My prized photo of a smiling Gore Vidal, which aren’t common, basking in the glory of the Bosphorus in Istanbul in 2010.
When I first met Gore Vidal on the Bosphorus in Istanbul in 2010, where he was appearing on a literary arts panel with a celebrated Turkish journalist, who was female and, thus, completely terrified of him, he was an elderly lion. Weathered, worn down, but still contentious and still ready to roar. Like any self-respecting American who considers himself even the slightest but literarily inclined, I was already a fan of Vidal’s work. I had read stories like 1948’s “The City and the Pillar,” which was a scandal in its day because of its thinly veiled homosexual undertones, and 1968’s “Myra,” about a man who has a sex change. I was too young to have seen him guest host for Johnny Carson on The Tonight Show, run for political office (which he did twice), spar with Norman Mailer on the Dick Cavett show, or see the debuts of his plays on Broadway. (A revival of his play “The Best Man” is currently on Broadway, starring Cybil Sheppard.) But I didn’t miss his appearances as voices on both ‘The Simpsons’ and ‘The Family Guy.’
I’m with my family in Missouri at the moment, and when mother told me about Vidal’s death when I woke up this morning the first thing I thought about was the adventure to Istanbul. Bound to a wheelchair and attended by a longhaired Adonis male nurse who, at one point, jumped into the Bosphorus in nothing but his underwear and waist-length curls, Vidal was in fighting form. I can remember him referring to our home country as “The United States of Amnesia,” and taking no prisoners when it came to idle conversation. To ask him a question, be it about the fall of Rome or his love for the Italian Riviera, was to possibly incite a fiery discourse on a wide variety of topics, from politics to Hollywood to family dynasties. What I remember most, however, was the twinkle in his eye and the slight smile that would gather in the corner of his mouth when he knew he had just said something particularly provoking. Or ridiculous.
It took some digging today, but I found my notes from that meeting, and what he said then is still as accurate and, probably because of its accuracy, provocative as it ever was. Behold, the highlights:
On Obama’s election: “He has my good wishes, even my love. And I feel for him. I recommend he reread his Aristotle, but as a warning: He was not very optimistic.
On Obama’s shortcomings: “He’s too intelligent for a dumb country like this one. I think Obama is appalled by Obama.”
On Jackie Kennedy: “Jackie had a great comic sense. And being the First Lady of America kept her laughing all the time.”
On Jackie becoming an American icon: “I was the first famous person in the family. And I think Jackie appreciated that.”
On John F. Kennedy: “JFK wanted adventure, wanted to be on a boat, collecting girls all day long. Everyone needs a hobby.”
On Norman Mailer: “Annoyance was one of his charms. He lived publicity. He thought his name in the paper was the best thing in the world. I regarded publicity as an annoyance. He never changed, which is not a compliment. But it’s a testament to his character.”
On being labeled various things by the American press throughout the years: “The media doesn’t portray me accurately at all. If it’s difficult to deal with me, then you don’t have to deal with me.”
On the future of America: “When things get as bad as things in our republic have got, you can’t get it back.”
On his contribution to American politics: “I’ve given a lot of serious thought to a country that didn’t deserve it.”
On Woodrow Wilson: “Woodrow Wilson was a fool.”
On the finances of modern governments: “When people start talking about democracy, look for your wallet.”
On his contributions: “I don’t have ideas. I have commentaries.”
On fellow writers: “Most writers are idiots. They want to tell the truth because they’ll never know it. They are infantile.”
On new works: “A new book? No one reads the old ones, so why would I write a new one for no one else to read?”
On the film Caligula: “I’ve never seen Caligula, but I’m told its one of the worst films ever made.”
On wealth: “Money is a tomb.”
Gore Vidal was brilliant, mean and amazing. One late night in Istanbul, after a fancy dinner, we all ended up back the hotel where many of us were staying, winding up in a room and all sharing (probably too many) drinks. It was fantastic that Gore Vidal was there, propped up on a corner, dropping observant yet crude remarks and setting off on an occasional well spoken tangent. It was hazy and it was hilarious. At one point, he asked my friend Leigh if she were a lesbian, offering a few colorful remarks about girl-on-girl alternative lifestyles. He was provoking us, as he had provoked generations. After he said it, that little grin, the grin of a man who is supremely confident and supremely smart, showed up on his face. Which is I’m sure the same grin on his face now, wherever he has ended up in his afterlife.
