Peter Beard. The name conjures images of a dashing adventurer, a celebrated photographer, and a notorious bon vivant. His life, often romanticized and mythologized, painted a picture of a rule-breaking artist deeply entwined with the wildness of Africa and the glamorous world of high society. But who was Peter Beard beyond the headlines and the carefully constructed persona? My first encounter with him offered a glimpse into this complex man, a glimpse that would soon reveal a darkness lurking beneath the charismatic surface.
It was a crisp November evening in 2004 in New York City. I was 21, fresh out of university, and navigating the exciting chaos of an internship in publishing. My father invited me to a book party at the Explorers Club, hosted for none other than Peter Beard. At that time, Peter Beard was a name vaguely familiar, a photographer and artist – “sort of a big deal in the ’70s,” as my father described him. I had no real understanding of the Peter Beard legend that was already decades in the making.
The moment I was introduced to Peter Beard, I felt an undeniable jolt. Even at sixty-six, he possessed a striking presence, a face that was both rugged and electric. “Tell me about you,” he commanded, his intense focus on me immediately startling. There was a magnetism, a captivating energy that drew you in, promising an adventure, a story yet to unfold.
Later that evening, as my father prepared to leave, assuming I would join him, I made a decision that would alter the course of my life. I told him I would stay longer. He questioned my choice, a rare display of parental caution, urging me to be careful. “Of course, I’ll be careful,” I reassured him, genuinely believing it myself. But as I would soon discover, I was already far beyond the point of caution.
Peter Beard, who passed away in April 2020, has remained a haunting figure in my memory. Not only my personal recollections of him but also the collective memory of the world. The obituaries and biographies that followed his death often celebrated the myth: Peter Beard, the charismatic, larger-than-life personality, the rule-breaker, the “Tarzan” figure, the playboy artist who pushed boundaries with audacious art and a life lived on the edge. Graham Boynton’s biography, Wild: The Life of Peter Beard, published in October of that year, further cemented this image of Peter Beard as a captivating, if untamed, force of nature.
However, this dominant narrative often glossed over a darker, more troubling aspect of who Peter Beard truly was. Boynton contacted me in the summer of 2020, having heard about my connection to Peter Beard from journalist Leslie Bennetts, who had profiled Beard for Vanity Fair in the 90s. Leslie and I had become close friends, and I had confided in her about the violent side of Peter Beard, a side I had experienced firsthand. She believed my story was crucial to presenting a complete and honest portrait of Peter Beard.
Initially, I was hesitant to share my experience. Silence had become my refuge, a way to cope with years of ambivalence and confusion. I had often scanned articles about Peter Beard, yearning for a voice that resonated with my own, hoping someone would articulate the Peter Beard I knew. It was only after his death that I realized that voice of authority needed to be my own. If Peter Beard’s life was to be chronicled, the truth of our relationship, the full spectrum of who Peter Beard was, needed to be part of that story.
Boynton and I spoke at length in 2021, and during our conversation, I wrestled with the weight of my words, the potential repercussions of revealing a truth that challenged the established Peter Beard narrative. He assured me of his discretion, promising to omit anything I wished to keep private. He emphasized my importance to the book, portraying me as the “most reflective” among the women in Peter Beard’s life. His own perspective on Peter Beard seemed complex, a mixture of admiration and criticism. Yet, as our conversation progressed, my anxieties grew about how my story would be framed, how my truth would be represented within the larger Peter Beard biography.
When Boynton shared the section he intended to include in his book, I made the unequivocal decision to retract my consent. I requested that none of my story, nor the statements from my witnesses, be included. The entire process had left me deeply unsettled.
Despite our agreement, Boynton’s book did include my story, thinly veiled under the pseudonym “Nancy C.” (Boynton denies any breach of agreement, claiming he told a “very small part” while “carefully concealing her identity.”) He even incorporated statements from my witnesses, but with a critical and damaging alteration. A crucial quote, “I saw blood and wounds he had inflicted on her body,” was changed to “I saw blood and wounds she’d had inflicted on her body.” This subtle yet significant shift removed responsibility from Peter Beard, subtly rewriting the narrative of his actions.
