Hedi Slimane has a new photo exhibit, Perfect Stranger, at Galerie Almine Rech in Paris. Dean Mayo Davies caught up with the designer-photographer-philosopher-groupie—who defined the millennial zeitgeist for so many—to discuss his snappy ways, his post-Dior days and how the journey must, and will, continue. You heard it here first...

What's the concept of the new show? What can we expect?
It started with a commission from a Spanish contemporary art museum called MUSAC, together with indie-rock festival Benicàssim, which I documented extensively this year.

And the title, Perfect Stranger?
The recognition of a total stranger in a crowd—like a déjà vu, a movie close-up or the description of a character in a novel. I've spent my life documenting perfect strangers. It is also about the construction of an icon, the making of faith and the illusion of community—therefore, the illusion of the live performance and its promises.

Is curating a solo show more challenging than a group show, such as Sweet Bird of Youth?
I am not really into group shows, I have to say. I only did them because they were kindly proposed. They are only interesting to me when it is a full commission of new works, which is difficult to achieve, and there is the same level of commitment and consistency among the artists. Solo shows are more straight-forward. I can keep working on them until the last minute without any kind of personal issue.

Your clothes may have gone, but your ideology remains, perhaps even stronger now, without the hedonistic transience of the fashion cycle. Would you agree? Do you feel liberated in that way?
Yes, I agree with that. And that is precisely what I was trying to express for the past ten years, really. It is always about describing the same energy and idea, what you call an ideology, through any possible creative field. Fashion is one of them, but not the only one. Therefore, I don’t think there is any kind of rupture at all, just the reconfiguration of a system. Besides, there is now a distance, and maybe to others things can be seen with perspective.

In a way, the generation you helped recognize is left without a champion. How do you feel about that?
I totally trust they are creatively aware and fully committed. It is the most exciting thing for me. I also trust they know better, already defining the rules. The fact that other generations are glued to their chairs and resisting is irrelevant. It’s going to happen.

This year has been another prolific one for you. Are you irritated by idleness?
It has been a really interesting year, in which I made a clear decision to protect my desire to make things, without getting trapped in conventions. I wanted to get beyond speculation, as well as dodgy political and personal agendas. I wanted to stay free of my choices and stop everything for a while. My photographic projects were postponed during my days in fashion, when time was an issue. Eventually, the end of the Dior Homme project had no consequence at all on what I am doing. I stayed on track no matter what.

What other projects do you have coming up that you can tell Hint about?
I have a couple of other shows coming up, one in Tokyo in early February at Koyanagi gallery, which will be a pleasant moment for me. I really love Japan, and I haven’t been for a while. I also have this museum show coming up in Spain and two books to be published.

Finally, I have to ask, will you ever return to fashion? Will you make clothes again?
Yes, totally, I assume in 2008. I don't want it to consume my life, but I would miss not doing it, especially the fabrics and the atelier. It is part of my life, and collections keep running through my head. It simply has to be the right project.

I have always been a big fan of performance art, so I was thrilled to hear that the second Performa biennial was in town. Through November 20, more than 90 artists—both established and emerging—will appear at numerous institutions. Organized by performance-art guru Roselee Goldberg, Performa 07 includes not only a slew of shows and art events, but also panel discussions, online streaming and, of course, late-night get-togethers at various bars.

Ten commissioned works are the cornerstone of the biennial, including an ambitious project by Italian provocateur Francesco Vezzoli, whose one-night restaging of Luigi Pirandello's 1917 play Right You Are (If You Think You Are) kicked off the festival in the rotunda of the Guggenheim. I had never seen the museum quite so packed, and I soon realized why. Besides Vezzoli's cult following (remember his well-publicized Caligula film piece at the Whitney?), Hollywood celebs and fashion stars turned out in droves, with Vezzoli himself sitting front-and-center with Miuccia Prada. Looming high were larger-than-life projections of Natalie Portman, Peter Sarsgaard, Ellen Burstyn and Dianne Wiest performing from the script.

The play was in three acts, throughout which Cate Blanchett sat still with her back to the audience, until her entrance at the very end—a moment worth waiting for. She silently stood up, left the viewing room and walked past the Richard Prince retrospective to the bottom of the spiraling rotunda, where, closing the play, she gave a short but stunning script-free monologue.

