36 new york | march 16–29, 2020
out about only afterward. At the same time,
he was very supportive of my making and
selling my own art and that of my sons,
which likely contributed to my turning
a blind eye.
His easygoing sense of entitlement was
partly bluff, partly something he was bred
for. He was born in 1987 in Redding, Con-
necticut, and his father went on to lead the
Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts
museum and currently runs Philadelphia
Contemporary. His mother is a writer whom
he never went into much detail about. His
father was selfish and capricious with
money, at least according to him. Philbrick
once told me he’d supported his mother
and sister financially. Though I never saw
or had any contact with either woman
throughout our relationship.
Philbrick Sr. and son were estranged by
the time I met him and rarely, if ever, spoke
throughout the time we were close.
Although he had studied to be an artist, as
a teen he told a friend of his dad’s that he
wanted to be an art adviser, an unusual
aspiration for a kid (or anyone else). It’s
probably difficult to grow up around the
very wealthy when you are merely upper-night infomercials encouraging real-estate
investments) if they sold for more than the
guarantee. But if you guessed wrong or
misjudged the market, you ended up with
the goods whether you could afford to pay
for them or not.
Increasingly, Philbrick got stuck with the
art he’d placed wagers on and had to juggle
to pay, stealing, as it were, from Peter and
Paul to pay Sotheby’s, Phillips, and Chris-
tie’s, and he was more than once banned
from bidding at auction houses because of
late payments —though the houses never
admitted to this when his tune was up. No
one, in fact, wanted to admit to even know-
ing him, much less doing business with
him, but they all did. Philbrick’s unbridled
hubris had a big hand in his implosion,
which is slowly becoming apparent still.i should also mention his penchant
for partying. Not only did he drink, he had
a hefty appetite for drugs and enjoyed the
company of prostitutes. I witnessed all of
this (not the hookers, mind you, though I
did see phone snaps, I’m afraid to say), and
what I did not see firsthand he bragged
about to me later. As time went on, it
became clear that it might be affecting his
judgment. He was rarely, in my experience
with him, without a stash of MDMA or ket-
amine brazenly carried in his briefcase or
jacket pocket from one airport to another.
He had no fear when it came to being
caught with the contraband, or much else.
I will never forgive myself (or him) for per-
mitting one of my sons to join him on an
Ibiza jaunt where they had a three-night
ecstasy bender. And that wasn’t the only
time he fed drugs to my kids, which I foundmiddle class and well educated. He recalled
as a child meeting the German artist Jörg
Immendorff when accompanying his father
somewhere or other; the artist was clad in
a full-length fur coat. Philbrick told me he’d
sworn to himself that, one day, that would
be him. By way of role models, I’m not cer-
tain Immendorff was the ideal example: He
was arrested in 2003 after being found
naked in a five-star Düsseldorf hotel room
hosting a little soirée with nine prostitutes
next to a Versace ashtray filled with 11
grams of cocaine.
When I met Philbrick, he had a girlfriend,
Fran Mancini, an Argentine part-time art
dealer and perfumer with short brunette
hair; she was from a well-off family, and her
mother was in the waste-removal industry.
They lived in a modest but art-filled London
apartment on Grosvenor Square, a short
walk from Cipriani, the Connaught hotel,
and Harry’s, the highfalutin haunts where
he regularly drank and ate. Though they
never married, Philbrick and Mancini had a
baby daughter in 2017.
That same year, he began an affair with
Victoria Baker-Harber. Mancini and
Baker-Harber were acquaintances and
vacationed at the same summer rental in
Ibiza. Baker-Harber’s nickname for Phil-
brick was “Fruit,” from his being “forbidden
fruit” as the partner of a woman he was
having a child with.
Baker-Harber is a sometime cast mem-
ber on the U.K. reality-TV show Made in
Chelsea, in which wealthy young people are
shown being bitchy to each other and every-
one around them. In other words, it’s a cli-
ché of obnoxious characters in toxic rela-
tionships, all striving for vacuous notoriety.
It’s not too far removed from the art world
these days. (Says Baker-Harber on the show,
“Don’t fucking open your fucking fat fucking
mouth, you fucking fat turkey.”) But this isn’t
her only reality-TV foray; she was thrown off
another show for a disparaging remark she’d
made about a Hindu castmate, Baker-
Harber laughingly told me herself.
Though Philbrick lived large the entire
time I knew him, a diamond lodged in the
pin of his belt, wearing custom suits and
shoes, things seemed to start to go off the
rails around the time he hooked up withApril 2018: With Victoria Baker-Harber at Cipriani in London.Drunken $100,000 backgammongames with wealthy art speculatorsand a bevy of prostituteswere all part of Philbrick’s program.0620FEA_Inigo_lay [Print]_36890243.indd 36 3/13/20 10:24 PM36 newyork| march16–29, 2020
outaboutonlyafterward.Atthesametime,
hewasverysupportiveofmy makingand
sellingmyownart andthat ofmy sons,
whichlikelycontributedtomy turning
a blindeye.