Another biography of Peter Beard, Twentieth-Century Man by Christopher Wallace, is slated for publication. We have never spoken. Therefore, I choose to share my story now, in my own words, to contribute to a more complete understanding of who Peter Beard was, beyond the carefully crafted legend.
Peter Beard was married when I met him. However, this detail seemed inconsequential to him, and through his persuasive charm, he convinced me that his marriage was an open arrangement, granting him freedom to pursue whatever he desired. Naively, I accepted this premise.
Following that initial book party encounter, our connection intensified rapidly. We began seeing each other regularly, the relationship quickly becoming all-consuming. Unlike men my own age, Peter Beard displayed an unabashed and profound interest in me. He pursued me with a fervent intensity, a “lawless enthusiasm,” showering me with letters, whimsical doodles, and handwritten notes on postcards depicting his family’s estate in Tuxedo Park.
“From riches to rags,” he scrawled on one postcard, alluding to his inherited wealth. He would leave voicemails filled with Leonard Cohen songs and called incessantly, at all hours, his desire to be with me always palpable, never restrained. “The girl of a thousand faces!” he would exclaim, gazing at me, captivated by my expressions. He adored my laugh, was mesmerized by my physicality, obsessed with my youth, and genuinely enjoyed our conversations. I felt seen, heard, noticed, and elevated in his presence.
My curiosity about Peter Beard’s life and work grew alongside our burgeoning relationship. His photographs, predominantly of African wildlife, possessed a haunting duality – a blend of raw beastliness and arresting beauty. I learned of his unconventional techniques, how he would incorporate blood into his photographs, often animal blood sourced from butchers, but sometimes even his own. These sepia-toned images of people and animals in Africa’s untamed landscapes felt both captivating and unsettling. Lions tearing apart smaller creatures, crocodiles seemingly feasting on human remains. If Peter Beard intended to depict the conflict between nature and humanity, his perspective remained ambiguous, leaving the viewer to question whose side he was truly on.
Peter Beard also photographed women, often gaunt, ethereal supermodels posed against stark landscapes. Their bodies, angular and sharp, contorted around rocks, seemingly yearning for the earth itself. Others reclined provocatively, legs spread, showcasing taut breasts and prominent ribs, appearing aroused by the vast sky. He photographed countless women, a diverse range – Black and white, blonde and brunette, young and old. Many of his subjects shared a striking characteristic: extreme thinness, almost disproportionate figures. While ostensibly capturing the forces of nature, Peter Beard’s photographs of women often conveyed a different message: that it was he, Peter Beard, who was ultimately in control, the orchestrator of these carefully constructed scenes of beauty and vulnerability.
Every encounter with Peter Beard was punctuated by pronouncements that made my heart race. “We are going to be close for the rest of our lives,” he declared repeatedly, a sentiment both thrilling and unsettling given our significant age difference. Beneath his seemingly casual demeanor, Peter Beard was intensely attentive to his interests, a man as curious as he was cynical. He exuded an air of effortless confidence, comfortable in any setting. “And we’re off, like a prom dress!” he would exclaim, ushering me out the door, ready for the next adventure. He was excessive, extreme, a walking paradox, simultaneously disarming and deeply unsettling. Our encounters spanned restaurants, clubs, my apartment, his, his Montauk house. His stamina was unbelievable. Fueled by a constant stream of alcohol, amphetamines, cocaine, cigarettes, and marijuana, he could easily stay awake until dawn, only to then succumb to Ambien and sleep through the day.
A defining characteristic of Peter Beard was his aversion to paying for anything, or even carrying a wallet. He reveled in his irresponsibility, behaving like a perpetual child, relying on others to take care of the mundane aspects of life. At Cipriani and other restaurants near his apartment, he seemed to operate under a special arrangement, perhaps due to his artwork adorning the walls, or simply tabs that were settled eventually. He rarely paid for anything directly, especially not in cash, though he could be wildly generous in grand gestures. He once mentioned that his wife restricted his access to credit cards, knowing his impulsive nature would lead to financial chaos. He recounted these details with a sense of mischievous glee, like a rebellious adolescent.