My next involvement with Performa was more personal. I ran into artist and blockmate, Christian Jankowski, whose rooftop performance, The Hula Hoopers, was to take place Saturday morning. Christian was scouting rooftops in the area on which his 27 hula hoopers could perform. I obliged, leading him up to my "no access" roof to see if it was, in fact, accessible. Success. So at 10:00 am on Saturday, I met my friend Benjamin Liu (I knew Benjamin would be just as enthusiastic about hula hoops, even at this early, cold and windy hour) and we made our way to Christian's to see the show. The first "hooper" appeared on a distant rooftop and began her rhythmic hooping. Within moments another girl appeared directly in front of us, followed by another and another, all hooping at a synchronized pace. Soon it was like spotting Waldo as we took in the 360-degree view of rooftops from as far as Allen Street. We laughed when we saw an imposter hooper in a courtyard below. It was all so delightful to watch, and such a great example of the transient yet powerful nature of performance.

Earlier in the weekend, as an antidote to all the fashion events of the previous week, I headed to The Wooster Group's experimental production of Hamlet, its first stab at Shakespeare. The highly original staging and a huge video projection of Richard Burton (the definitive Hamlet) formed the backdrop, and reminded us that no performance of Hamlet (performed here by Scott Shepard), no matter how modern, exists on its own without the context of performances past. Casey Spooner of Fischerspooner, meanwhile, played not only Laertes, but Rosencrantz and Guildenstern as well.

Sunday night was the last of five Morrissey concerts at the Hammerstein Ballroom—and it didn't disappoint. The crooner's renditions of classic Smiths songs and his more recent solo hits, accompanied by his suave maneuverings around the stage, were flawless. His voice and lyrics were as distinctive and clear as ever. At concert's end, as I emerged from my escape into nostalgia, my only regret was not being there (like so many others) for the preceding four shows.

Although scarred by the childhood costumes my mother created for me (corn on the cob—this is no lie!), I attempted a little Halloween performance of my own. A friend and I wondered what it would be like to be famous for a night, so we decked ourselves out as the Olsens. We had long dirty-blonde wigs expertly cut by a hairstylist friend, complete with applied visible roots, and raided my closet for oversized clothes—a fur chubby for "Ashley" and over-oversized matching glasses. We grabbed our large Venti Starbucks cups and took our practiced pouts and slouches onto the crazy costumed streets of New York. First we hit the V party at The Gramercy, then The Bowery, and no one, not ever our friends, recognized our true identities. Fame, at last!

No such person was on the guest list, fortunately, but had there been a fashion terrorist in New York this week, she could have chosen any number of parties to drop a bomb and wipe out a wide swath of the fashion world, none more so than the Fashion Group International's Night of Stars. Despite the lengthy black-tie ceremony to give out its Rule Breakers awards, the FGI—in its 24th year—still seems to have excellent taste in identifying fashion’s real talents and innovators, those designers who take risks and move fashion forward, particularly this year.

Upon arriving, the awards gala felt more like a class reunion, full of friends of fashion and the fashion of friends. In addition to the honorees, many of the usual suspects of the last few nights were there, as well as a crew of younger designers like Richard Chai and Phillip Lim. I first met up with my dearest friend Hussein Chalayan and Melih Yoru, who, besides celebrating their 4th anniversary together (maintaining a long-term relationship in fashion warrants an award in itself), were in town to receive an award the following night, too. They were accompanied by Husseins's publicist, Libby Haan of Karla Otto, who looked smashing in one of Hussein's coat dresses. I noticed that Andre Leon Talley, there to receive a Fashion Oracle award, was also wearing a coat dress, which looked more graduation gown than anything else. I secretly hoped Hussein had one of his remote controls handy and would switch it into something else. Soon, Hussein, one of fashion's true masters of innovation (and looking super slick and chic in his Martin Margiela suit) was whisked away to receive a gift from one of the sponsors, an Ebel watch I believe.

One of the headliners, Jean-Paul Gaultier showed up to receive the Superstar award (someone please tell them that their award titles need updating), accompanied by the gorgeous British Columbian model Coco Rocha and none other than Lauren Bacall. Iconic, too, was the ever-stylish Tilda Swinton. There to present an award to Alber Elbaz, she looked stunning and simply elegant in a long silk sheath of a gown, Lanvin certainly. (Please let's all remember that “simple” is the expected, yet often forgotten, complement to the word “elegant.") Linda Evangelista, who was also seen at a Lanvin party the previous night, wore an exquisite belted black sequin dress.

