The best nights are always those that are not planned nor can be recreated, instead they unfold happenstance in the most wildly unpredictable fashion. They are always the nights you were anticipating you'd stay in with popcorn and a movie, and the next thing you know, you've been whisked to a dance club with a group of rock stars you ran into at Blockbuster - in your pajamas no less.
This past Saturday was such a night. Kasey and I flat-out missed the "planned" event (a Martin Margiela party) - but quickly found ourselves caught up with the remaining straggling revellers who, right there on the pavement, proceeded to cobble together an after-party.
After a march through Mayfair, we found ourselves in a dark, tiny, cave-like room in the basement of Soho House (it was the only place they could find to put us) where we talked art, ambition and parental expectations. Occupationally, it was a creative mixed bag... a singer, installation artist, fashion stylist, makeup artist, model, dilettante (me), fashion PR revolutionary - you know, the delectable crazy-artist gamut. Then, feeling we knew each other a bit better, and growing tired of heavy conversation, we traded in the demureness of our Soho grotto for dancing at the equally diminutive and subterranean Bungalow 8.
It was a wholly random and interesting crowd... a fantastic evening... and to top it all off, we'll probably never be in the same room together ever again. Pictures of this once-in-a-lifetime event follow.
Cowboys and uh, Native Americans...
Kasey - blatantly skeptical of her newly-acquired accessory.
A stunning couple - non?
Dancing on the tables...
And the floor!
What happens at the 8...
Stays at the 8.