The Whitney Museum's ArtParty had one genius element: tons of sequins on the rug.
Gourmet editor Ruth Reichl once famously wrote two reviews in The New York Times for Le Cirque, one that recounted the shabby indifference she had been treated with when she arrived as one of her disguised characters, Molly Hollis, with a lady friend, and another that recounted the fatuous and fabulous service accorded her when dining “out-cognito” with the paper’s executive editor.
“The king of Spain is waiting in the bar, but your table is ready,” Sirio Maccioni said as he greeted her.
Liz Smith, apparently determined never to pay for lunch in this town again, has written about a week’s worth of columns announcing that Sirio’s circus is coming back into town, with an opening night gala this Thursday no less.Everyone, including me, loves Mr. Maccioni and his wife, Egidiana, and his talent for recognizing and remembering people, even me, is prodigious. But that’s why wild horses couldn’t drag me to his opening. Picture Ruth Reichl being treated like the Queen of Sheba at her table, and the King of Spain waiting at the bar. Multiply that times 200 other very important people who all think Sirio is one of their best friends, which in his case may actually be true. (I know a number of people who invite him to their family events and weddings.) All I envision is ending up like Molly Hollis, alone in a dark corner nursing an expensive glass of mineral water.
So much of an experience is what you bring to it. And who.
I was reminded of this by the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s annual Costume Institute gala (no, Sarah Jessica Parker, it is not a costume party, no matter what anyone told you), which was once one of those nights where you felt like a prince of New York, but now, thanks to Anna Wintour’s commercialization/ celebrification, seems like just another evening where regular people are expected to foot the bill so Hollywood actors can get press and free clothes.
I often ask people to attend events with me, ostensibly for the company, but more so for an unjaded point of view.
That was at least my intention in inviting my childhood friend Maura to join me at the Whitney Museum’s ArtParty, held May 11.
Maura grew up in the same New Jersey suburb as me; we shared a playpen I’m told. Fancy schooling and marriage landed her on Park Avenue, and, doing her part, she arrived for dinner at JoJo with an elaborate purple skirt that had tiers.
JoJo is Jean Georges Vongerichten’s Upper East Side townhouse that periodically updates itself while remaining true to its original premise, which as best I can tell is: “keep it dark and slow.” I hadn’t been in many years.
The nature of the restaurant is dictated, I think, by the architecture, the long narrow stairs that staffers must repeatedly climb for every drink—no wonder it takes 20 minutes after being seated to get a drink. But at least it is better than waiting at the bar/vestibule area (I’m guessing it’s 30 square feet, picture it) where there are two stools. My breakfast table is roomier.
So I dance around the two doctors and their wives waiting to be seated, as there is no unobtrusive place to stand, which they sense too, but ignore. I’m reminded of chemistry class where they teach you how the atoms (or is it molecules?) bounce against each other again and again, never at rest, even in a vacuum. I asked what happens when they are backed up, have too many walk-ins, etc., but no one seemed to want to really ’splain it to me.
Experience has taught me that the preferred seats are in the downstairs room (that’s where my client Iman always sat), but I’m always seated in the first room upstairs, which I suspect is the lesser of the three.
The food was superb, but by that time, I’m wondering, why do people submit themselves to this?
Is it just me or is this a series of dimly lit humiliations?
Stumbling down the stairs so that I can be on time at the Whitney, the maitre’d makes room for us knowingly and hopes we had a good time. I can’t imagine coming back, but then, I’ve been here a number of times before—did I forget this routine? I nod while watching the stairs. Of course I’ll be back.
Off we go to the Whitney Museum.
Only it turns out I have screwed up. The elevated breezeway is dark. There’s not even a janitor in sight. Just for the record, there is no doorbell at the Whitney Museum.
Turns out the party is being held eight feet from my house, but miles from here, at Skylight.
Normally I would have gone home, but my guest seemed game, so a quick cab ride later we pull up to a sidewalk full of motley smokers.
It is drizzling out, but the organizers have chosen, I guess, not to share their roomy canopy. Despite the rain and the late hour, they are at least consistent telling me that I, too, must walk around, as their temporary shelter is for the press check in.
Well I try briefly to explain that I am a member of the press, but that I am a paying guest tonight, blah, blah, blah, and I’m told that if I’m not on the press list I need to walk around. Then the three girls go back to their conversation, no clamoring press surging to get in at the moment apparently.
At the official check in we are at least welcomed, and finally admitted to, ArtParty!
Obviously, ticket sales have been a hit. There must be a thousand people here, raucous people, young people, all sorts of people.
