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Icon Maker
Last night’s V party in celebration of the magazine’s latest issue was all about going straight to the top: held at the well-trafficked summit of the Standard Hotel and inspired, according to editor Stephen Gan, by the meteoric rise of Lady Gaga. “Six months ago, I saw the transition from where Gaga was—on our cover a year ago—and I thought, I’ve never seen anything like this,” Gan said. “She’s our muse, and the symbol of how things can happen so quickly.” And yet stay the same: The pop star is once again a V cover girl, this time with Marc Jacobs, who swung by the fête with Ruffian’s Brian Wolk and Claude Morais and pointed out that his fashion week punctuality streak is still alive. “I started my show two minutes early,” he boasted.
Gan and his team had sprinkled the room with dancing models in retro workout wear and leather-clad Gaga lookalikes. But not too many of them, thankfully; there was barely room as it was for the likes of Courtney Love, Estelle, and an exuberantly dancing Kelly Osbourne. Left on her own, Elisa Sednaoui took to browsing the magazine, but Leighton Meester was too swept up by the party to do the same. She did make a pitch, though: “I think being completely natural for a photo shoot is very much a fantasy of mine, just so people can see what you really look like—every little pore and blemish.” (Note to the Gossip Girl star: We will hold you to it.)
Later, the party continued over at Le Bain, where Alexander Wang was shoving friends onto the rooftop’s blow-up beds and pig-piling on top of them. Ah, the high life.
—Darrell Hartman Continue reading
Tommy Takes the Met
Tommy Hilfiger celebrated his label’s 25th anniversary at the Metropolitan Opera House last night. He’s come a long way since 1985, when, as he told us, “I was just starting, and I did everything myself. I designed preppy, all-American clothes with a twist. It was only menswear for the U.S. market.”
For the evening’s festivities, the usual ushers had been swapped out in favor of a column of male models in khakis and blue blazers that stretched all the way from the plaza outside up to the mezzanine. J. Lo, Neil Patrick Harris, and Kimora Lee Simmons (with her camera crew in tow, of course) made the easy trip over from the Hilfiger runway show next door and proceeded past a topiary American flag on their way up to the next floor, where the Strokes blasted through a mini-set at decibel levels that would have sent most of the Met’s regular clientele scurrying.
Over the last quarter century, Hilfiger has converted plenty of fans who didn’t grow up wearing polo shirts. “I was the opposite of preppy,” Christina Hendricks said. “The only thing I did with my tennis racket was pretend it was a guitar and sing the Go-Go’s.” Kristen Bell, on the other hand, told us, “I was really, really, really into my blue velour overalls from OshKosh B’gosh, and I had a blue and white striped turtleneck that I wore under them every day. I was forever destined to be Tommy Hilfiger’s girl.” We’re betting the designer likes the sound of that.
—Darrell Hartman Continue reading
Turning Purple
Not that long ago in New York City, it was hot. Melting-asphalt, beer-and-ice-cream-diet, go-see-any-crappy-movie-for-relief hot. Old men sat outside shirtless, complaining. Construction guys couldn’t even muster catcalls as sticky, scantily clad girls walked by—because they were too busy wiping the sweat out of their eyes. It was a magical time.
“I’m freezing!” exclaimed Chloë Sevigny. It was a refrain heard often last night at the Purple magazine party at Le Bain, the Standard Hotel’s rooftop bar. Aurel Schmidt, Rachel Chandler, Terry Richardson, and numerous other members of the Purple posse mingled, shivering, occasionally disappearing below decks to warm up in Le Bain’s hot tub room. Frankie Rayder and other refugees from the madness at Alexander Wang’s after-party arrived, chattered their teeth for a while, and then hotfooted it to Don Hill’s, to catch Courtney Love. Purple editor Olivier Zahm seemed to approve of that idea: Circa 1 a.m., he and Lou Doillon disappeared from the fête for good, presumably heading for the Don Hill’s hothouse. The party went on without them—eventually the crowd got so thick, in fact, that you could almost scare up some body heat.
