On a typical day, he'd come in early, his weighty leather briefcase slung over his shoulder, and settle into his office chair for the next 10 to 12 hours. We laughed together at the wealthy wives turned philanthropists - "the ladies who lunch" - who were so desperate for the art world to take them seriously.Īnd boy did he love his job. He chuckled at the story of the British multimillionaire philanthropist I'd interviewed over lunch at a fancy restaurant, whose spotlessly shined shoe got stuck on an adhesive mousetrap. "I have chips on both shoulders," he would say of his extensive collection of sports cars, which he drove on the weekend to Donnington, his vast farm in Herefordshire. Mark loved a little banter in the course of the day, and never hesitated to laugh at himself. I used to call him our 'nuclear umbrella.' He always stood up for his people, and stuck his neck out for them. Despite the pressures he was under and the ungodly hours he put in, Mark never raised his voice. For several years, I sat a few desks away from him. And they were really good: written in clear, sharp, tongue-in-cheek prose.īefore I knew it, Mark was an editor on the team, then my manager. I was an arts correspondent but also a copy editor, so his pieces would come to me before publication. We were both at Bloomberg, and he was beginning to contribute rock-music columns to Muse, the culture section. He's doing what he likes: entertaining friends in style. Mark is wearing a striped summer jacket and his famously boyish smile. In my mind's eye, it's a Saturday afternoon in late summer, and I'm enjoying champagne and conversation with Mark and two other friends at the Arts Club, one of the many upscale London clubs that he's a member of (see picture). I find it hard to write about Mark Beech in the past tense.
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