I can only hope more celebrities and socialites would break convention and choose (or have their stylists choose) a dress from Lanvin, Hussein Chalayan or Rick Owens. Fishtails, bustiers and hourglass creations are absurdly outdated. I would love to see a light-as-air Lanvin gown billowing down a red carper instead of just the runway, or see one of Hussein's creations transform and blush as the wearer received her award. That would be worth more than any statue.

I knew my second visit to the Great Wall of China would be totally different from the first one, and indeed it was, considering the magnitude of the event. After all, a large-scale, $10 million LVMH project in an emerging superpower would be all about showing off, and isn't that exactly what we love about fashion? Invited by music man Michel Gaubert, my great friend and collaborator (Karl Lagerfeld once took our portrait, making us out to be boxers), and knowing my good friend and artist Terence Koh would be there, I had no doubt it was going to be a trip like no other.

Arriving at the Grand Hyatt Beijing—where all guests (international press, Chinese VVIP's, New York socialites and various other jetsetters) were to stay for four days—was the first moment of awe. A human-sized, F-shaped sculpture was installed right in front of the entrance, which itself had been redesigned, making good use of the illustrious yellow and black double-F monogram. The result was a kind of Fendi Hotel, to the point one might think the whole country had been redesigned as the People's Republic of Fendi. Thank you, Mr. Arnault.

Friday saw an entire fleet of cars drive to the Great Wall to witness the unique fashion intrusion on China's most famous landmark. A cocktail reception beneath the marble archways of the Cloud Platform, built centuries ago during the Ming Dynasty, was only a hint at things to come. And as the press release emphasized, a lot of records were broken. Not only was it the first show atop the structure, but it was also the the longest runway ever, at 200 meters, along which 88 models walked (8 is a lucky number in China, a sign of infinite prosperity—here doubled by Karl).

The spectacle was indeed spectacular, with, as Michel told me earlier, "a lunar effect." Was it Karl's intention to transform the longest catwalk ever into some kind of mystical ceremony, playing off the idea that the Great Wall is the only human construction that can be observed from space?

As I expected from Michel, the sound design was original and a little challenging, ranging from Stravinsky and Scarlatti to the Love Boat theme song and Karl's favorite tune, Cervantes by Kreidler. Michel said he basically tried to do a musical translation of 20s-style chinoiserie. For fun, he wanted to use Pink Floyd's The Wall, but stopped short. Interestingly, the Chinese government had to authorize the tracks in early October, so Michel sent them all 700 possibilities, none of which were refused. In the end, the final track list was the perfect accompaniment to the long and lean Chinese beauties on the runway—sometimes with Caucasian girls mixed in—who walked with such majesty, particularly a pair of twins.

The show ended with an explosion of lights and white fireworks until, to a standing ovation by a thrilled audience draped in furs, the final bow by the maestro himself and Silvia Fendi, responsible for the house's famed accessories. Fendi had just made history. Ask Kate Bosworth, her model beau James Rousseau, actresses Ziyi Zhang and Patty Ho, Nigo, former footballer Hidetoshi Nakata or Miss Universe Riyo Mori of Japan if they think any differently.

After the exhilarating moment, I decided to avoid the armada of journalists and fashionistas trying to crack the backstage citadel and went straight to the dinner portion of the evening, which took place at a new and unfinished shopping complex called the Village in the popular nightlife area known as Sanlitun. Terence stayed and later regaled me with the great fun he had meeting Karl and how they ended up talking for hours about their mutual passion for rings and jewels. In particular, he said the Kaiser was very enthusiastic about Terence's right wrist, with its many Chanel watches, comparing the mass of gold to the way Ndebele tribeswomen of South Africa wear piles of necklaces. And Terence, formerly known as asianpunkboy, responded in that reverential off-color way of his that he was born a Nigga Supa Woman.

Now on to the after-party. Amazing? Most of it was, especially wall-climbing dancers, but at times it felt more like an onslaught of cliches, from projected images of Italian classicism and Fellini's La Dolce Vita to scenes meant to evoke The Long March, which led to Mao Zedong's rise to power (remember, he's still officially venerated in China). The message that the Chinese, increasingly rich, should indulge in all things Fendi came through loud and clear.

The next day, while Terence headed to the contemporary art district known as 798 to meet a gallerist, I took Michel Gaubert and his crew of Noise Boys out with me. We went to the Military Museum, so big it could be the Louvre Museum of Weaponry, where we took pictures of yours truly in front of an authentic and perhaps armed Chinese nuclear missile while wearing a Munch mask (The Scream) I had brought from Tokyo .

