New York City charity circuit regulars are a bit spoiled when it comes
to the locations of their nocturnal activities. While we may drone on
about having to go to Cipriani 42nd Street yet again, when all is said
and done, at least you’re just a cab ride away from bed when the
evening ends.
From left: Steven Klein, Delfina Blanquier and Nacho Figueras
Saturday night made me realize just how blasé I’ve been
about the convenience with which I drop by events when I headed out to
Bridgehampton for the annual Cocktails at Sunset benefit for ACRIA, the
AIDS Community Research Initiative of America, held at Steven
Klein’s house. As I was only stopping by for the evening, there
was the Jitney ride out there in party-ready attire, and then Juanita,
the lone taxi driver whom my friend hailed down to shuttle us to
Klein’s house.
After making Juanita
promise to return at 9:45 p.m. (we had to make the last
Jitney home or we were stranded), we were then shuttled yet again on two
sets of golf carts down a bumpy grass road lined with tiki torches
illuminating the vineyards on one side. Our second of two golf cart
drivers was nicknamed Sugar Ball Butts because of his love of derrieres.
Charming.
There were quite a few of those on display, by the way, in the silent
auction portion of the cocktails, housed under a white tent next to a
dance floor, bar and deejay booth. There, works by the likes of John
Baldessari, Dan Colen and Herb Ritts—many showing the male form in
all its unclothed glory—were mixed in with Baume & Mercier
watches and plush weekend carryalls. Perhaps inspired by images of such
physical perfection, the one item with the most bids, at least early on,
was a fitness package with trainer Louis Coraggio, including
Barry’s Bootcamp sessions.
From left: Calvin Klein; Kelly Klein and Nick Manifold
Not that guests like Kelly Klein, Olivier Theyskens, Nacho Figueras and
Calvin Klein had to worry: food wasn’t terribly easy to come by or
in large quantity when found. But the party was packed despite the 90
degree heat, perhaps because as Helen Schifter explained, contrary to my
personal trek, the benefit had a feeling of laissez-faire to it.
“It’s so nice because it’s a charity, but you can just
roll in from the beach,” she said, looking much more like she
rolled in from a well-stocked closet.
Others were, well, more audaciously clothed (or not). One fellow was
topless, save for a cropped leather vest. Another had a red kerchief
around his neck. And muscle tees and barely there tank tops abounded.
From left: Olivier Theyskens; Rodger Berman and Rachel Zoe
I had some fun playing a game of Where’s Waldo, the Steven Klein
version. The elusive photographer supposedly popped out of his house
early on, then disappeared, reemerging after I’d already left. His
grounds certainly provided quite a lovely scene, with a fire pit going
and a pool lit by candles.
It was unfortunate I had to leave so early into the night, but alas, my
Jitney beckoned. Though Juanita, did not. Instead, my friend and I
stumbled upon a limo driver, Patrick, there waiting for a bachelorette
party of girls to return from their follies, who in the interim ushered
us into his car after clearing the back area of their detritus. Sketch
city, but we were desperate.
Part-way through the drive, I felt a furry thing fly over the divider
between the front and back seats and land on my arm. Lucy, his shitzu,
who apparently keeps him company up front. And likes pink bows in her
hair. She promptly collapsed on me for the rest of the ride, which
fortunately got us to the Jitney stop with minutes to spare.
Come fall, I will probably bemoan again the hours I clock rotating
between the Plaza hotel, Cipriani and Lincoln Center. But hopefully
I’ll have the wherewithal to recognize how lucky I am not to have
to rely on Juanita for my ride home.
Photos: Patrick McMullan Company