This is one of those younger committee events, so I’m comforted to see the same 50-year-old men I see at all events like this. But this event has yielded a mixed bag. There’s Eva Mendes, striking in a red dress that reminds me of one Goldie Hawn might have worn in The Duchess and the Dirtwater Fox, where she played a hooker with a heart of gold in the Wild, Wild West. Ms. Mendes’ outfit is one where you can see the bra, straps, and all the hardware, as clearly as you like, but it must be said that despite old lady hair, she seems like a terrific gal, high spirited and uncossetted.
Drinks are easily gotten, a rarity at this kind of shindig. I didn’t see, therefore taste, any food, but who cares at an event like this, where the booze is flowing. Even the lack of air conditioning doesn’t bother me.
Oh, and the party has one genius element, which is sequins on the rug, tons of sequins, making it fun to swish from area to area.
Because this is ArtParty, there are art people too, I notice.
“Piss Christ” artist (and surprisingly nice guy) Andres Serrano is seated on a sofa of sorts, gallerist Gracie Mansion seems enthralled by two gentlemen in the corner and ArtTeam Sandy Brandt and Ingrid Sischy are bravely pressing the flesh in the hallway.
This panoply of talent reminds me that I am here to work, and learning that the silent auction is on for 15 more minutes, I endeavor to banish my philistinism by taking in some ArtParty art.
An official looking girl on a perch explains that there are no more programs, she understandably needs hers, and helpfully explains, “All you have to do is write down your name.” Apparently, knowing the name or the art and artist is not a prerequisite here at ArtParty.
We peruse a row of black and white photographs that look like they were taken from Details. Mixed in is a men’s suit where the pinstriping is barbed wire.
“Oh that is clever,” I say, “But if I were to buy that I’d want to wear it.” So I start asking around, and find that I am not looking at the auction, but rather at sponsor Calvin Klein’s display.
Finally we make it to the closing auction, where it seems nary an ArtSale has taken place, item after item has no bidders on them, there is no auction staff to answer questions, and drinkers are rubbing up against the walls and frames like there is no tomorrow.
I mean the whole thing is really a big mess, but a fun mess.
After being “gifted” with our Summer edition of Eternity fragrance by Calvin Klein, thoughtfully divided by the sexes, I wonder whether Chanel No. 5 has a Spring Fling version I just missed.
I turn to Maura, embarrassed by the evening I’d planned, lifting my cheek for a kiss off with the “I’ll call you,” but she is smiling. She wants a nightcap! Is she enjoying herself?
We stumble in the rain across the street to Cody’s, a true dive I have escaped to during other Skylight soirees. The king of Spain is not waiting at the bar, so the service is impeccable.
Posted 05.17.06
Photos: Billy Farrell/Patrick McMullan
“The king of Spain is waiting in the bar, but your table is ready,” Sirio Maccioni said as he greeted her.
Liz Smith, apparently determined never to pay for lunch in this town again, has written about a week’s worth of columns announcing that Sirio’s circus is coming back into town, with an opening night gala this Thursday no less.Everyone, including me, loves Mr. Maccioni and his wife, Egidiana, and his talent for recognizing and remembering people, even me, is prodigious. But that’s why wild horses couldn’t drag me to his opening. Picture Ruth Reichl being treated like the Queen of Sheba at her table, and the King of Spain waiting at the bar. Multiply that times 200 other very important people who all think Sirio is one of their best friends, which in his case may actually be true. (I know a number of people who invite him to their family events and weddings.) All I envision is ending up like Molly Hollis, alone in a dark corner nursing an expensive glass of mineral water.
So much of an experience is what you bring to it. And who.
I was reminded of this by the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s annual Costume Institute gala (no, Sarah Jessica Parker, it is not a costume party, no matter what anyone told you), which was once one of those nights where you felt like a prince of New York, but now, thanks to Anna Wintour’s commercialization/ celebrification, seems like just another evening where regular people are expected to foot the bill so Hollywood actors can get press and free clothes.
I often ask people to attend events with me, ostensibly for the company, but more so for an unjaded point of view.
That was at least my intention in inviting my childhood friend Maura to join me at the Whitney Museum’s ArtParty, held May 11.
Maura grew up in the same New Jersey suburb as me; we shared a playpen I’m told. Fancy schooling and marriage landed her on Park Avenue, and, doing her part, she arrived for dinner at JoJo with an elaborate purple skirt that had tiers.
JoJo is Jean Georges Vongerichten’s Upper East Side townhouse that periodically updates itself while remaining true to its original premise, which as best I can tell is: “keep it dark and slow.” I hadn’t been in many years.
The nature of the restaurant is dictated, I think, by the architecture, the long narrow stairs that staffers must repeatedly climb for every drink—no wonder it takes 20 minutes after being seated to get a drink. But at least it is better than waiting at the bar/vestibule area (I’m guessing it’s 30 square feet, picture it) where there are two stools. My breakfast table is roomier.
