‘So, when are you going to write about me?” This is what Fred Brandt would say to me instead of hello for the last year and a half, a year and a half ago being the precise moment Vanity Fair began to take an interest, give me the time of day, flirt back, i.e., publish my pieces. Since Fred and I saw each other semi-regularly, you’d think the question would’ve stopped throwing me for a loop, only it never did. It was a teasing one, obviously, and the thing to do was respond in kind, get off a snappy line, then move on. Just as I was about to, though, I’d notice how steady his gaze was, how serious and watchful, and confusion would make me quiet. Should I believe his tone or his look? I always—always—picked look. He was, after all, Dr. Fredric Brandt, the King of Collagen, the Baron of Botox, the Svengali of Skin Care, and other alliterative epithets signifying style and flash and glamour and hullabaloo and general hot-stuffness, and not at all un-up this magazine’s alley. And I became convinced that this time he meant it, was real­ly asking. I’d open my mouth, start to offer an explanation, stumbling and sincere, and, as soon as I did, he’d burst into laughter. Fred’s laugh was unlike anyone else’s. It was heaving and at top volume and had an actual ha-ha in it and a lot of neck and shoulder and was completely spastic and maniacal. Completely irresistible too.

He’d gotten me again.

Fred and I were close, but in a funny way because we barely knew each other. The relationship was almost entirely by proxy. I’m married to a doctor, Robert Anolik—Rob—and Fred was Rob’s boss. The official term, I believe, was “associate,” but really, boss. Which was why my writing about Fred was so totally out of the question. That it isn’t anymore is the saddest thing in the world. See, Fred committed suicide, hanged himself in the garage of his Miami home during the early morning hours of Sunday, April 5, Easter Sunday, as it so happened. He was 65 years old, though it feels strange to assign him an age, since not looking his was so much what he was about. In any case, now that he’s dead little niceties like conflict of interest no longer apply or matter.

Celebrity Skin

Rob started working with Fred five years ago. He’d finished his residency in dermatology at N.Y.U., then did a fellowship in laser and skin surgery with Dr. Roy Geronemus. Roy is the director of the Laser & Skin Surgery Center of New York, which Fred was part of but separate from, his own thing—like Monaco is to France or Angelina Jolie is to the Voight clan. Fred’s practice was crazily, freakily, out-of-this-worldily fancy. Glitz galore. Stars—movie, rock, and pop—television personalities and fashion models and professional athletes, round-the-clock talk-show hosts—morning, afternoon, and late-night—princesses from small, oil-rich countries, tycoons who jetted around in, well, jets, whispered in presidents’ ears, owned vineyards in Napa Valley, castles painted by Monet, Monets. Tycoons’ dependents too, naturally. It seemed like you were only eligible to fill out a patient form if Jacqueline Susann, God rest her soul, could’ve swapped out a few vowels in your name, stuck you in one of her written-in-­lipstick-and-eyebrow-pencil roman à clef lives-of-the-rich-and-fucked jobs. And speaking of names, I could drop dozens on you here, but I’m just going to drop one, since it’s big enough to knock you out, and since it’s so famous it’s become virtually synonymous with the word: Madonna.

What’s more, Fred didn’t just tend to stars, help them maintain their twinkle and glow. He was one. He hosted his own radio show, the Who’s Who likes of Linda Wells, editor in chief of Allure (patient), and Sally Hershberger and Sharon Dorram, celebrity hairstylist and celebrity colorist, respectively (both patients), and Gwyneth Paltrow, actress and sex symbol (patient), swinging by the SiriusXM studios in Midtown to slip on a set of oversize headphones, talk turkey, or at least turkey neck; guested on Live with Regis and Kelly (Kelly Ripa, patient) and The View (Joy Behar, too); was the subject of features in New York and The New York Times, spreads in L’Uomo Vogue and Elle (Robbie Myers, editor in chief, patient); attended high-profile events with Donna Karan, Calvin Klein, Marc Jacobs, and Naomi Campbell (patient, patient, patient, and patient); and supplied A’s to the Q’s of Stephanie Seymour (patient) and Jane Holzer (patient) in Interview. He also collected art—works by Damien Hirst, Marilyn Minter, and Richard Prince adorned the walls of his various places of labor and leisure. Engaging in acrobatics, possibly sexual, though equally possibly not, at the bottom of the staircase in his Coconut Grove estate were two figures by Keith Haring. Glittering above the bed in his West Chelsea condo like a punctured disco ball was a 24-karat-gold circular plate by Anish Kapoor. And loitering in the waiting area of his East 34th Street office was an Ed Ruscha, surveying the scene and observing with perfect deadpan American cool, Hydraulic Muscles, Pneumatic Smiles. He wore art, too. (I don’t think you could properly call an Alexander McQueen black vinyl vest or Givenchy culottes, cream-colored with a plaid waistband and covered in barking dogs, and paired with leggings, also cream-colored, clothing.) He kept a publicist on retainer.