An evening honoring Bill Cunningham, the original street-style photographer
Ah, the Waldorf Astoria. That evening, it stood as a beacon of sophistication, ready to host the Carnegie Hall Medal of Excellence celebration. As if the night needed any more pizzazz, Oscar de la Renta had graciously offered to create a dress for me. Clearly, reality had taken a brief hiatus, and I was now the star of a whimsical fashion fairytale.
Oscar, the maestro himself, welcomed me with the kind of effortless elegance that made me feel like an interloper in his impossibly chic universe. With a few swift adjustments, he conjured a dress that made me wonder if I should be taking lessons in graceful floating instead of walking. The dress was a marvel, and I was certain my fairy godmother would be green with envy.
Inside the grand ballroom of the Waldorf, I found my seat beside Sarah Jessica Parker. Yes, the Sarah Jessica Parker, who, unsurprisingly, was as delightful as one could hope. Our conversation flowed with the ease of two old friends, although I had to bite my tongue to avoid asking if she kept spare Manolos in her purse.
The ceremony commenced, and Bill Cunningham took the stage in his trademark blue jacket, looking every bit the endearing eccentric. His acceptance speech was a masterclass in humility, met with a standing ovation that suggested the crowd feared he might decide to photograph them if they didn’t comply.
The evening’s highlight was undoubtedly the performance by my husband at the time, Vittorio Grigolo. His voice filled the ballroom with such emotion that I half-expected chandeliers to start swaying in time. The audience, myself included, was enraptured—an outcome that, while predictable, was no less impressive for its inevitability.
As the night drew to a close, I couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer absurdity of it all. There I was, swathed in de la Renta, swapping stories with SJP, and basking in the musical brilliance of Vittorio. It felt as though I had been dropped into the pages of an overly indulgent lifestyle magazine, the kind that makes one ponder whether reality has been temporarily suspended.
Stepping out into the crisp night air, I cast a final glance back at the Waldorf Astoria, its lights twinkling as if to say, “Yes, this really happened.” I left with a heart full of gratitude and a head full of stories guaranteed to enliven future dinner parties. It had been an evening where the improbable became commonplace, leaving me to wonder what other whimsies life might hold—perhaps a pottery class with Grayson Perry?
