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Natasha Gregson Wagner

@ngdubdubs

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Balancing act.
@lamour.mere

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2 years ago

Some scents never really leave us. They hold people, places, and entire chapters of our lives.

A new After the Flower, on tuberose, memory, family, and the scents that shaped L'Amour Mere. I might even share a little glimpse of what I’m working on next 👀

Read now on Substack (link in bio) 🌸 by @ngdubdubs

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a month ago

Marilyn and My Mother.

Books, loneliness and a couple of painted ladies.

My latest on After the Flower. Link in bio 📖 by @ngdubdubs

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2 months ago

I wrote a piece for my new Substack After the Flower about losing my Daddy Gregson. I used to think because I lost my mom so young I had this loss thing handled.🙃being part of the sandwich generation means loss is upon us all now. It helps to write about it/talk about it.🤍 by @ngdubdubs

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2 months ago

One year of L'Amour Mere, celebrated at @mavie_newyork's beautiful space 🤎 Thank you to everyone who came out and made it such a special evening.

And if you look closely…you may notice something new. Did you spot it? taken in West Village, NYC by @ngdubdubs

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2 months ago

I’m home after a week in Colorado visiting my stepparents 🤎 taken in Aspen, Colorado by @ngdubdubs

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3 months ago

I am sitting in my family’s storage unit in Glendale. I’ve been here a handful of times now, and I’m beginning to know the place—the cavernous aisles, shelves of film canisters, boxes of photographs, cabinets full of old scripts. There is the smell of polished concrete and fresh wood underneath it all, but mostly the air is scented with the damp sweetness of paper softening with time.

Today, the hours pass slowly. My head is heavy with information. My eyes are glazed from so much organizing.

An unremarkable brown box sits on the floor.
I kneel beside it.

Inside are several three-quarter-inch videotapes. Beneath them sits a small leather book, its binding worn and slightly broken. I turn it over in my hands.

Stamped in fading gold letters is my mother’s name.

Natalie Wood Wagner.

I open the cover...

——

Today I’m launching After the Flower, a new Substack where I’ll be sharing personal essays on scent, memory, family, and the invisible things that shape us.

If you’d like to read the rest of Personal—and receive future essays in your inbox—I hope you’ll join me there.

Read the full essay on Substack → After the Flower (Link in Bio)

♥️ Natasha by @ngdubdubs

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3 months ago

“Hello darling, it’s Martino. Well, you’re never going to believe this, but the heater in my apartment just exploded. The whole place is a mess—it’s toxic and unlivable. Can you call RJ and see if I can move into Old Oak Road for a bit?”

This was the message I woke up to the morning after my former husband walked out on our three-and-a-half-year marriage.

I was still curled in the fetal position, my eyes swollen shut from crying. Yet I didn’t miss a beat. I called Daddy Wagner.

“Mart’s in trouble. He needs to move into Old Oak Road. Right now.”

That blistering summer of 2007, Mart and I became a pair. He held my hand and my heart while I grieved the loss of a marriage I had wanted so desperately to work. He made me laugh when I thought I never would again.

Most people know Mart Crowley as the playwright behind The Boys in the Band, the groundbreaking play that gave voice to a community whose stories were rarely told. I knew him as family. He was my godfather, one of my mother’s closest friends, and one of the people who helped raise me.

His friendship with both of my parents was cemented all those years ago. By the time I was born, Mart was a permanent fixture in our lives. He lived with us at various times, traveled with us often, and when my mother died, the only people whose grief looked familiar enough to my own were Mart and Daddy Wagner.

At Christmas in 1981 Mart and I took a walk through the snowy woods in Gstaad, Switzerland. He asked me question after question about how I was feeling, but all I could do was cry into his yellow cashmere scarf. Years later, he gave me that scarf, along with a note reminding me of our sad, silent walk (See the third slide 💛).

In honor of Pride Month, I’ve been thinking about the people who shaped me. Acceptance was never something I learned, it was something I lived. Mart and my other godfather, Howard, weren’t family friends. They were family.

They taught me that love isn’t defined by gender, convention, or category. It’s defined by devotion. By showing up. By staying.

And that’s why, for me, love has always been love. by @ngdubdubs

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4 months ago

Happy Fathers Day to our number one daddyio. We love you @realbarrywatson by @ngdubdubs

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4 months ago

I have a pair of rad dads.

When I was little, I thought that was the norm. After I started kindergarten, I would ask my mom why my friends didn't have two dads like me. With a twinkle in her brown eyes, she would answer, “I guess you're just luckier than most of your friends.” I really believed I was.

My mom called them Daddy Wagner and Daddy Gregson. All these years later, everyone in my life still refers to them that way.

After my mom died when I was eleven, my two dads had to step up in ways none of us could have imagined. Together, they made the decisions that would shape my life and future.

What I remember most is that they worked as a team.

Daddy Gregson was my strict dad, while Daddy Wagner was more of a softie. If I complained to Daddy Wagner, he would usually comfort me with a hug and remind me what a steadfast father Daddy Gregson was.

One of my clearest memories from that time is New Year's Eve in Wales shortly after my mom died. I can still picture them standing side by side singing "Auld Lang Syne." Their fear and worry for me etched on their faces. I pretended to be happy and strong because I wanted to make them feel better.

Recently, I've been reading through their correspondence, and what strikes me most is how generous and kind they were to each other while navigating such unknown territory. They chose cooperation over conflict. Grace over ego.

I celebrate Father's Day because I love my dads. But also because they taught me something important about fatherhood, family, and love itself: being a good parent isn't about biology or ownership. It's about showing up. It's about putting your child's needs ahead of your own pain and confusion. It's about choosing grace when life gives you every reason not to.

There are so many rad dads out there.

I was lucky enough to have two of them. by @ngdubdubs

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4 months ago

Happy Birthday to my dream girl. I love you the mostest.♥️ by @ngdubdubs

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5 months ago

Thank you to everyone who joined us for Conversation With The Curator at the @muckcc — a special one-night-only evening celebrating my mom’s life and legacy through some of her most iconic film costumes from the Warner Bros. archives.

We’re incredibly grateful to everyone who came out to honor her with us. The exhibition, More Than Love: The Life and Art of Natalie Wood, will be on view at the Muckenthaler Cultural Center in Orange County through August 21st.

My mom was not only an actress, but an artist and collector of memories — saving letters, writings, artwork, and deeply personal keepsakes throughout her life. Bringing this exhibition together over the past two years has been such a beautiful and emotional experience, and seeing it all come to life was truly unforgettable.

You'll see the green piano my mom learned to play on — the same piano I later learned on, and now my daughter Clover has learned on as well. Also featured is a music box my stepfather bought for her in England, a piece I’ve treasured for years.

I hope you get a chance to experience it and see her for more than who she was on screen — but for the artist, mother, collector, and deeply creative soul she truly was.

Photos captured by @hollywood.archivist & @historyundressed 🩷 taken in The Muckenthaler Cultural Center by @ngdubdubs

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5 months ago