From our very first meeting, I recognized the duality of Peter Beard – the captivating charm and the underlying revolting aspects. Yet, I clung to the naive belief that further exposure would somehow resolve this contradiction, revealing his true essence. My ambivalence became a self-justifying excuse for my continued involvement in the ensuing months. I remained perpetually undecided, caught between fascination and unease.
Being with Peter Beard opened doors to a world of rarefied experiences. Events with rock stars and their famous wives, exclusive clubs frequented by actors from The Sopranos, lavish engagement parties filled with movie stars and TV icons. His status as a celebrated artist and a powerful social presence fueled my youthful fantasies. He was always seeking the next novel experience. Once, he took me to the home of a hitman, where, amidst the unsettling backdrop, we kissed passionately in the kitchen, accidentally dislodging the sink from the wall. We left without a word, the bizarre encounter adding to the sense of risk and adventure that permeated our relationship. I was intoxicated by the perceived danger, the possibilities, believing I was on the verge of unlocking some profound secret to life.
Everywhere we went, we engaged in displays of affection that bordered on performative – kissing and stroking each other like teenagers, oblivious to onlookers. Peter Beard thrived on the reflection of his image in my admiring gaze, and I, in turn, reveled in my reflection in his. Occasionally, he would photograph me. On a trip to Montauk, I brought a disposable camera. Out in the sunlight, Peter Beard snatched the camera from my hand and turned it on me. Through his lens, I felt powerful, seeing myself as he seemed to see me: young, beautiful, full of untapped potential. He imbued every moment with a sense of heightened significance, a feeling that this was all somehow more important, more meaningful than ordinary life.
When I wasn’t with Peter Beard, time seemed to lose all meaning. Conversely, when I was with him, almost nothing else held any importance. My best friend, Kristina, found our public displays of affection embarrassing, particularly at Cipriani Downtown, where we would be “all over each other” in front of our friends. “Everyone saw you. Aren’t you bothered?” she would ask, her disapproval growing. She became increasingly critical of Peter Beard and my willingness to comply with his every whim. He, in turn, dismissed her as “boring,” referring to her as “like a relative,” and adding, “She’s completely asexual. Just no fun.”
As the tension between Kristina and Peter Beard escalated, so did my inclination to focus solely on him. Yet, even as I became more deeply entwined with Peter Beard, my ambivalence persisted. I continued to create artificial boundaries, setting rules only to break them, attempting to convince myself that I maintained control. I would agree to attend a party, but “that would be it.” I would see him once, but only in public. I would kiss him, but it would be a “one-time thing.” Each self-imposed rule crumbled in the face of his persistent allure. Whether it was a romance, a dalliance, or an affair, we were undeniably, completely involved.
And then, he bit me.
The first time occurred in his apartment, with his teenage daughter asleep in the adjacent room. His wife was away. “Shhhhh,” he instructed me, a conspiratorial whisper.
We sat on a Kenyan blanket atop a low daybed. And then, he mauled me through the night. His nails dug into my back, drawing blood. He tugged and pulled me in various ways – painfully, sharply, relentlessly. And most terrifyingly, he bit my flesh. Throughout this assault, he repeatedly told me to be quiet. The most disturbing aspect, perhaps, was my own silence. I didn’t say “stop.” There was no discussion, no acknowledgment of what was happening. It escalated, the bites becoming harder and harder as the night progressed, and still, neither of us uttered a word about it. He only offered compliments.
“You’re such a good sport,” he murmured. I remember a perverse sense of pride in enduring the pain he inflicted without crying out. It hurt. All of it was intensely painful. I wanted it to stop. But I also felt a strange validation in allowing him to do as he pleased, in proving my resilience. And it went on and on and on.
