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Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Going In Seine

Monday night we skipped the Met Ball and headed straight to the after-parties. This year the après-musée hotspot was the chicest catacomb in town, the Mercer Hotel's underground SubMercer bar, where Rodarte held its fine and raucous post-ball soirée. As the open bar flowed freely, Kirsten Dunst, Brooke Shields, Coco Rocha, Marisa Tomei and Francesco Vezzoli, among other influential and/or genetically gifted guests, danced, drank and caroused late into the night.

We'll remember many exchanges from the Mulleavy sisters' fantastic little fête, but none so much as this nugget from Olivier Theyskens: "The parties tonight are great, but they don't compare to three days ago, when I sat by the Seine on my own and smoked cigarillos. It's my favorite thing in the world. I smoke this brand La Paz—they're cheap but it's what I always buy. And then, I peed into the Seine. It's the best thing I did all week." On that strangely sexy note we left the increasingly steamy basement boîte. Just in time, too, as we barely missed Kiefer Sutherland's crazy headbutting tantrum.

—Suleman Anaya

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Wednesday, February 18, 2009

New York Fashion Week: Rodarte

The usually serene Gagosian gallery in far west Chelsea resembled a circus yesterday as the Mulleavy sisters showed their fall Rodarte collection to a packed house. Seconds after the signal was given to start the show, Purple's Olivier Zahm could be seen running to his seat next to Milla Jovovich, while some front-rowers who arrived late were asked to stand. One of these, an allegedly pregnant lady-who-lunches type, wasn't having it and caused a little stir as she scrambled, like a blowed-out hen in heat, for the nearest empty seat.

The collection? A knock-out. Gone are Rodarte's romantic days of wispy ruffles and folksy appliqués. The new collection is unabashedly tough and forward-looking. A succession of Ghesquièrian minidresses came out paired with S&M-y boots by Nicholas Kirkwood that seemed to go all the way up to the lady business. With its crinkled fabrics and tattered leathers shot through with silver, copper and lamé, each dress was a little work of art, almost worthy of the Hiroshi Sugimoto works that hung in the same room until Saturday.

After the show, the big question—for me, at least—wasn't what Kirsten Dunst thought of it or how Milla looked so ravishing, but what mysterious attendee came and left in a gorgeous emerald-green, chauffeured Bentley? This I pondered as I, like the rest of us ordinary folk, hailed my sad little yellow cab.

—Suleman Anaya




Rodarte

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