If you've been wondering why I haven't written in so long (don't laugh, two readers did actually inquire), the simple truth is that I've been depressed. Depressed because the parties have been so bad.
First off was the Republican National Convention. I, for one, was completely looking forward to it. I assumed I would be rolling in jumbo shrimp, Dom PĂ©rignon, and free hookers. Well, the buffet tables were fine, I guess, but the heavy security and those pesky demonstrators really put a damper on things. (Speaking of demonstrators, my favorite observation came from The New York Times' "Metropolitan Diary" column, which I normally find too nerdy for words. Apparently one cop was overheard saying to another, "Why do these guys have to have their protest at the same time we've got this convention in town?")
Then along comes Fashion Week, which used to be a social highlight of the year. I'm sorry, but Fashion Week, at least as parties go, is now largely for losers. Here's why.
First of all, every event is filled with crashers and B-list fashion types. I used to be sympathetic to event planners and show producers having to deal with all the low-/no-lifes. But then I realized that they wouldn't keep showing up if they weren't getting in. The truth is that a lot of these fashion shows and
events are staged by people desperate for attention and don't care a fig who turns up. In the old days (like five years ago) the proof of a fashion company's legitimacy was the list of retailers who carried their wares. Now, designers offer lists of celebrities who've worn their clothes (often for money) as validation.
And the truth is, the serious fashion folk, the top editors, are to blame. Because they are desperate to seem cutting edge, they schlepp their luxury bags (bought at a discount) from one nonsensical performance to the next. My favorite was Miguel Adrover, who sold like three dresses a few seasons
ago. At his second show, to follow up on his "breakthrough" collection, he tried to send goats down the runway. Now I love a goat as much as the next guy, probably more, since I had a pet goat. (Alexander was supposed to be a miniature goat, but he turned out to be a baby goat who eventually turned into a billy goat and terrorized the neighborhood, but alas, there's no time for any of those stories here). But between the lights and music and the packed house...well, I could have told you goats can be skittish. Anyway, you never hear about Miguel Adrover anymore.
But the editors don't learn. They still keep showing up in their fall finery to be shoved and pushed and herded like, well, goats, to prove they are with it, as if they couldn't get a lookbook showing all the clothes delivered to their office on Monday. This year the editors were all wearing lace-up boots and tweed, despite the heat. And I love the way they kiss each other at every show, as if they didn't see each other 10 minutes ago. I don't blame Anna Wintour for getting bodyguards—anything to prevent all these people from kissing you.
And as if it's not ridiculous enough that 400 people turn out to see, say, Jeremy Scott's version of the emperor's new clothes (I don't think he has sold even three dresses yet), then there are the "style" companies who try to capitalize on Fashion Week with big blowouts.
This year's award for "Most Complete Lack of Fashion Week Style" has to go to the Coty people, who staged an anniversary gala at the Museum of Natural History.
Now I love the new planetarium, and will go to almost anything just to stand under that big blue orb. But 600 of the wrong people can spoil anything. I'm still not sure if Coty is the sponsor of Jennifer Lopez's clothing or fragrance line or both. Nobody I know wears much of the J. Lo product lines, so my information is sketchy. (On that note, nobody I know wears much of that Gwen Stefani line either, and I know more than a few drag queens.)
Anyway, I know how bitchy I sound, but you should have heard the beauty editors complaining that night (in my book, the beauty editors are way less dumb than fashion editors and way less willing to put up with complete nonsense). If I were the Coty C.E.O. I'd be furious at whoever convinced me to spend a fortune to show that my company was stylish when instead we proved the exact opposite, earning the enmity of the editors we were supposed to be courting along the way. At least before Coty was an anonymous corporation. Now it's a laughingstock.
The runner-up for "Most Complete Lack of Style" was the Ann Taylor/Vogue party to celebrate what I hear is Condé Nast's most profitable advertorial ever. This was held at the Chelsea Art Museum, which I thought was just a catering hall; I've only been there for parties but apparently it is a real museum. I learned this because the exhibit of completely commercial Annie Leibovitz photographs of models wearing Ann Taylor was hung amid some sort of architecture exhibit, which at least was pleasant to look at. To humanize this ridiculous effort, a handful of these awful pictures (by the way, don't blame Ann Taylor—their clothes looked fine, if simple) were lazily auctioned off to benefit the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation. At least that was the hope; when I was there, the silent bidding for several photographs stuck in one corner seemed awfully slow.
