Chanel in Hand, Toes in the Sand
Art.sy and Chanel get the party started at Art Basel Miami with a beach BBQ. I search for the goodie bags and try my best not to fall into the ocean.
With husband and best friend in tow, we hit up the Chanel beachside BBQ at the Soho Beach House last night, to celebrate the house of Lagerfeld’s current love of Art.sy, a new start-up which is the equivalent of YouPorn for art hags. Considered one of Art Basel’s best of the week, the event was to be frequented by the usual suspects; socialites, models, celebs, and a who’s who of artists.
I attempted to look like I fit in with the cool kids by dressing in a recent find from a little known collaboration, H&M x Margiela. I paired the dress with a Chevron Chanel bag and gold studded flats, dressing, for once, practically, since I didn’t want to be the idiot at the party who falls flat on her face. (Fortunately, someone else decided to take the tumble. Open bars + unsolid ground don’t make for good bedfellows.)
The door of the Soho Beach House was a mob scene, with over 100 guests and crashers attempting to bottleneck the check in, leaving the poor PR girls dealing with a lot of angry people who felt they were really important, when they really weren’t. For those unfamiliar with the creatures who frequent an over publicized fashion party line, here’s the breakdown. 10% are celebrities who don’t wait in lines and skip everyone to go in, in this case, artist Mr.Brainwash who jumped the line, 10% are people on the list who think they are celebrities and attempt to do the same, and 70% are crashers who makes everyone’s life a living hell.
By definition, a fashion party crasher is a douchebag who hears about a good party, tells ALL of his friends and any girl he hopes to bang (notice when I say ‘his’), and then pushes to the front of the line only to act like he just heard news that he was adopted when the the PR gives him the sad news that he and his posse are not on the list. Then comes the huff, the checking of messages on his cell phone, the flashing of the email to the PR, as if she really cares if you make it in, the fake phone calls to the person he thinks will be able to help him, finally a defiant hand throw in the air, and a “this party isn’t that cool anyway” statement that normally signals his exit from the line.
Once inside, or outside in this scenario, I felt as if I had just been invited to the best beach party ever. Chanel transformed the boardwalk by building a massive tent and filling it with lanterns, beach chairs, paella grills, and about 500 of the best dressed people in Miami.
Giant baskets filled with beach blankets cornered the room, giving us the perfect excuse to skip the dancing and put our feet in the sand. While making a bee-line for the shore-line, I spotted Leigh Lezark & Geordon Nicol, Just Jared‘s Jared Eng, who shared his love of living the life in LA, a towering Lauren Santo Domingo, the very jeered Brant Brothers, DJ and painfully stylish it girl, Mia Moretti, an unfashionable, yet still knee-weakeningly hot, Kellan Lutz in baseball cap and tee-shirt, no judgments, Brazilian Jacobs lover, Lorenzo Martone, and Stephen Dorff, who’s been keeping me up at night with his Blu cigarette ads. It’s vapor, so you’re not the asshole at the party blowing smoke in everyone’s face. I’m sold.
After feeling painfully lucky to be in a room with so many amazing people, I took to the sands with the hubs, only to spot New York familiar, Malcolm Harris, aka Mr.Golightly making love to the night in sequined shorties and sarong. We chatted and made plans for a failed rendezvous at Le Baron.
With a few drinks in me and a failed attempt to find where the VIP goodie bags were hiding, we left the party, but not before realizing just how much I love my job…