To read more on the life and death of Gore Vidal, check out the obituaries in The New York Times and The Washington Post.
Leigh Lezark is a woman of many hats. (I mean that literally and figuratively because, well, she looks good in a hat.) With the Misshapes she’s one-third of the DJ; with Chanel she is a brand ambassador; and, as I learned just last week, with home videos she is a visionary director. Watch the VIDEOS she made for my birthday party here. Well, the loveliest Leigh I know celebrated her birthday on Thursday night with dinner at the Standard Hotel and then a dance party on its roof. It was fun. Perhaps too much fun, in fact.
Scott Meriam made novelty Leigh masks…
…which provided all sorts of amusement, as seen here with Dani and Lyle
Costello Tagliapietra’s Robert and Jeffrey
Me and Karlie at dinner
Leigh with fellow birthday boy Dorian Grinspan (welcome to your 20′s, buddy) on the roof
Ladies and gentlemen and ladies who used to be gentlemen: The amazing Sophia Lamar
Jordan, Olivier, Leigh and me outside the Standard
It’s like I wrote in my books Classy and Very Classy: If you’re ever stumped on what to give someone as a present, give them a picture of themselves. A nice framed picture of a group of friends is the perfect birthday or hostess gift. (NOTE: Just make sure it’s a nice picture, though. Not a driver’s license photo or anything too embarrassing. And nothing to narcissistic, OK?) Well, when it came to my birthday party in St. Louis, MO, earlier this year, my St. Louis sister Karlie raised the bar on the novelty portrait present. She took these fabulous Polaroids, and gave them to me at the end of the weekend.
Me and my Mom at the barn dance; Harry, Poppy, Giovanna and Karlie
Barbara and Nate; Karlie and Lyle
Giovanna, working her Dolce & Gabbana prints on the dance floor; My aunt Mary, who’s baton twirling routine was a personal highlight, getting my fringe into a tizzy. (Click here if you haven’t seen Mary’s dance. You won’t regret it.)
Nate planting a kiss on Cory while his wife, Bekah, looks on with Trish; Lauren, Robert, me and Dasha
Me and Poppy; Karlie and those wild and crazy Brant Boys
Poppy, Petey and Jessica; The boys on the bus ride home: Geordon, me, Lyle, Dan and Ben
Gio using a Budweiser flag as a blanket (very appropriate); Cory, Nate, me and Karlie dancing on a hay bale (also very appropriate)
Taylor making sure there are no sleeping children on the school bus; The Blasberg family
Evan Yurman, one of my very first friends when I moved to New York (we met when I was a freshman) and his wife Ku-Ling with Petey; The St. Louis Trinity: Karlie, me and RJ
The one and only Monster; Barbara, Nate and me in the haystacks
My Dad and his sister, Mary; Poppy and Karlie
Me and Dasha on the dance floor; the marvelous Misshapes Geordon and Leigh, who DJ’ed the barn dance wearing the best costumes of the night, courtesy of Jeremy Scott
The best pizza in the entire world: Imo’s; me with Lauren Sharp, one of my oldest and best friends from home, who played the unofficial (and underpaid) party planner for the weekend
Back on the bus: Lyle, Barbara and Taylor; Rachel, stripping down to the basics
Jessica in the novelty T-shirts my mother had made up, made even more novel by the unintentional Hitler mustache; Karlie, Eugenie and Harry on the dance floor
My friend Kristina and her daughter Stella; Petey and Karlie
That Budweiser flag, which we bought at a Value Village the day of the party, sure came in handy. It was a blanket, a rally towel, even a cape; Cory, Bekah, Karlie, RJ and Barbara
The view from the CFDA’s box at the Mets game, left; some delicious Chelsea sugar cookies at the football (sorry, I mean soccer) match at Yankee stadium, right
Maybe it has something to do with the uniforms, because who doesn’t love a man in uniform? Or maybe it has something to do with my renewed interest in physical activity, and how I joined the V magazine soccer team this summer. (Don’t laugh. I played in high school. I’m actually pretty good with a ball.) Whatever, for some reason, I’ve been feeling particularly sporty lately, even in my social life. Already this week I participating in two huge displays of organized athletic competition: the Chelsea football match (yes, I said football and not soccer, shut up) at the new Yankee Stadium, which was the first time that a soccer game had been played there; and then a few nights later, I was at CitiField in Queens to see the Mets baseball game with the Council of Fashion Designers of America. See, it’s not just me: Lots of fashion folk are feeling athletic, apparently.