Chics, style geeks and superfreaks gathered at Shoreditch Town Hall in London’s East End for the second annual Bistrotheque Drag Ball (or B.A.D. Ball 2, as it was suggestively dubbed), thanks to Bistrotheque's Pablo Flack and David Waddington. A la Paris Is Burning, "houses"—House of Fierce Nest, House of Dubois, House of Egypt, House of BoomBox—showed off their catwalk struts, with a panel of judges awarding points, hollers, claps and whistles to those who worked their look, aura and glamma.

As one would expect, all possible combinations of glitter, gaffer tape, ghetto gold, white face paint, postbox-red lipstick, veils and Olympic-wear (gearing up for 2012!) charged down the runway. Jonny Woo served as the evening's host(ess) with the most(ess), while also keeping collisions to a minimum—quite a feat considering some of the categories: Celebrity Community Service, 'Polo and Pearls' International Young Royals and Banjii Cunt.

So how does a judge even begin to compare these femmes when each is her own work of art? Giving it their best shot were fashion writer, broadcaster and presenter of The Clothes Show, Caryn Franklin, Yasmin Sewell of Browns, Dazed & Confused creative director Nicola Formichetti, designer and DJ Hazel Robinson, Mulberry's creative director (until January) Stuart Vevers, Lulu Kennedy of Fashion East, i-D fashion editor Francesca Burns, Henry (House of) Holland, British Vogue’s Harriet Quick and the incomparable make-up mistress Pat McGrath.

The social show surrounding the runway show was almost as entertaining. Among a front row that included Joe McKenna and gallerist Maureen Pailey, Fran Burns worked black-patent fetish heels so vertiginous they made Balenciaga kicks look like training shoes. In a Swarovski crystal-encrusted House of Holland dress (that read: WHO NEEDS A HUSBAND I'VE GOT HOUSE OF HOLLAND), she was accessorized much of the evening by Holland himself, dapper in a gray vest and tie-dyed tee. Monochromatic sartorial wunderkind Gareth Pugh made his entrance with P.i.X music zine editor Hanna Hanra, in coordinated Stars ’n’ Stripes outfits, which brings us to the second event of the evening: Pugh's new do. Out with the perm and in with ceramic straighteners—because he’s worth it. Yet no one can compete with hairchitect Guido Palau, who not only has one of the best heads of hair in London but also the most striking pants of the night (from Comme des Garçons' Rolling Stones collection). All the while, publicist nonpareil Mandi Lennard—in Roksanda Ilincic, completing her look with a clipboard—worked the room, dutifully keeping all in check. (Where’s the Vuitton mono-mink, Mandi?)

And finally, for the afterparty, the jubilant fashion pack crammed into East End boozerie The Joiners for still more shenanigans.

On the occasion of Terence Koh's first trip to Tokyo, we asked Cyril Duval (aka item idem, a conceptual artist from France), to give us a report of the welcoming party he whipped up. Here's what he sent (with additional snaps from Terence himself)...

I decided to crack a party for Terence—with stylist and photographer Kazumi Asamura—for no real reason. And we felt the crime scene should be the newly launched Le Baron de Paris, the latest venture by artist and night owl Mister A (after Le Baron in Paris and Beatrice Inn in New York). A media partner was needed, and it became obvious that it could only be the new Numèro Tokyo. Ako Tanaka, its editor-in-chief, didn't lose a second in associating her "baby" with the event, and at the same time creating the magazine's first official party. The deal was sealed. It would be called KOH KOH KOH, which, by translating Chinese into Japanese kanji, accidently yet aptly means: the smell/sense of high school.

A nice mix gathered, mostly influential peeps from the Japanese art scene, such as the inimitable gallerist Akimitsu Naruyama and ART iT editor-in-chief Tetsuya Osaki. Fashion types, too, showed up, among them Nobutaka Kaneko, the newly-appointed CEO of Balenciaga Japan, and his former employer, United Bamboo designer Miho Aoki, both good friends of the artist. Other fashion-minded Tokyoites included Keiko Mimoto (who helped launch Comme des Garçons, alongside Rei Kawakubo); Kosuke Tsumura, designer of Final Home; and younger designers like Kiri of the Harajuku-based Revolver, a label linked to French record label Ed Bangers. Everyone was there thanks to Mizuyo Yoshida of Steady Study, the hottest PR firm in town.