—Maya Singer Continue reading
Merry-Go-Round
Of all the things the Alexander Wang girl has done in tiny skirts and towering heels, bumper cars probably isn’t one of them. Not until last night, at least, when the designer brought his leggy legions into a Chelsea parking lot that he’d turned into a fun fair, complete with merry-go-round, burgers, and abundant opportunities to win stuffed animals.
It was a step-right-up kind of evening, with much of the stepping being done by trained pros like Behati Prinsloo and Dree Hemingway. Wang took a turn or two under the carnival lights on stage, dancing with Agyness Deyn and launching bundles into the crowd with a T-shirt gun. Meanwhile, M.I.A., who’d been at the show earlier that day, was rumored to perform, but it was Rye Rye who ended up grabbing the mic after 2 a.m.
Back down at ground level, Wang explained that he’d wanted this season’s post-show bash to be footloose as usual, but with more room to move. “Minus the sweat—you gotta mix it up a little,” he said. Even so, he’d gotten a decent workout romping around in the bounce house: “I almost got my head cut off three times!”
—Darrell Hartman Continue reading
Burning Down the House
John Varvatos celebrated his brand’s tenth anniversary last night with a three-hour rock concert at his Bowery boutique. The two-year-old store occupies CBGB’s old digs, where the likes of the Ramones, Television, and Talking Heads once raised hell; when Cherie Currie took the mic, she announced: “I haven’t been here since 1976.”
While Mick Rock, Donovan Leitch, and Jeremy Piven traded stories about rock’s good old days in the back alley, celebs like Sarah Silverman, Chris Noth, and Erika Christensen relived them inside as some of the famous faces that have graced Varvatos’ black-and-white ads—Perry Farrell, Alice Cooper, and members of ZZ Top, included—performed onstage.
“There was a time when it was not just about the music—which is obviously the most important thing—but it was about the style and the swagger,” Varvatos said. “It was about being a rock star—the whole caboodle.” If rockers real or wannabe want to kit themselves out accordingly, the shop opened again for business today at noon.
—Alisa Gould-Simon Continue reading
Turning Purple
Not that long ago in New York City, it was hot. Melting-asphalt, beer-and-ice-cream-diet, go-see-any-crappy-movie-for-relief hot. Old men sat outside shirtless, complaining. Construction guys couldn’t even muster catcalls as sticky, scantily clad girls walked by—because they were too busy wiping the sweat out of their eyes. It was a magical time.
“I’m freezing!” exclaimed Chloë Sevigny. It was a refrain heard often last night at the Purple magazine party at Le Bain, the Standard Hotel’s rooftop bar. Aurel Schmidt, Rachel Chandler, Terry Richardson, and numerous other members of the Purple posse mingled, shivering, occasionally disappearing below decks to warm up in Le Bain’s hot tub room. Frankie Rayder and other refugees from the madness at Alexander Wang’s after-party arrived, chattered their teeth for a while, and then hotfooted it to Don Hill’s, to catch Courtney Love. Purple editor Olivier Zahm seemed to approve of that idea: Circa 1 a.m., he and Lou Doillon disappeared from the fête for good, presumably heading for the Don Hill’s hothouse. The party went on without them—eventually the crowd got so thick, in fact, that you could almost scare up some body heat.
—Maya Singer Continue reading
Iggy Goes Pop
There’s a certain democracy to the most exclusive fashion week parties.
Arrive just before the ballyhooed, not-really-so-secret special guest is due
to perform, and you’ll find it’s not only the gatecrashers who are stranded
on the street, pressing against the doors, but a fair number of VIPs. Such
was the case last night, as Pop magazine’s Dasha Zhukova and DeLeon’s Nur Khan Sessions brought Iggy Pop and the
Stooges to the stage at Don Hill’s. Pop’s set was scheduled for 12:30; at
midnight, the likes of Karen Elson and Charlotte Dellal were still outside
the venue, conniving ways to get in.
Eventually, they both did. Dellal was wise to wear sky-high leopard-print
wedges from her Charlotte Olympia line, as they afforded her at least a
chance of sighting the shirtless Pop as he writhed and skipped onto the
stage. Elson, meanwhile, found a perch on the risers, where she and Jamie
Bochert led a mini-model mosh pit. Nearby, Terry Richardson snapped shots of
the most seminal abdomen ever to emerge from Detroit over the heads of
Giovanna Battaglia and co.