But just when I thought the party depression was here to stay, a few smaller evenings fell into my lap.
The New Yorkers for Children gala was a big success as usual, and credit must go to the Cipriani 42nd Street staff for an excellently run dinner. But the highlight for me was when the Parks Department decided that it just had to water the plants in front of the party at 7 PM, and a giant truck hosed down the entire sidewalk, including all the tuxedo-clad greeters. Fashion designer Douglas Hannant and socialite Debbie Bancroft had to dive back in their cars. People were screaming and running for cover.
Afterward I crashed PR pro Scott Currie's 40th birthday party at Doubles. Never crash a party. It is rude, and I immediately regretted doing so the minute I walked in, despite the fact that Scott, the event guy at the Susan Magrino Agency, was gracious.
I love Doubles. It's a private club, but if you know somebody it is not that difficult to host an event there. I'm sure they'll hate me for saying that. My friend Denise De Luca takes me there for foie gras at the bar, which is a nice way to kill an hour if you are in Midtown.
Speaking of Midtown and private clubs, I got to go to Frederick Lesort's new club Frederick's for the kickoff of the 2004 Princess Grace awards gala, which was hosted by the Monte Carlo jeweler Alberto Repossi, who is also sponsoring the gala. (Regular readers will know I often prefer a kickoff party to the actual benefit.) Frederick's brother Laurent Lesort greeted me in their new underground lair adjacent to the Paris
Theater.
My curiosity in the jewelry company (that's "Joaillier" to you) was piqued by reading in Vanity Fair about the controversial ring the company had created and sold to Dodi Fayed for Princess Diana of Wales. Some say it was an engagement ring, others insist it was only a "friendship" ring. Anyway, the ring is apparently now immortalized in a Harrod's vignette with a used red wine glass from their last Ritz evening. Now I like a vignette as much as the next guy, perhaps even more than I like a goat, so I was dying to learn more.
But everyone else (like Muffie Potter Aston and Court TV's Kimberly Newsom, who had good Laci Peterson trial dish) was there to talk about this upcoming gala and to gush over HSH Crown Prince Albert of Monaco, so nobody was filling me in on the vignette.
But I got to try the hors d'oeuvres—all good, fried, country club food. The bar stools are huge and unwieldy, but once you hoist yourself up, you definitely feel like it is going to take more than some reinsurance salesman to pitch you off. Wish I could have stayed longer.
But Cynthia and Dan Lufkin, along with Rachel and Ara Hovnanian, were hosting their own kickoff party at Swifty's for the Museum of the City of New York. This kickoff's novelty was that it was held the same night as the gala, and the Swifty's team gave new meaning to the term full-service when Cynthia's Gucci dress popped open (Gucci was the gala sponsor, she a cochair). They stapled her in good and off she went.
At the museum, despite the heat, a great party was underway. A giant urn of orchids in the foyer and a clear dance tent were provided by Gucci and people were really letting their hair down. Of course there was no air conditioning, but there never is at that museum so I went home sweaty, but happy.
Proper air-conditioning was provided at House & Garden's charity event at Sotheby's, so what was intended as a drive-by appearance became a full evening. (Disclosure: I went more for magazine friends than to raise a glass with former client Perrier Jouët, which sponsored the event.) With a limited ambition, it was a perfect evening.
The party was full, but not overcrowded. A staggered call time meant press could get their business done before a wider group converged. For those like me who are indifferent to champers, one colorful cocktail was offered. And all the designers were cheerily on hand to explain their wares (a nice antidote to so many of these silent auction things that are usually phoned in).
I am an experienced silent auction planner, attendee, and buyer, and this was the first time in my memory when I left the scene confident that one of the two leading bids my guest and I left on the boards (clipboards, that is) did not result in a either of us actually winning and buying anything. That means success to me.