Perhaps we’re all just being subconsciously swept into the Olympic spirit, which officially starts tomorrow with the Opening Ceremony in London. I’ve always had fond memories of the Olympics. Fond vague memories that is. My third grade teacher, Ms. Hagan, was obsessed. She had VHS tapes of her favorite events taped from various Olympics (Moscow in 1980, Barcelona in 1992, etc), and as a ‘treat’ would let us watch them in class. But it’s weird: Apart from Michael Phelps, I don’t really remember many of the athletes. And the only reason I remember him is because I still think whoever posted a picture of him taking a drag from a bong in the off season is a total wanker. Who else? Nancy Kerigan, because she got beat with a pipe? Keri Strug, because she screwed up her ankle at just the right moment? Ryan Lochte, because he has blue eyes and was on the cover of Vogue?
I just love the pomp and circumstance of the Olympics. (Though, for the record, I want to be no where near them: No thank you when it comes to international swarms of tourists descending on water polo matches with expensive cameras and $20 water bottles.) I love the sense of pride and excitement we have for athletes we’ll probably not see next time. And I really like Bob Costas. But, I’m not doing the best job surmising what it means to be a modern Olympic viewer. For that I turn to the New Yorker’s Adam Gopnik, one of my absolute favorite writers. In a recent Talk of the Town piece entitled ‘Team Spirit,’ which ran in The New Yorker last month, he did a fabulous job of explaining the amusing qualities of modern society’s obsession with the Olympics. It’s fantastic. (You can find the entire piece HERE.)
We are about to enter that period, which occurs every four years, when Americans become passionate about athletes we have never heard of participating in games we do not follow trying to please judges we cannot see according to rules we do not know. The fullness of our ignorance never diminishes the pitch of our Olympic enthusiasm. Those cute girls with the ribbons—rhythmic gymnasts, that’swhat they’re called—and the synchronized swimmers, mimicking one another’s every move, like Harpo and Groucho in the mirror scene in “Duck Soup,” will briefly become as beloved as any Yankee shortstop or Celtics forward. “U.S.A.! U.S.A.!” we chant, until the two weeks of games are over, and even the most prominent Olympians may find themselves making their way home from the top step of the podium to the bottom rung of the D-list. (Ask Bruce Jenner, once the world’s greatest all-round athlete—with the medals to show for it—now playing for Team Kardashian.)
I knew that when I invited the Misshapes, the New York-based DJ trinity, to come to St. Louis, Missouri, I wouldn’t regret it. And, true to form, when I celebrated my birthday with a barn dance at my Uncle Fred and Aunt Tina’s barn on a few hundred acres of untouched natural Midwestern wilderness, their tunes did not disappoint. (They even got my Mom dirty dancing on several occasions.) But what came as a bonus were these videos. Leigh Lezark can spin records and create visually stimulating moving images? The lady can do it all.
First up, a video of the extravaganza, from pig roast garden party to hayride sing-a-long to the barn rave. Look out for cameo’s from Giovanna (taking Dolce & Gabbana prints to a place they’ve never been before), Karlie (working a hula hoop one second and a Budweiser flag the next), and the Brant boys (sashaying like no one’s business). Obligatory walk off, and a few rather embarrassing Missouri moonshine-induced dance from yours truly, include:
But the pièce de résistance? The hoedown’s special guest performance: My very own Aunt Mary, who’s childhood of baton twirling paid off in a major way when she stunned the crowd with this performance to Lady Gaga’s ‘Born This Way’:
A Louis Vuitton fashion show in Paris is an event. The shows have transcended being a mere presentation of next season’s clothes to become a fashionable spectacle of decadence. Marc Jacobs once told me that one reason he keeps upping the ante on the show is because he knows that, since he shows on the last day of the collections, he has to ‘dazzle’ his audience. Well, dazzle was an understatement for this most recent one, which started when an actual train pulled into the Louvre with 48 models calmly composed in its seat. So sensational was that first train ride, Vuitton packed it up and brought it to Shanghai to fete their store opening here, and restaged that entire show. (As I mentioned here before, it’s all about trains right now.) I was only too happy to see that train again, not to mention the gilded, sparkled, bejeweled looks and the insanely decadent handbags and luggage, which were carried by porters behind the models. All in all, not a bad first trip to Shanghai, if I may say so myself.