He scrutinized me with an unnerving intensity, whispering into my ear with grave seriousness. “Fresh as the pure, driven snow,” he repeated, an archaic and unsettling phrase. “Your body is so milky and alive tonight.”
I felt deeply uncomfortable by the “pure, driven snow” comment. It was so antiquated, so out of touch with reality. I wasn’t a virgin, and he was casting me in a Lolita-esque role that felt reductive, infantilizing. In my mind, we were engaged in some twisted form of playacting, a bizarre fantasy. Only now, reflecting on my young body and seeing pictures from that time, do I realize that he wasn’t assigning me a role. I genuinely was young. Overwhelmed by excruciating pain, I subtly wriggled away, desperately trying to change the subject, hoping he wouldn’t notice my attempt to impede his actions.
As dawn approached and he took his Ambien, I left. It was his birthday – January 22nd – and he had planned a dinner at Cipriani Downtown, an event I was still expected to attend.
Back in my tiny bathroom, shared with Kristina, I looked in the rusted mirror and recoiled in horror. Bite marks covered my body. Scratches marred my face. Bruises were already surfacing. Blood was smeared across my back, chest, and neck, dripping from other parts of my body. It was far worse than I had consciously registered in the moment, and the pain was excruciating.
“This shouldn’t have happened,” I thought, a stark realization. I retreated to my bed, collapsing in the darkness, feeling utterly incapable of rest. By late morning, Kristina was visibly disturbed to find my blood-stained clothes discarded on the bathroom floor. I’m sure, on some level, I had left them there intentionally, wanting her to witness the aftermath. I woke up in agonizing pain, every inch of my body throbbing. The bite marks were particularly agonizing, refusing to stop bleeding. I had no prior experience with bite wounds, no reason to know that bites could bleed so profusely, for so long. “This isn’t normal,” I kept thinking, the realization dawning, a shudder running through me. “It wasn’t OK.”
It was a bitterly cold, snowy January day. I offered Kristina a feeble explanation, claiming my skin was cracked and bleeding due to the dry winter air, that I was simply “chapped.” My explanation was absurd, and we both knew it. Later that day, the surreal terror of the previous night still clinging to me, I was with Kristina and some of her friends when my phone rang. It was Peter Beard, calling from his home landline. I stepped outside to answer, wanting, perhaps needing, to hear what he would say.
His voice was low and earnest. “That was quite a night,” he began. “We got a little carried away. I’m not sure how that happened.”
“Yes, it was a little crazy,” I responded, offering nothing more. I waited, hoping for some reassurance, some expression of remorse, but it never came.
“When you come tonight, cover up. I don’t want people seeing the marks. OK? Promise you’ll wear something that doesn’t show anything that happened?”
I promised. The pact felt childish, absurd. He, the notorious rule-breaker, was suddenly concerned about appearances, about avoiding “trouble.” Yet, somehow, I felt a strange sense of connection, of conspiracy, in our shared secret. I told myself he was concerned, that he cared. That “we” had gotten carried away. But “we”? I had never asked for violence, never reciprocated it.
Kristina was deeply disturbed by the situation. “This is clearly out of control,” she stated bluntly. “He’s abusing you.” Her words resonated with the horrifying truth of the situation. I was unraveling. Yet, I remained insistent that we attend his birthday party. We got dressed, and I chose an outfit that would conceal all traces of the violence – a black, conservative turtleneck dress. I felt neither sexy nor stylish, but broken, diminished. But I was following his instructions, playing my assigned role, like an actor in a school play. “After all,” I remember thinking, “It’s his birthday. I’ll play along.”
Peter Beard was turning 67. When Kristina and I arrived at Cipriani, we were met with a scene that felt deliberately orchestrated. About a dozen scantily clad young women were already present, and initially, only two men – a young assistant photographer and a sycophantic middle-aged man who incessantly photographed everyone, screeching that Peter Beard was akin to Picasso. His wife and daughter were absent. There were no friends his own age, just this curated collection of young women and male admirers.
