When I arrived in Rome yesterday for this morning’s funeral of Valentino, who died on Monday, January 19, the sun was shining and the air was crisper than crisp, so I wandered in the direction of the Spanish Steps, for it was there, in the Via Gregoriana, where I had first investigated Valentino’s haute couture salon many, many moons ago.
Walking to the Steps, I came across the magnificent Palazzo Barberini, where just last year Valentino’s longtime partner Giancarlo Giammatti had given a dinner to celebrate the first show of the Fondazione Valentino Garavani e Giancarlo Giammetti. It was in its magnificent room, up endless stairs, where the Pietro da Cortona’s ravishing Baroque Divina Provvidenza ceiling had been triumphantly painted, and when I had finished looking at the astonishing art, I was off to explore the Spanish Steps and the Via Gregoriana.
But there seemed to be something happening in the Piazza Mignanelli, where fences now criss-crossed the square. Miracle! Valentino’s lying in state was going to continue until that nightfall, and so I joined the crowd of mourners who wanted to pay their respects to him, criss-crossing the piazza with the best of them. Once inside the Fondazione—surrounded by both a forest of white flowers and by reverent people moving quietly past—I was struck by how intensely moving it all was. His coffin lay roped-off in an apse-like space, while on either side, behind the ropes, were several rows of chairs. Bruce Hoeksema, Valentino’s last companion, got up and welcomed me, and I went to sit with him and some other dear friends for about an hour. As we all left, I was delighted to see dozens of bouquets of white flowers that people had left beneath the windows of the nearby Valentino emporium—and, amongst all the white, a single splendid bouquet of lilac and mauve. A marvelous touch.
At the funeral, at the magnificent Basilica of Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei Martiri, frescoes of putti looked down upon inlaid marble floors as the ceilings reached heavenwards. And the flowers! So many white flowers. I was deeply touched that I had been seated in the front row, next to Anna and Donatella. Pierpaolo Piccioli, Philip Treacy, Maria Grazia Chiuri, Anna Fendi, Delfina Delettrez Fendi, Tom Ford, and Alessandro Michele were all there. Marisa Berenson, moved, held my hand—paying homage to the master.
I’d arrived an hour early to soak up the emotional atmosphere, but Anna and Donatella arrived later. (It was strange to see Anna in black, for day—it rather took me aback.) Donatella and her daughter Allegra sat next to me. “Valentino was the king of Rome,” Donatella whispered in my ear—and she was right. Anne Hathaway was there with her husband, Adam Shulman—she had had a close relationship with Valentino, traveling on his boat and being escorted to one scintillating evening after another.
Finally, Giancarlo arrived. And then the angel voices began to sing, and the priests in their purple vestments arrived, and a full Catholic ceremony began. Let me tell you: If you are not used to it, it’s quite something.
But after an hour, the singing and the incantations (it was all in Italian) washed over me, back and forth, like a gentle wave. It was uplifting. Giancarlo got up to speak, first apologizing to the English speakers, who had been listening to Italian for the past hour, and then proceeding to speak in Italian before prompting Bruce to speak. How Bruce did it, I know not, because he was a wrecked ship, but what he said was simple, powerful, and effective. I could not hold back—I sobbed and sobbed. To my sides, there was more of the same. And then, the younger men who had all meant something to Valentino, the children of his intimate friends—Sean and Anthony Souza and Luis de Medina Abascal among them—got up, walked to the coffin, and picked it up to carry it out of the church. It was intensely moving, and everyone, spontaneously, applauded—the last standing ovation for Valentino.