At a private party the night before, Terence entertained us by breakdancing on the dance floor (in his $20,000 Balenciaga robo-pants, no less), but tonight his pièce de résistance was a white wig, the kind donned by villains in traditional Kabuki theater. Surrounded by dry-ice mist, burning lights and the city's club kids, asianpunkboy (as Terence was formerly known) and his coterie danced to sounds provided by Jean-Marie Delbes (resident DJ of Le Baron in both Paris and Tokyo) and his partner-in-crime, Shoichi Kajino, creative director of L'Appareil photo agency.

And now, a shout-out to longtime mentor (and Canadian artist collective) General Idea. To them, I say: Nine lives, eight more to go! Mew, Maow, Miaou. Long live the Sunny Brave Dog!

You have to get up pretty early in the morning to know the frenetic goings-on of London's fashion scene. Such was the case this morning, when the city's fash-pack awoke at the crack of dawn to make it to UNIQLO's breakfast launch of cashmere and denim for the winter holidays. And what an impressive array it was: superior kaihara denim, super-soft cashmere and a new men’s selvedge line. Headlining, however, were hosts Gareth Pugh, Kim Jones and Carri Mundane, who modeled their new tees for UNIQLO, the latest in the UT (UNIQLO T-shirt) Project.

Arrival at the new Biscuit Tin at Shoreditch House felt like walking into a nightclub. All the familiar ingredients were there: BoomBox's DJ Jerry Bouthier on the decks, editors from Britain's top fashion titles, design tribes gathering on different sides of the room. Even BoomBox mastermind Richard Mortimer was on hand, keeping his resident DJ supplied with watermelon juice and bacon bagels.

“I don’t do mornings,” muttered Kim Jones, the first of the designers to arrive, before mellowing into a friendlier chat about the T-shirt he designed for the project. “I sat down with my graphic designer and we thought about all of our favorite song lyrics and worked them in. We also got some S-Express in there,” he added. “I’m in the band, you know!”

Then it was off for a bit of circulating with bold-facers: the Sunday Times' fashion critic Colin McDowell, the Telegraph’s Hilary Alexander, Dazed & Confused editor-in-chief Nicki Bidder, British GQ’s Charlie Porter (wearing the baggiest Raf Simons jeans known to man), the Guardian’s Jess Cartner-Morley and Samantha Conti, London bureau chief of WWD, who I shared a Bucks Fizz with. Stacey Duguid from Elle shared a couch with her team, while Ben Readon, editor of i-D, and his fashion editors Francesca Burns and Erika Kurihara munched on wild mushroom omelettes, as well as the fall denims from Uniqlo's main line, which was also on display. “It's mingling as an extreme sport,” observed i-D contributing editor Hanna Hanra.

Gareth Pugh arrived next, and he was quickly commended by his publicist Mandi Lennard, who organized the event, for wearing UNIQLO. “It’s my only piece,” he quipped, perhaps angling for a few free samples to be thrown his way. Gareth’s design, with his signature checkerboard and star motifs, is reminiscent of the graphic, futuristic prints from his own line. “I’ve only started making sales with my main collection," he said, "but all of my stockists are pretty exclusive so it’s nice to have a presence on the high street.” Always thinking of the kids!

Our conversation was interrupted by the lovely Emma Elwick from Vogue, who came with her new friend and winner of Vogue's New Talent competition [and Hint contributor], Stephen Doig. After chatting about boys and reminiscing about our joint adventures at Glastonbury, it was time to sniff out the third and final designer in the project: Carri Mundane of Cassette Playa, who I found sharing a scrambled egg and smoked salmon toastette with Dazed & Confused fashion editor Katie Shillingford and Eyespy editor and photographer Matt Irwin. “All of my prints are based on symbolism,” she told me of her T-shirts, “and this one is based on Fischer Price. You know, the children's toys.”

In an elevator back to civilization, Gareth rummaged through his goodie bag and pulled out a cashmere top. “Shit, I’ve gone and picked up a women's bag. Oh well, I’ll give it to Pippa, me housemate!” Which might explain why he has only one piece of UNIQLO in his wardrobe.

The Dazzle Dancers—in collaboration with artist Bec Stupak and Peace Bisquit records—premiered their new single and music video, The Love Boat, at Deitch Projects in Soho. Most who know the Dazzles probably know them from New York’s seedy underbelly, where their message of peace and love through nudity is readily accepted (of course!). Having slept with some of them (of course!), I know them well and often cheerlead, but anyone could see the upgrade in venue marked a sort of watershed—change was in the smoke-machined air. The event was sponsored by megabrand Adidas and the Dazzles even rehearsed. But the most shocking of all? In the last chaotic minutes before show time, as techies scrambled, Dazzles dressed and glitter swirled, Cherry Dazzle ordered me not to pass around my whiskey. Not that it mattered, since by the time the doors finally opened, more than a few Dazzles were a beer away from blackout.

