I was surprised to read about the untimely death of party decorator Philip Baloun, whom I knew and liked and respected. He was as uptown as you can get. Lincoln Center was about the farthest west and downtown that he would go.
He was the first to enact one of those dinners on the stage at the Metropolitan Opera, which is actually much harder than you might think. The floor is not really a floor at all but a million removable pieces, the union complains like hell, the lights are too hot, there are no bathrooms, it is dusty and smelly, things are constantly falling from overhead, many opera fans think it is sacrilege and park themselves in seats to monitor the work being done ... you get the picture.
The New York Times obit made note that Philip’s career really kicked into high gear with the advent of tents on the New York party scene. I’m old enough to remember this transition. Believe it or not, there didn’t used to be tents. No press tents, no hospitality tents, nothing. No canopies, either. They hadn’t been invented yet. If you wanted to go to a party, you either went into a building or you rolled your dice with the weather. The invention of the tent meant you could have a party anywhere. What made Philip unique was that his tents were tarted up in such a way that you never knew you were in a tent. His tents had rugs and chandeliers and upholstered furniture, even ottomans.
For Mr. Baloun, there was no French campaign folding stuff. (Which I love, by the way— why can’t more party planners do as the French do and use only collapsible furniture with muslin? It’s so much chicer than these wood chairs with the plastic seats we sit on all the time.) His design motto was “More is more, then wrap a little baby’s breath around the candlesticks.”
I worked with him on one of these extravaganzas and got a real sense of him. We were coproducing an event for the Paris Opera Ballet, or the Ballet Royal—who can be sure? They were French and they danced and then dinner was on that floor with the light fixtures that look like jewelry in the New York State Theater.
Philip disliked every idea I came up with, but he was not confrontational. I’d show him a perfect linen napkin that was just a touch rough, he’d say “perfect,” then go tell the caterer he wanted flat pierced linen. This was also before the phrase passive aggressive was invented.
But he liked me well enough, called me Mr. Ted, and he made me the tour director. Instead of deciding or managing anything, I showed people around. Vendors, sponsors, socialites, whoever dropped by, Mr. Baloun would say, “Mr. Ted will explain it all to you; he has all the details I simply cannot recall.”
Our tastes were opposite. He liked tall center-pieces, multitype floral explosions, pale colors, and bright lights. I preferred the work of Robert Isabell, which was almost completely the opposite—moody lighting, flowers of all one type.
Philip will, of course, be remembered best for staging the 50th birthday party that Gayfryd Steinberg threw for her husband, Saul, at their house in Quogue. Like all robber barons, Mr. Steinberg had acquired an intimidating collection of paintings (such a nouveau tell—why can’t just one of them be clever and collect maps or books?), in this case Old World Masters— Rembrandt, Millet, Rubens, David, stuff like that.
As a homage to Saul (and to remind guests of their holdings, one assumes), Philip created a tableaux vivantes for each work. Each tableaux housed furniture, jewels, models (clothed and not), just as they appeared in the actual paintings. But apparently things got a little loopy, and one of the guests attempted to jump the frame and have his way with one of the lesser-clad painting subjects.
To my knowledge, press photos were not allowed at this event. In any case, I’ve never seen any, but boy, would I like to. Tableaux vivantes are my favorite party idea. I used to pitch them all the time. The concept (as I understand it) dates back to Manhattan’s golden era, the time of Cornelius Vanderbilt (who, it was written just the other day, died of syphilis—who knew?) and John Pierpont Morgan. Then, like now, an antique show for charity marked the beginning of the spring social season, and the debutantes and dowagers would trounce around the old sideboards and tapestries and come up with a vignette of pieces. On opening night, the socialites themselves would swan about their little tableaux, also called suites, and then the gentlemen would bid on the suites in their entirety. This is where the phrase suite of furniture comes from. It was sort of a competition among the ladies whose tableaux would yield the most for charity.
You can learn more about the ins and outs of the fascinating social ritual of tableaux vivantes in Edith Wharton’s House of Mirth, wherein Lily Bart stars in one of these tableaux and gets the rich bid, but screws things up and dies penniless, which is how Gayfryd Steinberg’s trending. Which reminds me of an encounter I had with Gayfryd at the PEN literary dinner. (This is a truly noble cause that is misunderstood; people assume it is just famous authors patting themselves on the back, but in fact they work to secure freedom for writers who are imprisoned, tortured, and killed for putting their thoughts on paper in areas of the world less fortunate than ours—like, say, Guantanamo.)
