Shameless Name-Dropping
Okay you guys. Last night I went to one of the coolest parties I've ever been to, and I didn't even realize it until we left. As you may or may not remember, Dustin's the editor for a series of shorts about "Li'l Hipsters" for a website called Kid America Club, and the director of said shorts, Frankie, randomly invited us to his in-laws' Christmas party. (We went to his Halloween party a couple of months ago.) We thought this was a little odd since we've never met the in-laws but decided to go anyway. We thought, what the heck? Nothing like walking into a completely foreign situation with people you've never met.
We made our way over to the West Village after work. I thought to myself that either we would be totally overdressed or underdressed. We really had no idea what to expect of this place. We walked into the most amazing house I've ever been to in New York. Usually, in New York, when people describe "awesome" apartments that go for more money than my life is probably worth, the statement comes with an asterisk followed by a "well, awesome for New York." Those places are still quite small in comparison to most "awesome" places in, say, Scottsdale. But that's fine, we accept that because it's really New York itself that we're paying for, whether your residence is fantastic or in the ghetto. But this place was completely, unequivocally cool. And huge. Their kitchen was bigger than my bedroom. (Actually, MY kitchen is bigger than my bedroom, but that's beside the point.) They had a freaking gazebo in the backyard. For Pete's sake, they had a backyard. Anyway, my point is, the house was amazing.
I spent most of the night feeling awkward and out of place because I didn't know anyone, but after the fact I've realized that I should have gotten over it and mingled better. The crowd was a nice mix of young, artsy hipsters (Frankie's wife's friends) and older, artsy cool folks, not unlike the kind of people I described as inhabiting the National Arts Club. We realized that these are exactly the people that Dustin's older, artsy, cool parents who just moved to New York should be hanging out with. We called them and demanded they join us at the party. An hour later they showed up - by then the crowd had thinned a bit but we still had a great time. It was around this point that I realized a few things:
1) That painting of Marilyn Monroe on the living room wall is, in fact, a real Warhol.
2) Those paintings hanging in the family room were done by the owner of the house, Frankie's father-in-law, who is actually Brice Marden. A minimalist painter. A successful minimalist painter. He had a retrospective at the New York MoMA last year. Mind = blown.
3) That fabulous guy in the corner wearing a black velvet blazer, a bright purple silk tie, and purple flower in his lapel and chatting with dozens of people is, in fact, the amazing designer Zac Posen. ZAC FREAKING POSEN, people! All night I kept making eye contact with him and hoping against hope that he might make me his next muse. I'm still waiting.
Dustin's almost unbearably cool sister Phoebe (who complained to us that night of a rather "annoying" meeting she had been to at Vogue magazine that afternoon) chatted it up with this jewelry designer Waris and Mr. and Mrs. Stephens mingled with the bohemian elite (they don't have the awkwardness problem from which I suffer).
I talked to a few people, but I am sure beyond a doubt that there were poets, designers and artists there with whom I didn't get to chat (and probably would have embarrassed myself in front of anyway). Someday I hope to be cool enough and interesting enough and confident enough and fabulous enough to be able to eloquently converse with these people far better than I did last night.
But hey! I still got to see Zac Posen, so I'm happy.
love,
*jenna*
We made our way over to the West Village after work. I thought to myself that either we would be totally overdressed or underdressed. We really had no idea what to expect of this place. We walked into the most amazing house I've ever been to in New York. Usually, in New York, when people describe "awesome" apartments that go for more money than my life is probably worth, the statement comes with an asterisk followed by a "well, awesome for New York." Those places are still quite small in comparison to most "awesome" places in, say, Scottsdale. But that's fine, we accept that because it's really New York itself that we're paying for, whether your residence is fantastic or in the ghetto. But this place was completely, unequivocally cool. And huge. Their kitchen was bigger than my bedroom. (Actually, MY kitchen is bigger than my bedroom, but that's beside the point.) They had a freaking gazebo in the backyard. For Pete's sake, they had a backyard. Anyway, my point is, the house was amazing.
I spent most of the night feeling awkward and out of place because I didn't know anyone, but after the fact I've realized that I should have gotten over it and mingled better. The crowd was a nice mix of young, artsy hipsters (Frankie's wife's friends) and older, artsy cool folks, not unlike the kind of people I described as inhabiting the National Arts Club. We realized that these are exactly the people that Dustin's older, artsy, cool parents who just moved to New York should be hanging out with. We called them and demanded they join us at the party. An hour later they showed up - by then the crowd had thinned a bit but we still had a great time. It was around this point that I realized a few things:
1) That painting of Marilyn Monroe on the living room wall is, in fact, a real Warhol.
2) Those paintings hanging in the family room were done by the owner of the house, Frankie's father-in-law, who is actually Brice Marden. A minimalist painter. A successful minimalist painter. He had a retrospective at the New York MoMA last year. Mind = blown.
3) That fabulous guy in the corner wearing a black velvet blazer, a bright purple silk tie, and purple flower in his lapel and chatting with dozens of people is, in fact, the amazing designer Zac Posen. ZAC FREAKING POSEN, people! All night I kept making eye contact with him and hoping against hope that he might make me his next muse. I'm still waiting.
Dustin's almost unbearably cool sister Phoebe (who complained to us that night of a rather "annoying" meeting she had been to at Vogue magazine that afternoon) chatted it up with this jewelry designer Waris and Mr. and Mrs. Stephens mingled with the bohemian elite (they don't have the awkwardness problem from which I suffer).
I talked to a few people, but I am sure beyond a doubt that there were poets, designers and artists there with whom I didn't get to chat (and probably would have embarrassed myself in front of anyway). Someday I hope to be cool enough and interesting enough and confident enough and fabulous enough to be able to eloquently converse with these people far better than I did last night.
But hey! I still got to see Zac Posen, so I'm happy.
love,
*jenna*
posted by jenna at 11:57 AM
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