Hundreds arrived, but most did not get in. Thankfully, the cops arrived to clear away the rabble (i.e. Lady Bunny). Those who made it in remarked upon the irony that the Dazzles—a group of people who pride themselves on crashing parties—could have a door so rigidly policed. Victors included Paul Alexander, Murray Hill, Michael Musto, William Hurt and, looking a little traumatized, Brian Clamp (of Clamp Art), Paper's Kim Hastreiter, Zaldy, Miguel Villalobos and Jay McCarroll. Porn star Colton Ford, meanwhile, seemed totally at home, perhaps owing to the bright lights and lubrication—booze, that is.

The show began with a review of Dazzle fashions, from 1996 to the present. Designed and rehabilitated by the aptly named Machine Dazzle, the costumes ran the gamut (not that it's a big one) from sequinned sailor shorts to skimpy strips of tape, but all were shiny and made for quick removal. Then, in black leotards with iridescent stars, the Dazzles proved that nothing, not rehearsals, Adidas cash, or high production values, could change their basic ethos—love, liberation, libation and glitter (over 30 pounds of it). They danced, sometimes even in unison, amid clouds of overzealous smoke, before getting naked—always a crowd-pleaser—and posing in tableaux.

After the show, the Dazzles rushed the crowd. Before long, it was the kind of party the Dazzles come from, with shirtless and sweaty men, dirty smoke and house music thumping. It was an opportunity for everyone to participate in a little Dazzle play. Days later, we're still aglow—and aglitter.

Not even a torrent of rain in London could keep revelers away from the first anniversary party of BoomBox. And what a first year it's been for the man behind the mayhem, Richard Mortimer. Not only has he welcomed friends including Bjork, Wolfgang Tillmans, Luella Bartley, Judy Blame and Sam Taylor-Wood to pop into the Hoxton Square space and spin their favorite records, but he’s also thrown London Fashion Week parties for i-D and Pop magazines. He's even taken the BoomBox show—a plane load of DJs, club kids and designers—to repeat the magic at Milan Fashion Week. And future projects include Jeremy Scott and Ryan McGinley as guest DJs and the BoomBox book, launching soon at London Fashion Week.

But back to the party. Doorgirl Cozette (in a gold Jil Sander frock, pint in hand) was all kisses and winks as she handpicked regulars from the crowd outside. Inside, the small but packed dance floor went into meltdown as special guest Roisin Murphy, in a sculpted black Zac Posen number and top hat, launched into her new tune, Overpowered. Earlier, Gareth Pugh wowed everyone with a killer set that included Flashdance, a mass sing-along to Mariah Carey’s All I Want for Christmas and a familiar track that has his name written all over it, Fame.

Those who couldn't handle the dance floor mania retired to the lounge for beautiful-people watching, a group that included Giles Deacon, Katie Grand, Lara Bohinc, Henry Holland of House of Holland, David Saunders of David David and club kids working outrageous looks. The city's new smoking ban meant the garden was jammed-packed, almost as much fun as the dance floor—or the bathroom, a scene also in full swing with gaggles of she-boys hogging the mirror, posing for impromptu photo shoots and trading X-rated gossip.

Soon it was closing time. As the appropriately chosen last record, We Are Family, kicked in, the crowd sang a heartfelt “Happy Birthday, Dear BoomBox” at maximum volume. Fierce, friendly, fun and f-a-b-u-l-o-u-s. BoomBox is more than nightlife, it's a way of life. And we we love it!

Another former student, Bruno Pieters was among the most buzzed-about attendees with his recent announcement that he'll resign as teacher at the academy to concentrate on his new job as creative director at Hugo Boss, as well as his own women's and men's label—but not before a going-away party of sorts. We bumped into him on the third day, his eyes covered with sunglasses. “I haven't seen my bed,” he admitted in a hushed voice still hoarse from a party he threw at his apartment the night before.

The jurors were a familiar bunch that included Linda Loppa, the school's former course director, who now works as the dean of Polimoda fashion school in Florence; Parisian corsetier Mr. Pearl; designer and alumna Véronique Branquinho; make-up artist Inge Grognard; Barbara Franchin, director of Italian talent agency Eve; and Kuki de Salvertes, the French publicist whose PR firm in Paris, Totem, specializes in Belgian talent.