Hiseasygoingsenseofentitlementwas
partlybluff, partlysomethinghewasbred
for.He wasbornin 198 7 inRedding,Con-
necticut,andhisfatherwentontoleadthe
PennsylvaniaAcademy oftheFineArts
museumandcurrentlyrunsPhiladelphia
Contemporary. His motheris a writerwhom
heneverwentintomuchdetailabout.His
fatherwasselfishandcapriciouswith
money, at least accordingtohim.Philbrick
oncetoldmehe’d supportedhismother
andsisterfinancially.ThoughI neversaw
orhadanycontact witheitherwoman
throughoutourrelationship.
PhilbrickSr.andsonwereestrangedby
thetimeI methimandrarely,if ever,spoke
throughout the time we were close.
Althoughhehadstudiedtobeanartist,as
a teenhetolda friendofhisdad’s that he
wantedtobeanartadviser, anunusual
aspirationfora kid(oranyoneelse).It’s
probablydifficulttogrowuparoundthe
verywealthy whenyouaremerelyupper-night infomercials encouraging real-estate
investments) if they sold for more than the
guarantee. But if you guessed wrong or
misjudged the market, you ended up with
the goods whether you could afford to pay
for them or not.
Increasingly, Philbrick got stuck with the
art he’d placed wagers on and had to juggle
to pay, stealing, as it were, from Peter and
Paul to pay Sotheby’s, Phillips, and Chris-
tie’s, and he was more than once banned
from bidding at auction houses because of
late payments —though the houses never
admitted to this when his tune was up. No
one, in fact, wanted to admit to even know-
ing him, much less doing business with
him, but they all did. Philbrick’s unbridled
hubris had a big hand in his implosion,
which is slowly becoming apparent still.
i should also mention his penchant
for partying. Not only did he drink, he had
a hefty appetite for drugs and enjoyed the
company of prostitutes. I witnessed all of
this (not the hookers, mind you, though I
did see phone snaps, I’m afraid to say), and
what I did not see firsthand he bragged
about to me later. As time went on, it
became clear that it might be affecting his
judgment. He was rarely, in my experience
with him, without a stash of MDMA or ket-
amine brazenly carried in his briefcase or
jacket pocket from one airport to another.
He had no fear when it came to being
caught with the contraband, or much else.
I will never forgive myself (or him) for per-
mitting one of my sons to join him on an
Ibiza jaunt where they had a three-night
ecstasy bender. And that wasn’t the only
time he fed drugs to my kids, which I found
middle class and well educated. He recalled
as a child meeting the German artist Jörg
Immendorff when accompanying his father
somewhere or other; the artist was clad in
a full-length fur coat. Philbrick told me he’d
sworn to himself that, one day, that would
be him. By way of role models, I’m not cer-
tain Immendorff was the ideal example: He
was arrested in 2003 after being found
naked in a five-star Düsseldorf hotel room
hosting a little soirée with nine prostitutes
next to a Versace ashtray filled with 11
grams of cocaine.
When I met Philbrick, he had a girlfriend,
Fran Mancini, an Argentine part-time art
dealer and perfumer with short brunette
hair; she was from a well-off family, and her
mother was in the waste-removal industry.
They lived in a modest but art-filled London
apartment on Grosvenor Square, a short
walk from Cipriani, the Connaught hotel,
and Harry’s, the highfalutin haunts where
he regularly drank and ate. Though they
never married, Philbrick and Mancini had a
baby daughter in 2017.
That same year, he began an affair with
Victoria Baker-Harber. Mancini and
Baker-Harber were acquaintances and
vacationed at the same summer rental in
Ibiza. Baker-Harber’s nickname for Phil-
brick was “Fruit,” from his being “forbidden
fruit” as the partner of a woman he was
having a child with.
Baker-Harber is a sometime cast mem-
ber on the U.K. reality-TV show Made in
Chelsea, in which wealthy young people are
shown being bitchy to each other and every-
one around them. In other words, it’s a cli-
ché of obnoxious characters in toxic rela-
tionships, all striving for vacuous notoriety.
It’s not too far removed from the art world
these days. (Says Baker-Harber on the show,
“Don’t fucking open your fucking fat fucking
mouth, you fucking fat turkey.”) But this isn’t
her only reality-TV foray; she was thrown off
another show for a disparaging remark she’d
made about a Hindu castmate, Baker-
Harber laughingly told me herself.
Though Philbrick lived large the entire
time I knew him, a diamond lodged in the
pin of his belt, wearing custom suits and
shoes, things seemed to start to go off the
rails around the time he hooked up withApril 2018: With Victoria Baker-Harber at Cipriani in London.Drunken $100,000 backgammongames with wealthy art speculatorsand a bevy of prostituteswere all part of Philbrick’s program.