The magazine is made of titanium; the party, of tin foil. Still, the launch of Visionaire 63: FOREVER is as lavishly tricky to get into as if its cover model, this millennium’s Dorian Gray, were really there. No Kate Moss, I text a friend who’s asking for herself. Only Kate Upton? I squint harder. When every last surface is mirrored, it becomes almost impossible to see. Only a Kate Upton look-a-like.
In the long halls and tall staircases of the Clock Tower, below Canal, every person could pass for a famous person. This is partly the effect of a dress code: Whether guests dressed to match titanium or tinfoil, it all looks, in the halls, like a long series of Who Wore it Best? Metallics. (I’d give the gold to my friend, Visionaire and V designer Berkeley Poole, in borrowed Dior the color of a Nestle-egg wrapper, but the champagne-named Patricia Van Der Vliet has a very commendable Gwyneth-circa-Shakespeare-in-
It’s also the effect of the décor. Silver coats the place, from coat check to ceiling, bannister to the Belvedere and Chandon bar. In a silver room full of silver balloons, a flash photographer makes glossy interns feel like silver-screen queens. Next door, a silver machine makes silver confetti fly to the silver sky. A girl who looks like a blonde Leigh Lezark floats by, and later I realize it is a blonde Leigh Lezark. New York’s going Hollywood. Confetti lands like shrapnel in the gold of my glass. I cannot, when I climb more silvered stairs to the starry roof, shake the feeling that it’ll cut my feet.
FOREVER. An aureate staircase spirals to nowhere, and the room fills slowly to just below capacity, as all smart parties do. Smoke drifts in from the stone ledge. I’m taking iPhotos without flash, beguiled by the eternal poses of partiers: An interested woman whispering close to her conquest, silver being the best conductor of electricity; a girl leaning skinny-armed, hand on hip, near one of the guys from BFA. Nobody can dance to Sebastian Perrier. The Dutch models all move like mercury. There is an untarnishable cast to the whole tableau, as though we’re frozen, Moss-like, in titanium. But the next morning I want to Instagram something, and the photo seems to have greyed overnight, the accrual of silver turned to ash. There’s a scrap of tin foil in my bag, and no cigarettes.