Before she became Mrs. John F. Kennedy, Jr., she may not have been instantly distinguishable from all the other young brunettes turned blondes around town who leave their Birkin bags fashionably open, but at a certain, early point she clearly decided to break that image. The first sign of her independent streak was asking friend Narciso Rodriguez, whom she met when he was an unknown designer in Klein’s studio, to design her wedding dress. Later, realizing that the girl voted “the ultimate beautiful person” by her Greenwich, Connecticut, high school classmates might benefit from a bit of edge, she began turning up at the various charity balls and black-tie dinners that came with the marital territory in Versace or, more and more frequently, Yohji Yamamoto. Two images come to mind: her shaking hands with British prime minister Tony Blair last year wearing black opera-length gloves and a black strapless Yamamoto gown; and her at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner this year, nuzzling against her husband in a double-breasted evening suit with peaked lapels and a Bakelite fan necklace she ordered from Jean Paul Gaultier’s spring ’99 couture collection.
When the press took notice of his wife’s emerging style, her husband glowed: “You gotta see the back; the back’s the best part,” he once instructed a reporter who asked about a particular dress. But then Kennedy had been navigating the minefield of public life for a long time, honing his skills at disarming reporters with a winning mix of candor, wit, and charm that came in handy when “The Hunk Flunks” and “The Sexiest Man Alive” hit newsstands. He also had the opportunity to display the dignity and grace that counteracted his sometimes precarious image. Standing in front of 1040 Fifth Avenue on May 20, 1994, for example, he broke the news the world had been dreading, facing the throngs with remarkable poise: “Last night, at around 10:15, my mother passed on.…”
But he also showed that he had a bit of the provocateur, of the press-baiter in him. In 1995, when he launched George, he invited Madonna, with whom he was “linked,” as the papers put it, to pen a piece entitled “If I Were President.” A year later, he persuaded Drew Barrymore to do herself up as Marilyn Monroe on the night Monroe shimmied onto the stage at Madison Square Garden in May 1962 to sing “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.”
Like his mother, who would employ her immeasurable clout to save Grand Central Terminal from demolition, or Central Park from the shadow of a planned skyscraper, he was well aware of the power of celebrity, including his own. And how it could be harnessed, put to work for things he cared about—like selling magazines or drawing attention and support for worthy causes. Six years ago, he sent word to Vogue that he would sit for a portrait by Annie Leibovitz and an interview with then-editor-at-large William Norwich, providing the magazine agreed to certain conditions. Those conditions were that the article be about the John F. Kennedy Profile in Courage Award, established in 1989 to recognize “exemplary acts of political courage by elected officials,” and that the portrait be not of him alone but with lawyer and civil rights activist Elaine R. Jones, then one of the members of the voting committee for the award. Perhaps because Norwich couldn’t help himself, he asked Kennedy if he ever considered running for public office. Rather than bolt the room yelling, “We had a deal,” Kennedy paused and said, “I have to admit it is something I consider a lot.”
Would he have done it? Or would he have stayed with George, the fragile magazine he was determined to make a success? And would his wife have rallied to the opportunities her marriage presented with the same savvy with which she rallied to her first task, of being Mrs. John F. Kennedy, Jr.? If so, which opportunities?
No one likes unanswered questions. Especially these.