Sometimes I feel like people don't even bother to look around at their surroundings at parties. I can understand it when the crowd is alive with energy and there are people you must see or speak to. Often such is the case at the Frick, which repeatedly lures the wealthy and well-known young women who buy (or sadly, borrow), wear, and get photographed in designer gowns. But at their recent Young Collector reception, the moist weather kept most of them at home it seemed, and the rest of the crowd seemed more intent on the free libations.
But the lackluster crowd at least helped me get lots of face time with Ralph Lauren style guru Charlie Fagan, whose company sponsored and designed the garden fete. At first glance, it was hard to see what they had done; the setting was traditional. The booming, urn-anchored arrangements by forever RL florist V.S.F. (that's Very Special Flowers in Greenwich Village) pleased all the stylish girls I know, though I prefer arrangements with fewer colors and genus varieties. But it was the little touches, pierced Irish (or in RL world, Irish-inspired) napkins and tablecloths (hung handkerchief-style over wood tables that looked like they could have use a wee bit more liquid protection), and dark velvet cushions on those standard gilded rental chairs that made the evening stand out.
Who knew that RL had a uniform division? They do, and the waiters from Swifty's looked splendid in the Nehru style. I started to custom order one, but a college friend remanded me, "Ted, they look great on models."
The God of Driving author, "Best Dressed List" position bestower, and Vanity Fair special contributing editor Amy Fine Collins was there, and therefore was barraged by unsatisfied party-people-picture-takers. But between the obligatory and oft-heard "Please, sir, could you step away," we had a nice long chat about her just-deceased friend and favorite fashion designer Geoffrey Beene, whose black jacket and dress with spiral-seamed, animal-print inserts she sported.
I tried to commiserate with her on the disappointing turnout. Ever gracious, she demurred, "Well, we're here, aren't we, so we'll just have to try that much harder."
Posted 10.06.04
Columnist Ted Kruckel is an experienced and opinionated former event and PR pro who ran events for 20 years for high-profile clients like Vanity Fair, Elle Decor, Christian Dior and Carolina Herrera. He shuttered his firm, Ted Inc., in 2003. You can email him at [email protected].
First off was the Republican National Convention. I, for one, was completely looking forward to it. I assumed I would be rolling in jumbo shrimp, Dom PĂ©rignon, and free hookers. Well, the buffet tables were fine, I guess, but the heavy security and those pesky demonstrators really put a damper on things. (Speaking of demonstrators, my favorite observation came from The New York Times' "Metropolitan Diary" column, which I normally find too nerdy for words. Apparently one cop was overheard saying to another, "Why do these guys have to have their protest at the same time we've got this convention in town?")
Then along comes Fashion Week, which used to be a social highlight of the year. I'm sorry, but Fashion Week, at least as parties go, is now largely for losers. Here's why.
First of all, every event is filled with crashers and B-list fashion types. I used to be sympathetic to event planners and show producers having to deal with all the low-/no-lifes. But then I realized that they wouldn't keep showing up if they weren't getting in. The truth is that a lot of these fashion shows and
events are staged by people desperate for attention and don't care a fig who turns up. In the old days (like five years ago) the proof of a fashion company's legitimacy was the list of retailers who carried their wares. Now, designers offer lists of celebrities who've worn their clothes (often for money) as validation.
And the truth is, the serious fashion folk, the top editors, are to blame. Because they are desperate to seem cutting edge, they schlepp their luxury bags (bought at a discount) from one nonsensical performance to the next. My favorite was Miguel Adrover, who sold like three dresses a few seasons
ago. At his second show, to follow up on his "breakthrough" collection, he tried to send goats down the runway. Now I love a goat as much as the next guy, probably more, since I had a pet goat. (Alexander was supposed to be a miniature goat, but he turned out to be a baby goat who eventually turned into a billy goat and terrorized the neighborhood, but alas, there's no time for any of those stories here). But between the lights and music and the packed house...well, I could have told you goats can be skittish. Anyway, you never hear about Miguel Adrover anymore.