The wondrous Clemence Poesy with Louis Vuitton’s wizard, the amazing Marc Jacobs
Shanghai’s skyline at night
Me with a few ladies on the post-show dance floor: Lana del Rey, who sang at the party; Alexa Chung; Poppy Delevingne; and Momma Makeup herself, Pat McGrath
Superstar DJ Jeremy Healy on the decks at the afterparty. Apparently, the fashion party culture that is so alive and well in cities like London and Paris doesn’t exist in China, which is why Louis Vuitton made a conscious effort to keep it festive. They booked Lana, Jeremy and two other DJ’s. And umm, it worked.
Marc’s right hand woman: Love magazine’s Katie Grand
Team Louis Vuitton is a fun one: That’s their president, Yves Carcelle, hitting the dance floor with Julie de Libran. (Well, to be honest, they’re hitting the banquette. By that point, people were dancing on tables.)
Alexa and Pat enjoying the view from our club seating. The venue was right on the river in a temporary space. Which means, yes, Louis Vuitton built a train station, stage and nightclub for one night only in the center of Shanghai
Yves and the ladies! From left: Elizabeth von Guttman, Antonine Peduzzi, Luisa Orisini, Alexia Niedzielski and Coco Brandolini
A view from atop the grand staircase at the new Vuitton store
Alexa and I having a salute in the lobby of the Park Hyatt
Poppy Delevingne and her handsome better half James Cook
Huo Siyan, who is an actress in China and very, very polite
The Louis Vuitton train pulls into the station, which, like it did earlier this year in Paris, got a round of applause from the audience
Alexa on the train after the show. Every single detail and every single meticulous feature was carefully recreated as if it were an actual train. Simply amazing. (Well done, Faye McLeod!)
The master of millinery, Stephen Jones, who was responsible for the fabulous hats at the show
Poppy and I in a novelty shop where we found but did not buy the coolest sunglasses ever. It may be our biggest regret in life
Louis had some serious wheels. The six of us met with a Chinese medical doctor that Vuitton had organized, and I had my first acupuncture experience. The verdict is still out on that one. I really wanted to like it, but the entire time I was laying down all I could think about was how ridiculous it looks to have all these needles stuck in my flesh. He also told me I had lots of toxins in my body, and I needed to stress less and sleep more. So, essentially, I flew all the way to Shanghai to hear the same thing my mom tells me every day back home
Alexa wondering a local market. I was skeptical about venturing into the markets because, well, I don’t particularly like getting shoved around stinky places. But this one was quaint and cute, and had good stuff.
And finally, the man himself: Marc Jacobs, having a giggle on his train after the show. It’s hard to believe that in less than two months, it’s show season again and Marc will wow us again.
The new August issue of Harper’s Bazaar is on stands now, and in it is one of my favorite Mr. Blasberg’s Best Dressed columns yet. (Well, I guess I say that every week.) The reason? It looks at three of my favorite fashion people: original super Linda Evangelista, the daringly dressed designer Marc Jacobs, and the icon that is Miuccia Prada. All three have kept me sartorially satisfied of late. First, Linda’s courtroom looks were fabulous. (Is it weird to admit I was disappointed when she and her ex settled so quickly out of court?) And then there have been the absolute amusement with which I’ve seen Marc put together his looks of late, from pink polo shirt dresses to full on lace cocktail frocks. And finally, proving that, in fashion, it’s the women who often wear the pants, I can’t help but salute Miuccia’s brocaded pant suit looks.
PS. I’m working on next month’s column now, so leave any favorite fashionable moments in the comments! And to read my weekly Mr. Blasberg’s Best Dressed list, go to www.harpersbazaar.com/bestdressed
The king of Peru holding court with, from left, Edita Vilkeviciute, Lily Donaldson, Isabeli Fontana, Iazbel Goulart, Karlie Kloss and Constance Joblanski
Quick question: Who’s the most famous person you know from Peru? For me, the best thing to come out of the South American nation (apart from an inspiring Incan culture, which we’ll get to later) is the photographer Mario Testino. The man is an artist, an icon, a man who makes dreams come true in the pages of fashion magazines around the world. Literally. His contract with Conde Nast has his glamorous pictures of models and actress seen on all four corners of the globe. This is why, when he organized the opening of his own foundation (called M.A.T.E.) in Peru’s capital, Lima, I jumped at the chance to see the home country with the king of the land. I wasn’t alone: Many of the faces he helped make famous, like Karlie Kloss, Lily Donaldson, Constance Jablonski, Isabeli Fontana and Izabel Goulart all made the pilgrimage too.