“As you are only too aware, it’s fashion week in New York City!” Pop
bantered from the stage, a couple tunes in. “Just remember, fashion people:
Your pretty faces are going to hell!” At that, he launched into a rendition
of “Burn in Hell,” and the crowd-surfing started. Pop took a stage dive
himself, and later, he invited members of the crowd to dance onstage with
him (much to the consternation of the security at Don Hill’s).
It’s worth pointing out that the Pop crowd wasn’t limited to
fashion folk—the rather motley audience also included Perry Farrell
and Gavin Rossdale, and a particular gent in a plaid shirt and cowboy hat
who didn’t look famous, but who turned out to be the star sighting
of the night. “I swear to God, he was one of the original Village People,”
Bochert said.
—Maya Singer Continue reading
The Couture Council Luncheon
“I feel a little bit guilty,” Karl Lagerfeld told the crowd assembled to honor him at a luncheon yesterday at Avery Fisher Hall. Here he was, smack in the middle of day two of fashion week, keeping some of the industry’s central figures from the shows so they could watch him accept an award that, as he put it, “I don’t deserve.”
Lagerfeld’s hosts, the Couture Council of the Museum at FIT, would beg to differ, of course, and the same goes for the flocks of lunching ladies who couldn’t have been happier to get up close and personal with the Kaiser himself. Lady Amanda Harlech, who accompanied him there, had seen it all before: “He gets pushed and grabbed and pinched and kissed. That’s the actual love that he inspires for being Karl, me included. Everybody wants a piece of Karl—he is the piece.”
That included a few types, like Olivier Zahm and Leigh Lezark, who wouldn’t ordinarily make it uptown by lunchtime. “I was doing wake-up calls this morning for some of the downtown people,” board member Michelle Harper confided, adding that Terence Koh hadn’t heeded his. Still, Lagerfeld had plenty of friends (including Daphne Guinness and Elisa Sednaoui) there to help him raise a glass—and, perhaps more quietly, wish him a happy birthday. Lagerfeld may prefer not to make a big fuss about that particular achievement, but he’s powerless to stop his pals from doing so. “Karl’s celebrating constantly,” Ruben Toledo pointed out. “Knowing Karl is a celebration.”
—Darrell Hartman Continue reading
“It’s Part of the Game”
Sure, Thursday saw the first round of shows, but the fashion week floodgates didn’t really open until just after eight last night in Soho, when Karl Lagerfeld and Sarah Jessica Parker arrived and parted the crowds at the unveiling of Chanel’s newly renovated Spring Street store. Jessica Stam, Erin Wasson, and an awestruck group of lesser mortals stepped aside to let the headliners wade through; then, after them, le déluge. Diane Kruger, Claire Danes, Blake Lively, and Leighton Meester—they were all there.
Luckily, there was more to do than gawk at stars: The store’s entrance was decorated with a digital graffiti wall that guests were invited to “tag” with infrared spray cans, in keeping with Peter Marino’s arty revamp of the boutique. Had she not had to hustle inside to take her place at the turntables, Alexa Chung mentioned that she would have stopped for a scribble. “Drawing on walls is one of my favorite pastimes,” she said. Marino, of course, had put his stamp on the place, too—in pure black and white, and he’d done his spray-painting the old-fashioned way. “This one over here, we sprayed in the office,” he explained, indicating a vinyl cutout installed between panes of Plexiglas. “That was great—we all got high after two hours of Krylon.”
Speaking of high, Izia, the 19-year-old French singer and second coming of Robert Plant that Chanel booked for dinnertime entertainment, had the pretty young things—boys and girls—begging for more. Everybody except a nonplussed-looking Courtney Love looked thoroughly entertained.
Amid the excitement, Lagerfeld remained as cool as the 265-ton iceberg he brought in for the Chanel show in March. His thoughts on the hullabaloo? “It’s part of the game, you know.”
—Darrell Hartman Continue reading