After sitting in a damp car waiting for an hour for our opportunity to exit, the red carpet stairs of the Metropolitan Museum were as welcome a sight as they were an intimidating one, lined with paparazzi and TV crews and bathed by flashes of lights as copious as the rain outside.
Rachel Weisz was on the stairs before my husband and I, and all cameras were turned on her. Behind me, a tiny, punk-inspired Selma Blair pulled up in her car. I think I may have been asked to step aside by the paparazzi so they could get a better shot of them, but I was so confused I smiled and waved at them instead. I clutched my husband’s hand. My peach Halston dress, which seemed like such a terrific choice in hot weather, was wet on the bottom, pulling the top sideways in a most awkward manner.
Once we finally reached the top of the stairs, we stood in another line: this one for the reception, where we got to shake hands with tiny, dry Anna Wintour, a healthy and ruddy Marc Jacobs, the always beautiful Kate Moss, and pale and sweet Justin Timberlake. To my enormous embarrassment, I mistook the humbly smiling Justin for a waiter and almost omitted shaking his hand. Another climb up another set of stairs, and another couple of miles ahead, we finally arrived at the actual exhibit. Had I known how far I had to walk in my brand new Manolos, I might have chosen to wear flats. Or sneakers. I saw many a model in her highest heels sigh in despair as another gorgeous hallway stretched before us. Navigating the endless corridors swarming with long-legged beauties dressed in the most exquisite evening gowns was not unlike finding yourself in a palace filled with brilliantly colored dragonflies. Beautiful, but also slightly disconcerting. It’s easy to feel like a moth next to all that glittering litheness. Not that any of my peers looked anything but beautiful: Iman, regal as always, in an elegant silver gown, sexy Cindy in peacock-blue Versace, Claudia radiant in a black cutout gown. The actresses among the models were the butterflies among the dragonflies, bright, fluttering, and slightly more earthbound. Where the young models drifted, barely displacing the air, the actresses laughed, chatted, and charmed: Anne Hathaway, tiny and shiny in purple; Kim Raver in classy black; Elizabeth Hurley, a vision of a garden at dusk in her rose gown.
Jack White and his stunning wife Karen Elson stood in front of a life-size set of the famous photo Dovima and the Elephants by Avedon, both dressed in black and white, chatting amiably and ushering people to the entrance of the exhibit. The exhibit itself, although interesting, seemed to me—after all the glitz and glamour in the hallways—to almost pale in comparison. Or maybe I was just bummed I wasn’t featured more. It was Carol Alt who pointed out the fact that cover models of the early ’80s were altogether missing. Kelly Emberg, Kim Alexis, Carol Alt, and Isabella Rossellini: the women who were my peers and on every cover throughout the early ’80s were erased from fashion history, me included. I suppose it wasn’t an interesting enough time in fashion history, but don’t blame me (and Carol) for feeling a tad bitter.
It may have been the most glorious moment in fashion history, with the most beautiful people gathered under one spectacular roof, and the party of all parties. I have certainly never attended its equal. My husband and I snuck out right before dinner; it was our 25th anniversary and we had other celebrating to do.
