Last Thursday night, despite feeling like roadkill after the previous evening's extreme kiki at Food Bar, I somehow made it uptown for the Guggenheim Young Collector's Artist Ball. As a Young Collector, I had been looking forward to this party all year long. So when I had yet to receive my invitation by the 7th of the month (and the party was on the 14th), I became concerned that attendance would be poor, and this year's celebration of art and those who create it would be a bust. A shame considering last year's fete (where I was hanging out with Heidi Klum and Linda Evangelista) was so much fun. The invite finally arrived and promised a unique "design concept" for the party, envisioned by none other than Ball sponsor, Giorgio Armani. I began to get excited.
Turns out my fear of underattendance was unfounded. In abundance. The place was jammed with what seemed less like art lovers and more like revelers from the Meatpacking District, where I'd rather snort broken glass than be caught dead (except at Soho House, of course). The last thing I expected or wanted was that sort of vibe at the Guggenheim! My fellow Young Collectors will have to forgive me for being critical, but c'mon, what was up with this party? First of all, Mr. Armani's "design concept" included huge sofas in the middle of the ground floor, occupying most of the available stand-and-mingle real estate. No one EVER sits at these things, so the miniscule amount of free space not taken up by empty couches, was a mosh-pit of party guests, many of whom could be heard shouting "Dude this party's awesome!" into genetically-attached cellphones. Adding to the chaos were hapless cater-waiters trying desperately to pass hors d'oeuvres while dodging 10-foot tall performance artists, teetering through the crowd on stilts. After an hour of being bumped and prodded and poked and jostled, I was ready to cut somebody, and not with my sharp wit. The other big problem was the bar. There was only one, and it had too few bartenders, one of whom seemed as if he had never been behind a bar in his life, and another who seemed positively high on heroin, moving at the pace of a cement-dipped turtle wading through a pool of molasses. I'm sorry. I hate to complain about the Guggenheim, an institution for which I have nothing but the utmost respect and affection, but this party was borderline unbearable. At least the hefty ticket price will benefit the museum. There is comfort in that thought. And that is truly what the Ball should be about, raising money. That being said, I will stop my complaining.
The highlight of the evening was hanging out with The Agent, resplendent in St. John. Baby Fabulous was home with Babysitter Fabulous, so the Agent and I enjoyed each other's company and the pleasure of adult beverages (in all fairness, relief bartenders seemed to have been brought in at some point). Other high points: a photo-op with Ivanka Trump, and another one with a favorite Guggenheim cutie. Then The Agent spotted the FABULOUS Suzanne Bartsch. You all know Suzanne, don't you? She's one of New York's most talented party-givers. Now, that woman knows how to throw an event. I can't even go into the many many glittering nights (and mornings) in the 90s we spent kiki-ing the hours away at Suzanne's legendary parties at the Copacabana. The Children of the Night got their nightlife education at those soirees from Suzanne, the headmistress of disco. No one will ever hope to fill her sequined platform shoes.
So now we here at Budget Fabulous are officially on Holiday for the rest of the year. From the day job, that is, but not from the kiki-ing. Oh, we've only just begun the last hurrah-highkickin, end of year kiki-fest. Stay tuned...
