Are we allowed to read this book? Or are we to dismiss it, as it’s obviously full of alternative facts, at least as far as The New York Times and The Avedon Foundation are concerned, one being the quite macabre story of Avedon’s son preparing a meal with his father’s ashes, he had mistaken it for oregano, so Norma Stevens, the author and part of Avedon’s entourage tells us. I can relate, I also store oregano in an urn, but my ability to believe it is of secondary importance, as the son has denied it, false, all false, he says. Francis Bacon once refined a stew with a bottle of Château Pétrus instead of, well, the juice we call red wine, also funny, less macabre though, and so nobody ever felt like denying it, although it seems to be out of the stuff anecdotes are made of, exaggerate, set proportions aside, drop some names, some familiar unachievabilities, your father’s ashes, however, mistaken for the most profane of all Italian spices, that speaks volumes, that’s what I would have denied, that my father, that iconic stylish guy, smelled like oregano and not like, say, lavender, or, at the very least, tarragon. Anyway, I’m reading this biography despite all the warnings, I’m reading it for alternative reasons, you see, I met Veruschka this summer in Berlin, we bumped into each other when I was leaving a favourite book shop of mine, Bücherbogen on Savignyplatz, I was mesmerized, humbled, breathless, unable to speak and apologize for my clumsiness, I was only able to stumble on and take a shot with my iPhone, a shot that made me join the fine club of photographers who have worked with Veruschka, I’m just reading the book to see what my colleague Dick thought about her. True story.