But the editors don't learn. They still keep showing up in their fall finery to be shoved and pushed and herded like, well, goats, to prove they are with it, as if they couldn't get a lookbook showing all the clothes delivered to their office on Monday. This year the editors were all wearing lace-up boots and tweed, despite the heat. And I love the way they kiss each other at every show, as if they didn't see each other 10 minutes ago. I don't blame Anna Wintour for getting bodyguards—anything to prevent all these people from kissing you.
And as if it's not ridiculous enough that 400 people turn out to see, say, Jeremy Scott's version of the emperor's new clothes (I don't think he has sold even three dresses yet), then there are the "style" companies who try to capitalize on Fashion Week with big blowouts.
This year's award for "Most Complete Lack of Fashion Week Style" has to go to the Coty people, who staged an anniversary gala at the Museum of Natural History.
Now I love the new planetarium, and will go to almost anything just to stand under that big blue orb. But 600 of the wrong people can spoil anything. I'm still not sure if Coty is the sponsor of Jennifer Lopez's clothing or fragrance line or both. Nobody I know wears much of the J. Lo product lines, so my information is sketchy. (On that note, nobody I know wears much of that Gwen Stefani line either, and I know more than a few drag queens.)
Anyway, I know how bitchy I sound, but you should have heard the beauty editors complaining that night (in my book, the beauty editors are way less dumb than fashion editors and way less willing to put up with complete nonsense). If I were the Coty C.E.O. I'd be furious at whoever convinced me to spend a fortune to show that my company was stylish when instead we proved the exact opposite, earning the enmity of the editors we were supposed to be courting along the way. At least before Coty was an anonymous corporation. Now it's a laughingstock.
The runner-up for "Most Complete Lack of Style" was the Ann Taylor/Vogue party to celebrate what I hear is Condé Nast's most profitable advertorial ever. This was held at the Chelsea Art Museum, which I thought was just a catering hall; I've only been there for parties but apparently it is a real museum. I learned this because the exhibit of completely commercial Annie Leibovitz photographs of models wearing Ann Taylor was hung amid some sort of architecture exhibit, which at least was pleasant to look at. To humanize this ridiculous effort, a handful of these awful pictures (by the way, don't blame Ann Taylor—their clothes looked fine, if simple) were lazily auctioned off to benefit the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation. At least that was the hope; when I was there, the silent bidding for several photographs stuck in one corner seemed awfully slow.
But just when I thought the party depression was here to stay, a few smaller evenings fell into my lap.
The New Yorkers for Children gala was a big success as usual, and credit must go to the Cipriani 42nd Street staff for an excellently run dinner. But the highlight for me was when the Parks Department decided that it just had to water the plants in front of the party at 7 PM, and a giant truck hosed down the entire sidewalk, including all the tuxedo-clad greeters. Fashion designer Douglas Hannant and socialite Debbie Bancroft had to dive back in their cars. People were screaming and running for cover.
Afterward I crashed PR pro Scott Currie's 40th birthday party at Doubles. Never crash a party. It is rude, and I immediately regretted doing so the minute I walked in, despite the fact that Scott, the event guy at the Susan Magrino Agency, was gracious.
I love Doubles. It's a private club, but if you know somebody it is not that difficult to host an event there. I'm sure they'll hate me for saying that. My friend Denise De Luca takes me there for foie gras at the bar, which is a nice way to kill an hour if you are in Midtown.
Speaking of Midtown and private clubs, I got to go to Frederick Lesort's new club Frederick's for the kickoff of the 2004 Princess Grace awards gala, which was hosted by the Monte Carlo jeweler Alberto Repossi, who is also sponsoring the gala. (Regular readers will know I often prefer a kickoff party to the actual benefit.) Frederick's brother Laurent Lesort greeted me in their new underground lair adjacent to the Paris
Theater.
My curiosity in the jewelry company (that's "Joaillier" to you) was piqued by reading in Vanity Fair about the controversial ring the company had created and sold to Dodi Fayed for Princess Diana of Wales. Some say it was an engagement ring, others insist it was only a "friendship" ring. Anyway, the ring is apparently now immortalized in a Harrod's vignette with a used red wine glass from their last Ritz evening. Now I like a vignette as much as the next guy, perhaps even more than I like a goat, so I was dying to learn more.
