On Saturday night, the cool crowd gathered for a viewing of Peter Lindbergh’s exhibition at 5A, the Upper East Side home-turned-gallery of art dealer Vladimir Restoin Roitfeld.
“This is the smallest exhibition I’ve ever done,” Lindbergh said of the 35 archival prints on display. “The others have had like 250 images or something like that. This is really nice. It feels so exclusive.”
Long-limbed ladies Liu Wen and Constance Jablonski doubled up on the triplex stairs, taking two at a time up to the third floor. Stavros Niarchos idled on the second floor where plates of fried sage and passionfruit macaroons topped with dollops of fois gras were passed. Spoken word verse from poet Forrest Gander floated through the space. “Left clavicle….carving stone…he uses sand…” Gander’s voice relayed over the speakers scattered throughout the home.
Laure Heriard Dubreuil pointed out her favorite. “That one,” she said, beaming in her pregnancy glow, motioning across the way to a photograph of Linda Evangelista from 1987. “Isn’t it just amazing?”
Down in the Meatpacking District, Prabal Gurung’s post-show party was well under way at Bar Nana. The dark room thumped, limiting verbal exchanges to near-shouts. Clusters of scenesters populated the dark space, trails of smoke emanating from each huddle thanks to the e-cigarettes handed out at the door.
Mia Moretti and Kate Foley clinked Svedka sodas in a brown leather banquette. Chelsea Leyland and Lily Kwong tore up the dance floor, shimmying to The Spice Girls’ “Wannabe.” Soon a troop of bulky security guards parted the sea of flailing arms.
“Nick is the hottest one,” a partygoer determined as the Jonas brothers passed on their way to their tightly guarded corner booth. “Have you seen his shirtless pictures online?”
“It’s been kind of a crazy busy fashion week,” Joe said, from the brothers’ table. Blanda Eggenschwiler, his leggy model girlfriend, looked on. “We’ve got about five or six shows, but it’s all pretty much our friends.”
Just then, Ciara emerged from behind the DJ booth. “Are my ladies in the house tonight?” she purred into the microphone. Hannah Bronfman front and center howled. Before performing her hits, Ciara acknowledged the man of the hour. “Some people call him Pray-bel. I call him Prabal,” she told the crowd. “Anyway, I just want to thank him for bringing me out tonight.”