Once, well back in the last century, I lived on Long Island and worked for a university. When my boss found out I was an artist as well as a rider of horses, he told me that his neighbor was a Thoroughbred racehorse trainer at Belmont Racetrack. Would I like to meet him?

I did meet him at dinner with my boss’s family, and through him I actually got to be a “pony girl” with his training stable. One of the interesting things that happened from that was owners and other trainers finding out I would do pastel portraits of horses. Turns out that was one of the very few things owners really wanted and trainers could afford to get for them as a gift. After all, what do you buy for Christmas for a guy with a multi-million dollar portfolio?

Being “in” at the racetracks (including Aqueduct and Saratoga, where my friend would take his horses to run on occasion), meant I got to meet an awesome group of people like Penny Tweedy and Ron Turcotte and Cornelius Vanderbilt Whitney. Most often it was a polite introduction, since my friend was so well respected in racing circles (one of his horses had won the Kentucky Derby in 1963), but little more. Sometimes I’d be asked to do a portrait of someone’s horse(s). Professional artist stuff.

It also meant going to see the races regularly as my friend’s guest, sitting in his box with the owners. That was how I got to meet (then) multi-millionaire oil developer Nelson Bunker Hunt, who had a horse in one of the races that day.

Mr. Hunt sat in a far corner of my friend’s box. On each side sat a burly fellow wearing a cashmere overcoat (not unlike Mr. Hunt’s) and a grim expression. When I was introduced, Mr. Hunt reacted as though I were radioactive. He acknowledged me with a definite backward lean, must have realized I couldn’t be ousted since I was the box owner’s guest, and responded with an unsmiling glare. I recall making one small attempt at a pleasantry. It was not reciprocated.

This gentleman’s unhappy isolation was so painfully evident I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. It was plain he was NOT going to let any stranger get close. Perhaps he feared for his own safety. Perhaps he had been sucked up to by gold diggers too many times in the past. Perhaps he was avoiding any suggestion of impropriety with a pretty young woman. It was somehow sadder because being so very, very rich seemed to have cost him so much peace of mind.

Poor guy had nothing to be admired for.

And his horse lost.