And talent the graduating class delivered once again. Marc Philippe Coudeyre sent out a gloriously baroque womenswear collection that was as bold and dark as it was meticulous and couture-like. Fabrics from brocade to neoprene were nicely draped as dresses or courageously ruffled as short capes. Although the style has been a regular on the runways in Paris, the French native's gift is undeniable.

We were also enchanted by Taro Horiuchi's ethereal and futuristic men's collection, called Ancient Plastic. His delicately detailed pieces came in bright whites, soft grays, transparent neoprene (a clear winner this year) and sheer gold. The plissé men's skirts recalled Olivier Theyskens' flowy women's creations for Nina Ricci.

Another favorite was the gray and burgundy men's collection from Gunhyo Kim, a South Korean with an amazing cutting technique that could be seen, for example, in a suit resembling a flag. His refreshing approach is to slim down a silhouette rather than build it up.

Raul Egloff Alcaide chose ancient Greece and its boy-love reputation as his inspiration. The collection told the story of innocence—in, say, ruffled boxers—slowly giving way to a harsher reality, in leather and, again, neoprene.

Finally, thumbs up for two unique, if opposing, visions. Lenny Leleu delivered sexy yet inventively frivolous bathing suits, while conceptualist Andrea Ayala Closa opted for faceless models in simple, but finely crafted black outfits with spooky appliquéd hands. We had the impression she wanted to tell the story of the working class, people whose identities are often unknown. She was, perhaps, the one who best captured the philosophical and moody approach to fashion for which the Antwerp Academy—and, through it, Belgian design—is so acclaimed.

Dear Diary,
This is my fourth Art Basel. The first year Fischerspooner performed, the second year I went to the convention center, where all the galleries shill their wares, but only for fifteen minutes to buy a painting from Deitch that I knew I wanted, and last year I found the experience exhausting and overwhelming. It is not an exhibition, it's a warehouse sale. Therefore, this year, my schedule would be full of fun times with friends!

Day One:
I arrived later in the day and, as I had flown Jet Blue, was absolutely starving. I could hardly speak to the chic crowd that was already teeming at baggage claim. I checked into the Shore Club and went directly to Sultan, the Middle Eastern falafel shack wedged between Mynt Lounge and the hotel. Sultan is THEEE place to eat in South Beach. Everyone is there and it is the only place that doesn't take two hours to have a mediocre meal that is needlessly expensive. Within five minutes of sitting down, the parade and excitement began. Ben Cho and artist Nate Lowman landed at the table beside me, Spencer Product stopped by on his way to DJ the Visionaire tent, while Suzanne Geiss from Deitch, Stefano Tonchi from the New York times and I witnessed the hoards of VIPs pouring onto Collins Avenue. I was there and it was on! Let the social marathon begin.

I went from there directly to the beach to catch some of Peaches' show. I had missed her show in London and New York and I really wanted to see her new band. The beach was beautiful and it was a big crowd. I love Peaches' shows and I have seen many, but Miami sound ordinances made this one not one of my favorites. The city kept the Db levels so low that it took some of the punch out of a great performance.

I ran back to the hotel and donned my pink YSL cruise collection tuxedo and threw a bow in my hair and raced to the Deitch party at the Raleigh to see Devendra Banhart perform with his posse of hairy men. The show was very mellow. It was nice to slow down among the anticipation and excitement of the first day of the fair. But the minute the encore was cut off, again due to sound ordinances, the energy picked back up. The Perez Projects cabana was especially hopping and I hung with Slava Mogutin and Brian Kenny. Around 4:00 am, we went to David's and had cuban sandwiches and plantains and discussed Shakespeare. We were surprised to see the ladies of Avenue D. I stumbled home and called it a night.

Day Two:
Believe it or not, I am not a big partier. I just play one on TV. So I awoke with quite the hangover. I made it across the street to get a "grande" Cuban coffee and headed for the beach. I was out of practice at lounging in the sun so I headed to the Raleigh to meet the painter Michael Bevilacqua. We had dinner and drinks by the pool to get through the obligations ahead.