So I dance around the two doctors and their wives waiting to be seated, as there is no unobtrusive place to stand, which they sense too, but ignore. I’m reminded of chemistry class where they teach you how the atoms (or is it molecules?) bounce against each other again and again, never at rest, even in a vacuum. I asked what happens when they are backed up, have too many walk-ins, etc., but no one seemed to want to really ’splain it to me.
Experience has taught me that the preferred seats are in the downstairs room (that’s where my client Iman always sat), but I’m always seated in the first room upstairs, which I suspect is the lesser of the three.
The food was superb, but by that time, I’m wondering, why do people submit themselves to this?
Is it just me or is this a series of dimly lit humiliations?
Stumbling down the stairs so that I can be on time at the Whitney, the maitre’d makes room for us knowingly and hopes we had a good time. I can’t imagine coming back, but then, I’ve been here a number of times before—did I forget this routine? I nod while watching the stairs. Of course I’ll be back.
Off we go to the Whitney Museum.
Only it turns out I have screwed up. The elevated breezeway is dark. There’s not even a janitor in sight. Just for the record, there is no doorbell at the Whitney Museum.
Turns out the party is being held eight feet from my house, but miles from here, at Skylight.
Normally I would have gone home, but my guest seemed game, so a quick cab ride later we pull up to a sidewalk full of motley smokers.
It is drizzling out, but the organizers have chosen, I guess, not to share their roomy canopy. Despite the rain and the late hour, they are at least consistent telling me that I, too, must walk around, as their temporary shelter is for the press check in.
Well I try briefly to explain that I am a member of the press, but that I am a paying guest tonight, blah, blah, blah, and I’m told that if I’m not on the press list I need to walk around. Then the three girls go back to their conversation, no clamoring press surging to get in at the moment apparently.
At the official check in we are at least welcomed, and finally admitted to, ArtParty!
Obviously, ticket sales have been a hit. There must be a thousand people here, raucous people, young people, all sorts of people.
This is one of those younger committee events, so I’m comforted to see the same 50-year-old men I see at all events like this. But this event has yielded a mixed bag. There’s Eva Mendes, striking in a red dress that reminds me of one Goldie Hawn might have worn in The Duchess and the Dirtwater Fox, where she played a hooker with a heart of gold in the Wild, Wild West. Ms. Mendes’ outfit is one where you can see the bra, straps, and all the hardware, as clearly as you like, but it must be said that despite old lady hair, she seems like a terrific gal, high spirited and uncossetted.
Drinks are easily gotten, a rarity at this kind of shindig. I didn’t see, therefore taste, any food, but who cares at an event like this, where the booze is flowing. Even the lack of air conditioning doesn’t bother me.
Oh, and the party has one genius element, which is sequins on the rug, tons of sequins, making it fun to swish from area to area.
Because this is ArtParty, there are art people too, I notice.
“Piss Christ” artist (and surprisingly nice guy) Andres Serrano is seated on a sofa of sorts, gallerist Gracie Mansion seems enthralled by two gentlemen in the corner and ArtTeam Sandy Brandt and Ingrid Sischy are bravely pressing the flesh in the hallway.
This panoply of talent reminds me that I am here to work, and learning that the silent auction is on for 15 more minutes, I endeavor to banish my philistinism by taking in some ArtParty art.
An official looking girl on a perch explains that there are no more programs, she understandably needs hers, and helpfully explains, “All you have to do is write down your name.” Apparently, knowing the name or the art and artist is not a prerequisite here at ArtParty.
We peruse a row of black and white photographs that look like they were taken from Details. Mixed in is a men’s suit where the pinstriping is barbed wire.
“Oh that is clever,” I say, “But if I were to buy that I’d want to wear it.” So I start asking around, and find that I am not looking at the auction, but rather at sponsor Calvin Klein’s display.
Finally we make it to the closing auction, where it seems nary an ArtSale has taken place, item after item has no bidders on them, there is no auction staff to answer questions, and drinkers are rubbing up against the walls and frames like there is no tomorrow.
I mean the whole thing is really a big mess, but a fun mess.
After being “gifted” with our Summer edition of Eternity fragrance by Calvin Klein, thoughtfully divided by the sexes, I wonder whether Chanel No. 5 has a Spring Fling version I just missed.
I turn to Maura, embarrassed by the evening I’d planned, lifting my cheek for a kiss off with the “I’ll call you,” but she is smiling. She wants a nightcap! Is she enjoying herself?
We stumble in the rain across the street to Cody’s, a true dive I have escaped to during other Skylight soirees. The king of Spain is not waiting at the bar, so the service is impeccable.
Posted 05.17.06
Photos: Billy Farrell/Patrick McMullan