I was seated next to the birthday boy, feeling withdrawn and sullen, silently hoping he would acknowledge my pain, inquire about my well-being. He was dressed casually in plaid pants and sandals, seemingly oblivious to the gravity of the previous night. I longed for him to seek my forgiveness, to show some remorse. Instead, he appeared irritated, disinterested in me. I felt erased, invisible. Was it the turtleneck dress? Had the wounds he inflicted somehow rendered me “damaged goods”? Or was he simply bored with me already? I retreated to the bathroom, consumed by rage and humiliation.
Upon returning to the table, I found another young woman occupying my seat.
“Hi, you’re in my seat,” I stated, a weak attempt at asserting myself.
“Um, Peter asked me to sit here,” she replied, unfazed.
“Yeah, listen, Charlotte, I’m going to catch up with her for a bit, OK?” Peter Beard interjected, his voice soft but devoid of warmth, seemingly aware of the devastating impact of his words. “You can sit over there.” He gestured dismissively to the far end of the table, where the other woman had been previously seated. Humiliated and defeated, I grabbed my jacket and moved to the demoted position, sinking into a profound despair.
In an unsent letter I wrote to him two years later, I described the scene, his blatant lust for other young women that night: “… Girls who made me feel old … at 21. You made me feel old at 21. I hate you for that.” I continued, “They had youth and I no longer did, mentally. You scarred me and I was irrevocably older because of it … Who is really on my side? I don’t even think I am. I’m on your side in so many ways.”
Kristina, witnessing my distress and the unsettling atmosphere of the party, came over, her face etched with concern. “I don’t like this,” she said, her voice low and urgent. “He’s horrible and violent. Do you want to be damaged?” Her question resonated deeply, echoing in my mind for years to come. Did I want to be damaged? Her words stung, but in retrospect, I understand the profound truth they held.
The following day, I began a new job as a literary scout, receiving immediate praise from my boss. For a fleeting moment, I attempted to embrace a sense of omnipotence, convincing myself I could manage this chaotic, destructive double life – the debauchery and violence by night, and the demands of a professional life by day. I was, in reality, falling apart, while desperately clinging to the illusion that this was somehow “living fully.”
In the days following Peter Beard’s birthday party, I resolved to ignore him, to create some distance, some semblance of control. But with Kristina’s increasing disapproval, I felt isolated, vulnerable, seeking solace and validation wherever I could find it.
After a period of silence, Peter Beard resumed his relentless pursuit, bombarding me with phone calls, leaving voice messages filled with declarations of missing me. This renewed attention felt like a relief, a return to a familiar, albeit toxic, pattern. I initially resisted, attempting to maintain my resolve, but eventually, I yielded.
We met again, and the violence recurred.
This time, however, it felt strangely “reparative,” as if by repeating the violence, we were somehow normalizing the initial horror, making it more palatable. I was so desperate to restore a sense of normalcy, to make things “OK” with him, that I was willing to tolerate almost anything, as long as he directed his attention towards me. He had burrowed under my skin, both literally and figuratively.
It became a familiar, devastating cycle: violence, followed by doting gestures and moments of intense sweetness, only to be inevitably followed by violence once more. I never enjoyed the violence, and I never explicitly said “stop.” However, on one occasion, I did insist on acknowledging it.
“Do you realize you left marks, and these bruises are from you?” I asked one night, my voice barely above a whisper. He offered no verbal response. Instead, he stroked me, then abruptly began jabbing me with his fingers. Neither of us spoke. His hands were rough, calloused, and he used his fingers with a brutal force.
“I just want heightened consciousness,” he finally uttered, a cryptic and disturbing explanation. To this day, I wonder if the violence stemmed, in part, from his boredom – a desperate need to push boundaries, to feel intensely alive, and to ensure that I felt something too, even if that something was pain.
This time, the bite wounds became infected. The areas were inflamed, hot to the touch, and the aching burn began to spread. The pain persisted for days, escalating to a point where I became genuinely frightened. I sought medical attention from a physician on Madison Avenue. While sitting on the examination table, clad in a paper gown, my gaze fell upon an Oprah poster that proclaimed, “Turn your wounds into wisdom.” The concept felt impossibly distant, utterly unattainable.