His opening was as fantastic as one would expect: His foundation is housed in a historic space and the first show, appropriately of some of his own iconic images, was a story of a woman getting undressed. In the first rooms we saw models and debutantes in couture and as we snaked through the clothes came off, and we ended with some of the world’s most famous beauties (Gwyneth, Sienna, Kate) in their birthday suits.
Mario takes his role as an unofficial (for the time being, anyway) ambassador very seriously. So in the days that followed his opening, he insisted that we see what other marvels lay in his country and we made our way further south in Peru and climbed Machu Picchu. It being Mario, the experience was divine and decadent: We took the Orient Express, a train that stands as one of the last beacons of Old World civilized travel, to the mountains. The air there is so thin that you have to chew coca leaves and drink coca tea to keep your metabolism up. I wonder if that will affect me if I’m ever drug tested. But I digress. When I was a young boy I always dreamed of seeing the Incan ruins, a historic site that still beats with the spirituality of a culture conquered and lost. And it’s only appropriate that Mario, a man used to making dreams come true, would take me there.
I wasn’t kidding when I said he was the famous man from Peru
If Mario is the king, then his mother, the adorable lady with the white hair and the grey Chanel jacket, must be the queen, right? Proud Momma!
Lily Donaldson showed me how to work a buffet. With a blowout and a twirl, of course
That Anthony vaccarello dress has legs. (Literally and figuratively.) Karlie wore in the show and to Carine Roitfeld’s Vampire ball in Paris, Gwyneth Paltrow wore it on the cover of Bazaar, and now Izabel worked it all over Lima
The ultra lovely Jasmine Guinness with Charlotte Trillbury. Let me tell you: Charlotte knows her way around a dance floor. She was a blur of ginger hair and silver sequins for much of the night
The strap to Constance’s Versace dress kept getting unhooked at the party, which Karlie valiantly tried to repair. But guess who actually spent half the night fixing it? Me. Never trust a supermodel to do a gay’s job
The legendary Carlyne de Cerf (fun fact: She styled Anna Wintour’s first cover of American Vogue) with V’s Stephen Gan
Mario’s secret weapon: The formidable Jamima Hobson
Karlie with Vogue’s Tonne Goodman
The streets of Lima were guarded by these super chic female cops, which, a guide, who was female, told me was a good thing because the male cops weren’t always so honest. South American feminism at it’s best!
It wasn’t all fashion and fabulous on this trip. We got our culture on too. Here’s me and Karlie outside the Museo Larco in Lima. (You can take them out of America, but you can take the America out of them)
The museum had the most amazing gold pieces, many of which would be hooked into the nose or shoved into the stretched out ear lobes of Incan royalty. (Mind you, I thought it was very Givenchy)
The library at the Convent Santo Domingo was breathtaking, and had that fabulous smell of old, important books. (I asked if they had mine in their collection of 250,000 books, but they didn’t. So I’ll be sure to send them one when I get back to New York)
Francesca Versace and Karlie doing what they can to keep the troops’ morale up!
After Mario’s opening it was up to Machu Picchu. We took the most glamorous and fabulous mode of transportation I’ve yet experienced: the Orient Express. Three hours in gilded decadence, and all the Pisco Sours we could drink!
The artist Grillo Demo, who’s fabulous falling jasmine paintings my friend Margherita Missoni introduced me to (she has a portrait in her apartment in Milan), with Naty Abascal, a former Avedon muse, in the caboose
And then there was Machu Picchu, the historic site and remnants of an almost forgotten Inca empire. It was breathtaking, and truly inspiring. They built this bad boy in 90 years without so much as, umm, a wheel
Karlie and me atop Machu Picchu. We are very amused by our T-shirts in this photo: She is wearing a T-shirt from my high school in Missouri, when I went to (get this) football camp as a teenager, and I’m wearing a shirt from my town’s historical society. We’re a long way from St. Louis now, sis!
