There was one chance out of at least 15 millions to meet Irish painter Reginald Gray by sheer accident in London on Tuesday, February 8, 2011 and yet it unbelievably happened with really no logical explanation at 1.02 p.m at one of the entrances of the Peter Jones stores in Chelsea.
Had I not stopped five minutes earlier in a King's Road gallery, I would probably never have fallen across this buoyant character notwithstanding the fact that such encounter would have never happened if I had reached the Peter Jones building, say one minute later or chosen one of its six other entrances.
Strangely enough, on my arrival in London the previous day I thought I had been stupid not to have asked Reginald for his phone number when we exchanged a few emails some months earlier. Yes, stupid because yhe has been dear in my heart since I have known him for over 45 years.
We first met together in the Paris offices of the New York Times International edition where he worked as a copy-boy in the newsroom and I as a trainee in the administration department. At the time, Reginald was trying to become famous as a painter while I was striving to start a journalistic career.
In my eyes this 35-year-old chap seemed full of confidence and looking set to conquer the world with the same ease he showed with the many women who had fallen under his incredible charm while I was a terribly shy 20 year-old guy looking much younger than my age.
When the NYT bosses decided to drop the publishing of their International edition, Reginald became a famed photographer with Vogue while I worked freelancer before my career blossomed when I got a super job with Reuters and then embarked on launching an art magazine.
Reginald, who had been one of Francis Bacon's close friends- they both came from Dublin- worked for a while in the U.S and then returned to Paris where he continued to work as a photographer and occasionally as a film director besides pursuing his artistic career until the day he felt somewhat glorious when he learnt that his portrait of Bacon was on permanent exhibit at the London National Gallery.
Much active as a painter after his return to London five years ago, Reginald only sent me one email last year just to say that he was fine despite reaching the age of 80. Strangely enough, I thought I had been stupid not to have asked him for his telephone number when I arrived in London on Monday. Anyhow, luck was there to make our meeting incredibly real. "One chance out of 15 millions to drop in on you unexpectedly", I told my bemused friend...
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