But everyone else (like Muffie Potter Aston and Court TV's Kimberly Newsom, who had good Laci Peterson trial dish) was there to talk about this upcoming gala and to gush over HSH Crown Prince Albert of Monaco, so nobody was filling me in on the vignette.
But I got to try the hors d'oeuvres—all good, fried, country club food. The bar stools are huge and unwieldy, but once you hoist yourself up, you definitely feel like it is going to take more than some reinsurance salesman to pitch you off. Wish I could have stayed longer.
But Cynthia and Dan Lufkin, along with Rachel and Ara Hovnanian, were hosting their own kickoff party at Swifty's for the Museum of the City of New York. This kickoff's novelty was that it was held the same night as the gala, and the Swifty's team gave new meaning to the term full-service when Cynthia's Gucci dress popped open (Gucci was the gala sponsor, she a cochair). They stapled her in good and off she went.
At the museum, despite the heat, a great party was underway. A giant urn of orchids in the foyer and a clear dance tent were provided by Gucci and people were really letting their hair down. Of course there was no air conditioning, but there never is at that museum so I went home sweaty, but happy.
Proper air-conditioning was provided at House & Garden's charity event at Sotheby's, so what was intended as a drive-by appearance became a full evening. (Disclosure: I went more for magazine friends than to raise a glass with former client Perrier Jouët, which sponsored the event.) With a limited ambition, it was a perfect evening.
The party was full, but not overcrowded. A staggered call time meant press could get their business done before a wider group converged. For those like me who are indifferent to champers, one colorful cocktail was offered. And all the designers were cheerily on hand to explain their wares (a nice antidote to so many of these silent auction things that are usually phoned in).
I am an experienced silent auction planner, attendee, and buyer, and this was the first time in my memory when I left the scene confident that one of the two leading bids my guest and I left on the boards (clipboards, that is) did not result in a either of us actually winning and buying anything. That means success to me.
Sometimes I feel like people don't even bother to look around at their surroundings at parties. I can understand it when the crowd is alive with energy and there are people you must see or speak to. Often such is the case at the Frick, which repeatedly lures the wealthy and well-known young women who buy (or sadly, borrow), wear, and get photographed in designer gowns. But at their recent Young Collector reception, the moist weather kept most of them at home it seemed, and the rest of the crowd seemed more intent on the free libations.
But the lackluster crowd at least helped me get lots of face time with Ralph Lauren style guru Charlie Fagan, whose company sponsored and designed the garden fete. At first glance, it was hard to see what they had done; the setting was traditional. The booming, urn-anchored arrangements by forever RL florist V.S.F. (that's Very Special Flowers in Greenwich Village) pleased all the stylish girls I know, though I prefer arrangements with fewer colors and genus varieties. But it was the little touches, pierced Irish (or in RL world, Irish-inspired) napkins and tablecloths (hung handkerchief-style over wood tables that looked like they could have use a wee bit more liquid protection), and dark velvet cushions on those standard gilded rental chairs that made the evening stand out.
Who knew that RL had a uniform division? They do, and the waiters from Swifty's looked splendid in the Nehru style. I started to custom order one, but a college friend remanded me, "Ted, they look great on models."
The God of Driving author, "Best Dressed List" position bestower, and Vanity Fair special contributing editor Amy Fine Collins was there, and therefore was barraged by unsatisfied party-people-picture-takers. But between the obligatory and oft-heard "Please, sir, could you step away," we had a nice long chat about her just-deceased friend and favorite fashion designer Geoffrey Beene, whose black jacket and dress with spiral-seamed, animal-print inserts she sported.
I tried to commiserate with her on the disappointing turnout. Ever gracious, she demurred, "Well, we're here, aren't we, so we'll just have to try that much harder."
Posted 10.06.04
Columnist Ted Kruckel is an experienced and opinionated former event and PR pro who ran events for 20 years for high-profile clients like Vanity Fair, Elle Decor, Christian Dior and Carolina Herrera. He shuttered his firm, Ted Inc., in 2003. You can email him at [email protected].