Mathu Placek, the photographer, and I headed to Yvonne Force's dinner at the Standard. It was beautiful and everyone was lounging on kick-ass beach towels made by various artists. The Marilyn Minter was my favorite. I saw the core of the New York art posse. We said hello and goodbye and busted a move over to the Delano to see Dita Von Teese perform. I have always wanted to see her and have never had the chance. We fought our way through the door and waited by the pool, over which the stage was suspended. The show began with model-y dudes in black jeans and no shirt pulling curtains back to reveal a giant tube of lipstick that she rode like an electric bull. Dita's costume was so sparkly! I have never seen anything sparklier! EVER. Not Vegas. Not Paris. Damn, I was jealous. Again the sound was a bit underwhelming as is the case I see now with every outdoor performance in Miami. Dita is good, but in a way...too good and perfectly executed. It was as if I was seeing something I had never seen but already imagined, strange but not surprising. She danced. She pranced. She stripped. She rode the giant electric-bull lipstick, which was choreographed beautifully and was pretty damn ridiculously awesome.

The minute the show was over I had to get my ass over to my party. I hosted an evening at Studio A with Hernan Bas, Naomi Fischer, Michael Bevilacqua and Armando Alexander. Whitey performed and they were fantastic. I had heard of him/them, but I had never seen a show. They have been on tour, opening for Peaches, and it was by far the best show I had seen all week and in quite a while. We drank too much tequila and danced, then headed to the next and final stop.

Le Baron. Okay, I have had a beef with these Frenchies as one of my favorite places in Miami is Star Studios, the karaoke bar in the basement of the Shelbourne. These peeps took it over last year and ruined my favorite uncool hiding spot, but this year they redeemed themselves. It was the den of sin for all of the most talented and exciting decandents of the art world. And no matter how I tried, I was always drawn to the debauchery of Le Baron. The best part was the live karaoke band of French rockers with sullen faces who you only find in Paris. And the host was a kind of circus sideshow hawker with a big moustache and a great personality. One night, the crowd at the door was deep and it was not pretty. After enjoying waiting outside with all the right people (often I have more fun waiting to get in to an event and I have learned to relax and enjoy the scene on the street), we were pulled through a terrifying throng of hungry revelers. It was serious scary and on the verge of real danger. But no matter, we were in. Along the way I ran into the artist Robert Melee and the minute we got in we figured out how to jump the line of karaoke singers and did a very experimental version of Nightclubbing. WE WERE ART. And a good time was had by all.

Day Three:
Alright, I'm getting tired now at Art Basel and feeling like I should just cut and run. It is all a bit too much and this year's fair seems to have taken the whole endeavor up a notch. More parties. More dinners. More artists. More celebrites. More money. More sponsors. MORE. MORE. MORE.

The photographer Thomas Dozol and I go to the Paper Magazine Store in the Design District. It is a great little shop filled with interesting artist-made objects and products. We bought several of the beach towels that Yvonne Force produced and admired much of the rest. But the best part were the amazing murals painted by Jim Drain all over the store. Beautiful and brightly colored stencils of dollar signs and the words "thank you." Forget wallpaper! Call Jim.

We then went to the Albion and played miniature golf, then raced home to change for the night. The wind on the tented terrace of The Raleigh was insane. We were there for Arden Wohl's screening of her short film and the weather only heightened the excitement. The film starred Domino, who is also in a band called Domino that is made up of the founding members of Dopo Yume. They performed after the film and they sounded great. She has a fantastic voice and a really nice presence. Very folksy, but not too folksy. In fear of being flung from the terrace in gale force winds, I escaped to the Vanity Fair/Moma party at the Shore Club. It was very big. After seeing Doug Aitken, I busted a move to the best scene in town, Le Baron. And you know the rest.

Day Four:
I booked myself a full day of spa treatments at the Standard. I steamed, I sauna-ed, I got rubbed and scrubbed and came out feeling like a new man ready for a final lap around town. I had a great dinner with Simon Hammerstein (one of the owners of the Box in New York, the newest best venue in town) and raced over to the Delano to host a cabana by the pool. David Byrne, Marcelo Krasilcic and others stopped by for a quick drink. Pictures were taken and we were off to the Visionaire party. We ate caviar and drank vodka and shimmied to the musical stylings of DJ Michel Gaubert. We also gawked at the Miami-style strippers, male and female. I saw artist Jack Pierson and introduced myself to Andreas, the super hot super male super model. He looked so lonely and sweet. Mathu, photographer Abbey Drucker and I wooed him and proceeded to get him drunk and steal him away to Le Baron, where we molested him on the dance floor. At 5:00 am we closed Sultan, which is unheard of, and had a finale slice of pizza on the steps of the Shore Club. And when Paris Hilton drunkenly stumbled out of her Maybach in front of us and into the hotel, ending her night before me, I knew it was time to turn in.