The doctor inquired about the cause of my injuries. I began to explain, haltingly, that I was in a “situation” with a man, and it had “gotten out of control.” He asked directly if it was consensual. I confessed that I hadn’t wanted it, that I didn’t understand how I had allowed it to happen. Tears streamed down my face as I struggled to articulate the incomprehensible. The doctor asked if he could file a report, offering me the option to press charges. The thought was immediately rejected. I imagined Peter Beard’s dismissive laughter at the idea of me “making a big deal” out of it. And, most importantly, I hadn’t said “no.” Or “stop.”
The doctor prescribed antibiotics for human bites, and also offered Xanax. The entire experience felt surreal, extreme. It was in that sterile doctor’s office that I realized I could no longer continue living this way, could no longer remain in this relationship with Peter Beard. I confided in my mother, sharing fragmented pieces of the story. I was more guarded with my father. They both perceived Peter Beard as a “creep” I had briefly associated with, someone who had assaulted and harassed me. They remained unaware of the deeply mortifying truth: that I had, in fact, fallen in love with this man.
Despite feeling profoundly vulnerable and traumatized, I continued to function, to navigate my daily life. Despite my vow to end things with Peter Beard, to sever all ties, I saw him again soon after. I mentioned that I couldn’t drink alcohol due to the antibiotics. He was indifferent.
“Did you cut your hair?” he asked, his attention immediately diverted to the superficial.
“No. Should I?”
“No. Keep your hair long,” he instructed. “It’s always a mistake when women cut their hair too short.” He displayed no interest in acknowledging, let alone understanding, the pain he had inflicted.
Finally, a breaking point arrived, a specific day, a singular moment of utter collapse. It was summer, yet unseasonably cold and raining heavily. Stepping into a puddle, I soaked my entire leg. It seems trivial now, but in that moment, it was the culmination of everything – my soggy leg, the relentless torment of the relationship, the weight of it all becoming unbearable. I knew, with absolute certainty, that I had to end things with Peter Beard, immediately.
My method of extrication was abrupt, absolute: I vanished. Perhaps it was a form of retribution for the times he had made me feel erased. Perhaps it was a vain desire to evoke anguish in his absence, to preserve the bittersweet intensity of our connection. He would remember me only as I had been, and I might retain some semblance of power in his memory by being the one to leave. He had never offered an explanation for his violent behavior, and I felt no need to explain my sudden disappearance.
In contemporary terms, I ghosted him. I stopped answering his calls, ignored his messages, even discarded the book he sent. His voice messages grew increasingly agitated and insistent. But this time, I adhered to my vow to be done. Perhaps the real reason for my vanishing act was my inability to confront him directly, a lack of courage to face the complexities of our dynamic. I feared that remaining with him would ultimately lead to my destruction. I couldn’t articulate the depth of his torment, the intensity of my love for him, and the impossibility of continuing. I was afraid of my own weakness, knowing that any direct confrontation would inevitably draw me back into his orbit.
“I’ve clearly done something to upset you,” he conceded in one rambling voicemail, a rare admission of potential wrongdoing. He knew how to pursue, how to hunt, even how to feign groveling.
I made the decision to move to London to pursue further studies, aspiring to become either a psychotherapist or a writer. Still uncertain of my path, I felt a desperate need to escape not just the relationship, but the entire city, even the country. He held such immense power over me that, in my mind, he “owned” New York.
My father remained largely unaware of the full extent of my involvement with Peter Beard. He knew I was traumatized, entangled in a damaging situation, but not the graphic details. He was unaware of the depth of my emotional investment, my love. Despite his limited understanding of the specifics, my father offered unwavering kindness and support. His primary concern was my recovery, my healing. “You’ll feel yourself again, I promise,” I recall him saying gently. “You’ll enjoy just opening a door.” He understood enough. I felt immense guilt for inflicting this “horror” upon him, and he carried a burden of responsibility for having introduced me to Peter Beard in the first place. But as I repeatedly assured him, there was no preventing my choices, no stopping me from walking into this situation.
