New York—It was the best of times—downtown—and the worst of times—uptown. Let’s start with the horror near the park: Cranial atrophy, unrelenting grossness, overarched and overgrown eyebrows, posterior-baring bondage outfits, and de haut en bas attitudes were the order of the night. Never has a museum site been more desecrated by a freak show, and the Met—maybe the best museum in the whole wide world—should be ashamed of itself. A great institution such as the Met always needs funds but allowing a freak show of publicity-starved clowns is not the answer. Let’s take it from the top.
The Met Gala used to be a chic affair, where social-climbing millionaires could buy a table for the evening and invite their betters. Mrs. William Buckley was chairman and ran it as she ran her own house: with elegance and discretion. Twenty or so years ago, Anna Wintour took over, and it’s been downhill ever since. This year it reached its nadir. Apple was the sponsor and the slobs who paid 30,000 big ones just to get in matched those
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exhibitionists and bum bandits who paid 300,000 smackers for a table for eight. Glum sourpusses ruled the day. The unsmiling (except for the camera) crowd’s attitude is one and the same the world over Do you know who I am, how dare you? And they are an ugly bunch, these megacelebrity types that la Wintour invites: Lady Gaga, Madonna, Maria Sharapova, the ubiquitous Kardashians, the horror of Kanye West in ripped jeans for a black-tie affair, I could go on.
I used to attend the fashion gala rather regularly back in the good old days. The place was full of friends, with lotsa models and the odd actress thrown into the mix. It was a fun party until NYC society collided with new money. Now even the new money hides when faced with celebrity trash. Mr. Jay Z’s wife arrived last, and ink-stained wretches popped inquiries on such original topics as the state of her marriage. The most preposterous poseur among a thousand such species was one Hamish Bowles, a Brit, a popinjay of rare ridiculousness, a man who would besmirch a group of arrested-development 12-year-olds with his lightness of being. But enough said about the freak show and the dysfunctionality of fashion.