I told Gayfryd that I had read about her party. She stiffened immediately—not all of the write-ups had been kind—but relaxed a little bit when I told her I was impressed by her reviving an old tradition. Somewhere in there I mentioned Edith Wharton, as this was a literary event and such things inevitably force you to act as if you read all the time, but Gayfryd’s face scowled again.
“I did not steal the idea from an Edith Wharton. Ask Philip Baloun. He’ll tell you.”
Sorry to say I never got around to it.
For Mr. Baloun, there was no French campaign folding stuff. (Which I love, by the way— why can’t more party planners do as the French do and use only collapsible furniture with muslin? It’s so much chicer than these wood chairs with the plastic seats we sit on all the time.) His design motto was “More is more, then wrap a little baby’s breath around the candlesticks.”
I worked with him on one of these extravaganzas and got a real sense of him. We were coproducing an event for the Paris Opera Ballet, or the Ballet Royal—who can be sure? They were French and they danced and then dinner was on that floor with the light fixtures that look like jewelry in the New York State Theater.
Philip disliked every idea I came up with, but he was not confrontational. I’d show him a perfect linen napkin that was just a touch rough, he’d say “perfect,” then go tell the caterer he wanted flat pierced linen. This was also before the phrase passive aggressive was invented.
But he liked me well enough, called me Mr. Ted, and he made me the tour director. Instead of deciding or managing anything, I showed people around. Vendors, sponsors, socialites, whoever dropped by, Mr. Baloun would say, “Mr. Ted will explain it all to you; he has all the details I simply cannot recall.”
Our tastes were opposite. He liked tall center-pieces, multitype floral explosions, pale colors, and bright lights. I preferred the work of Robert Isabell, which was almost completely the opposite—moody lighting, flowers of all one type.
Philip will, of course, be remembered best for staging the 50th birthday party that Gayfryd Steinberg threw for her husband, Saul, at their house in Quogue. Like all robber barons, Mr. Steinberg had acquired an intimidating collection of paintings (such a nouveau tell—why can’t just one of them be clever and collect maps or books?), in this case Old World Masters— Rembrandt, Millet, Rubens, David, stuff like that.
As a homage to Saul (and to remind guests of their holdings, one assumes), Philip created a tableaux vivantes for each work. Each tableaux housed furniture, jewels, models (clothed and not), just as they appeared in the actual paintings. But apparently things got a little loopy, and one of the guests attempted to jump the frame and have his way with one of the lesser-clad painting subjects.
To my knowledge, press photos were not allowed at this event. In any case, I’ve never seen any, but boy, would I like to. Tableaux vivantes are my favorite party idea. I used to pitch them all the time. The concept (as I understand it) dates back to Manhattan’s golden era, the time of Cornelius Vanderbilt (who, it was written just the other day, died of syphilis—who knew?) and John Pierpont Morgan. Then, like now, an antique show for charity marked the beginning of the spring social season, and the debutantes and dowagers would trounce around the old sideboards and tapestries and come up with a vignette of pieces. On opening night, the socialites themselves would swan about their little tableaux, also called suites, and then the gentlemen would bid on the suites in their entirety. This is where the phrase suite of furniture comes from. It was sort of a competition among the ladies whose tableaux would yield the most for charity.
You can learn more about the ins and outs of the fascinating social ritual of tableaux vivantes in Edith Wharton’s House of Mirth, wherein Lily Bart stars in one of these tableaux and gets the rich bid, but screws things up and dies penniless, which is how Gayfryd Steinberg’s trending. Which reminds me of an encounter I had with Gayfryd at the PEN literary dinner. (This is a truly noble cause that is misunderstood; people assume it is just famous authors patting themselves on the back, but in fact they work to secure freedom for writers who are imprisoned, tortured, and killed for putting their thoughts on paper in areas of the world less fortunate than ours—like, say, Guantanamo.)
I told Gayfryd that I had read about her party. She stiffened immediately—not all of the write-ups had been kind—but relaxed a little bit when I told her I was impressed by her reviving an old tradition. Somewhere in there I mentioned Edith Wharton, as this was a literary event and such things inevitably force you to act as if you read all the time, but Gayfryd’s face scowled again.
“I did not steal the idea from an Edith Wharton. Ask Philip Baloun. He’ll tell you.”
Sorry to say I never got around to it.