I felt a profound sense of shame, embarrassed that, despite my privileged upbringing and education, I had become a “victim” in a violent and frightening relationship – something I now understand can happen to anyone, regardless of background or intellect. I felt broken, but I trusted my father’s reassurance that I would eventually be “OK.”
At the same time, I found it difficult to feel genuine enthusiasm for any new romantic prospects. Compared to the overwhelming intensity and “spectacular dazzle” of Peter Beard, most “mere mortals” I encountered seemed pale in comparison. The sole exception was the man who would eventually become my husband. I had known him prior to meeting Peter Beard, had even shared a summer romance with him. He rekindled a sense of my pre-Peter Beard self, while simultaneously offering space for a future built on trust and genuine love. He listened without judgment as I recounted my experiences with Peter Beard, understanding how I had become entangled in such a destructive relationship.
A year or so after my move to London, Peter Beard had a major photography exhibition at the Michael Hoppen gallery. I decided to attend. I felt a need to see him, to confront him, to have one final encounter. It felt essential for closure. I dressed meticulously, wanting to make a lasting impression. This encounter “counted,” I told myself, and I needed to get it “just right.” In retrospect, I believe I did.
Upon arriving, I noticed a gaunt, young blonde woman frantically smoking cigarettes outside the gallery. “I knew Peter well, a while back,” she volunteered, her demeanor jittery and uneasy. I sensed a shared experience, a shared history with Peter Beard, a feeling that she too had been through something significant with him. I couldn’t know if her experience mirrored mine, but I was suddenly aware that I might not be unique, that I might not have been the only one to experience this darker side of Peter Beard. He could have been behaving this way for decades. A part of me felt strangely bothered by the realization that I wasn’t “special,” that my experience wasn’t singular.
Inside the gallery, I surveyed his artwork on the walls – the familiar mix of sepia collages featuring models, animals, recognizable faces and anonymous strangers, all framed and embellished with his signature use of blood. The unsettling juxtaposition of violence, sex, and beauty was starkly present, on public display. This was a man who had been trampled by an elephant, who had witnessed a rhino attack a man without intervening, who staged scenes of depravity and near-death encounters in the name of art. He was celebrated for his embrace of decay and debauchery, for offering viewers access to the “shadowy thrill” of dancing with darkness – the very qualities that had made him so dangerous to me.
I approached the table inside the gallery, where Peter Beard was seated, signing catalogues and various items. People swarmed around him, vying for his attention.
“Charlotte Fox Weber. Oh my God.”
Relief washed over me as he recognized me instantly, uttering my full name with apparent enthusiasm. I was still navigating that precarious tightrope between feeling exceptionally significant in his eyes and utterly forgettable.
“Hello!” I responded.
“What happened to you? You just sort of, poof! You disappeared. What happened?” he asked, feigning bewilderment.
“I know I vanished. I had to. But it’s good to see you. I wanted to see you.”
He repeated his question about my disappearance, and I simply stated that I had moved to London. He immediately invited me for a drink at his hotel.
“No, thank you,” I declined, firmly but politely. “You were a phase, and I’m no longer in that phase. But I’m really glad to see you and say hello after all this time.” As I spoke these words, I consciously aimed for warmth and friendliness. I smiled, and our eyes met. For a brief moment, we were truly present with each other.
“Well, OK. Hello.”
“Hello. It’s good to see you.”
“You too,” he replied.
I said goodbye, and he responded with the phrase I had heard him utter countless times before: “Bye for now.”
“Bye for now,” I echoed, the words carrying a finality that neither of us explicitly acknowledged.
That was the last time we spoke. And I intended it to be. Though I moved on with my life, Peter Beard, and the profound impact of that relationship, did not simply “go away.” I pursued healthier relationships, trained to become a psychotherapist, and built a family of my own. But the pain didn’t entirely dissipate. Time, I learned, does not heal all wounds.
