sweetness of her, the sadness of her.

I have thought much about this bookendlessly agonized as to whether this should be revealed. After nine years I have come to terms with it. I am telling it to you because there is little to be ashamed of, and because it may be helpful to others.

My mother had a secret.

I dont think she would mind my saying it. We see things much more clearly... after. So here it is, the great secret.

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