Tonne and Hamish Bowles, who is just the most divine travel companion, atop Machu Picchu
Sunset in Machu Picchu. How marvelous
I was constantly inspired by the local people’s traditional looks, and not always the most ornate ones. In the village of Cusco, I loved this woman’s layers and volume, which Hamish and I agreed was very Rei Kawakubo. Not that she liked to have her having her picture taken one bit
In Cusco, Karlie and I toured the Sacsayhuaman Fort, another marvel of the Incan people, and tried to adopt a few baby llamas. (But no dice)
Thank you, Mario Testino. You are a king among kings. Viva Inca Testino!
I don’t know why I’m only seeing the video for Madonna’s ‘Girl Gone Bad’ now, but after watching the nearly four minutes of black and white, smoky, sexually charged Pop imagery I can’t help but ask: Is this the gayest music video in history? (Which would be appropriate since, well, it’s a Madonna video.) No, really. The casting, the dancing, the boys sharing an apple: Gay, gay, gay. Let’s look at the guys she put in the video: Jon Kortajarena, Sean O’Pry and Simon Nessman, all of whom are fashion’s most in demand and top models, and thus, of course, the most appropriate homosexual eye candy. When she’s done rolling around with those boys and the camera stops panning on their lip-licking faces, it gets even gayer: Kazaky, the Ukrainian all-boys dance troupe that performs in opaque tights and high heels. (Did you see our story on Kazaky in the new issue of V? It’s pretty major.) Then there’s the gratuitous ab shots and Madonna writhing around on walls wearing kneepads. Beyond Simon, Jon and Sean, who we also see put the barrel of a gun in their mouths, and even the stilleto-ed boys, it seems there’s a tribute to Madonna’s own gay icon status with the obvious ‘Vogue’ overtones and visual references. If that’s not enough of a well-manicured pat on the back, she throws in some ‘Express Yourself’ visuals too, notably the men rolling around with chains around them. Both of those music videos were gay anthems, so it’s like she’s out-gaying herself. Which is no easy feat. Not that I’m complaining. I’ve now watched the video a few times and think it’s better every time. It’s gay. But I love it.
Last night, when Louis Vuitton organized the opening of Yayoi Kusama’s exhibition at the Whitney Museum of Art, I saw something I loved more than anything: dots. Dots and dots and dots. On walls, on shirts, on giant beach balls suspended from the ceiling. (To be fair, Kusama’s career has included more than dots. And in the exhibition there are some truly fantastic watercolors from her early career in the 1950s that are truly breathtaking.) But it’s the fashion things that I was most drawn too. Of course. And who doesn’t love a good print? But Kusama’s story is an interesting one: She left Japan and came to New York in the middle of the Twentieth Century and, by painting naked bodies and with her performance pieces, had an undeniable impression on the developing Pop art scene. She was friends with Donald Judd, she influenced Andy Warhol, and, as LV’s Yves Carcelle told me, she was a part of the shift of contemporary art in this country. Then she left town, went a bit nuts, checked herself into a mental institution (where she still lives) and continued to create important works. No, really. Her story is worth looking up. (W magazine had a fabulous piece on her in their May issue, and WWD had a very candid interview with her in Tuesday’s paper.) This was the gala opening of the show, and it was an exhibition to behold. The best part? For me, it was the ‘fire flies’ room on the ground floor: One can only go in alone, and be immersed by the twinkling lights of infinity. Louis Vuitton sponsored the gala, and as they do, it was top notch. Here are some snapshots from an evening of dresses, decadence and dots.
My favorite new person, Dianna Agron, and a favorite person I’ve known for awhile, Lauren Santo Domingo, at dinner
Ah, yes, the cost of beauty: Louis Vuitton’s spring metallic point toe pumps. Worth the bunions, ladies
The Whitney Museum’s trustee Brooke Neidich with Hanna Bronfman at dinner
The boys! Waris, Andre and me
Olympia Scarry touring Kusama’s exhibit
Tattoo artist extraordinaire Scott Campbell with Louis Vuitton’s Faye Mcleod
Harley Viera-Newton walking into Kusama’s fire flies installation, a still, tranquil moment of lightness and infinity suspended over tepid water. (No really.)
My view inside the fire flies installation. One could only go in alone, and only for a moment
Now, that’s a look. A devoted party goer and fellow Kusama devotee
Yes, I was a little starstruck: The iconic and amazing Bill Cunningham from the New York Times outside the Whitney Museum, hard at work
And then the ladies held court: Harley Viera-Newton, Elisabeth von Thurn and Taxis, Olympia Scarry, Lauren Santo Domingo, Dianna Agron and Ashley Avignone