There is always “more.” Moments that remain lost, situations too private to fully articulate, memories that still elicit a wince in the retelling. I have come to accept that not everything can be held onto, perfectly preserved, and that this inherent incompleteness is simply part of the human experience. In the years since, I have learned that it is “OK” to let go of some things. And it is equally “OK” not to let go of others. What I understand now is that I have managed to hold onto something essential – a refusal to forget what remained unacknowledged for so long. I have come to embrace the fact that, in some ways, “this too shall not pass.”
As intensely exceptional and heightened as everything felt with Peter Beard at the time, I don’t believe I truly felt that my perspective, my experience, actually mattered. This self-doubt, this ingrained sense of insignificance, was what silenced me during the violence, and what kept me frozen in ambivalence for years afterward. I had convinced myself that I lacked the right to even own my own story, even in my own mind. What happened with Peter Beard felt so scandalous, so bizarre, so shameful, that I struggled to integrate it as a legitimate part of my life history.
When Peter Beard died, I experienced a profound and unexpected wave of devastation. It was truly “all over.” Everything we had shared – my youth, the turmoil, the fleeting moments of joy, the deep-seated pain – was definitively finished. He died alone, dramatically, after getting lost in the woods near his Montauk home, during the isolating context of the pandemic. This self-proclaimed narcissist, beloved by so many, a man who seemingly couldn’t bear solitude, died in complete solitude.
Following his death, I finally allowed myself to fully articulate the story – to myself, and to others. I shared photographs with a few trusted individuals – provocative images Peter Beard had taken of my young body. I showed them my 21st birthday photo album, from the year I met him, which he had defaced with doodles, extra limbs, handprints, symbolically “claiming” my image as his own. I still haven’t revealed every detail, even to those closest to me, but I have shared the “headlines,” the essential narrative. The story of our relationship wasn’t one of pure, unadulterated abuse, but it was undeniably traumatic and scarring, and it was certainly not a “pristine romance.” It was a complex tapestry of everything it was, and I needed to speak it into existence, to acknowledge its multifaceted reality.
As much as I was “meant” to hate Peter Beard, and still do at moments of clear-sighted anger, I also, unexpectedly, miss him from time to time. I miss his undeniable charm, his sharp wit, and his eccentric, engaging conversational abilities. He possessed the rare skill of genuine conversation. He knew how to listen, when he chose to. And he had an extraordinary ability to notice and appreciate the subtle, marvelous details that most people overlook. He was a man of profound contradictions. And my feelings about him remain equally complex, equally contradictory.
Peter Beard often rejected the label “artist,” preferring to see himself as a “chronicler,” a “diarist,” an “observer.” Detritus and treasures coexisted seamlessly in his life and in his art. For nearly twenty years, I carried that same sense of multitudes within myself – the “trash and the treasures” intertwined, coexisting, demanding space. Wherever I went, whatever I pursued in my life, the shadow of Peter Beard followed, impossible to ignore, yet perpetually unresolved. I struggled to integrate the entirety of that experience into my life narrative. It remains with me now. It always will. But I am no longer at its mercy. It is simply “something that happened.”
Peter Beard believed the world was in a state of decline, and as he approached his own demise, he seemed almost gleeful in his schadenfreude, convinced that the rest of us had “missed the good old days,” and that everything was irrevocably terrible. His perspective felt defensive, ultimately ungenerous. I longed for him to believe in the possibility of beauty and flourishing beyond his own limited worldview, to harbor some sense of hope for humanity’s future. But I suspect he truly wanted the world to end with him, to validate his own sense of impending doom.
“It’s the end of the game!” he would declare far too frequently, about far too many things, his pronouncements often dramatic and hyperbolic.
“It’s the end of your game,” I often thought, silently rebelling against his nihilistic pronouncements. “But not for the world.”
Fox Weber is a psychotherapist and the author of Tell Me What You Want.
