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“Well, it’s not new. It’s a regular occurrence,” Andre Balazs said with a shrug on Wednesday night at the Top of the Standard. He seemed entirely unbothered by the interminable stream of partygoers bulldozing by, attempting to get through the thicket, jostling the hotelier as they passed. “It’s rather traditional by now.” Balazs was in a swarm on the 18th floor of the Standard, a “rather traditional” choice for a fashion week fete, which was hosting not one but two bashes: Chez Andre at Le Bain and, across the hall, the Purple Magazine and Proenza Schouler Party at the Top of the Standard.
By 11:30, the Boom Boom side was packed, the place pulsating with the likes of Max Snow, Caroline Brasch Nielsen, Yigal Azrouel, Chelsea Leyland, Mia Moretti, Alexandra Richards, Johan Lindeberg and Cory Kennedy (noticeably absent: Jack McCollough and Lazaro Hernandez). James Goldstein idled by himself, drooped against a banister, and looking utterly content not to be bothered. Richard Chai bustled toward the door to say hi to a just-arriving Miles McMillan. Over by one of the massive windows, Georgia Himler took an Instagram shot of the sweeping cityscape views.
“The only thing that I’ve gone to is my friend Wendy Nichol’s presentation which was earlier tonight. My sister Aliana was in it,” Lindsay Lohan said of her week. The starlet’s handlers were reportedly told to keep her away from Leonardo DiCaprio who was said to be arriving shortly. “I saw her and I was like, ‘Who is that girl?’ She was wearing this amazing outfit and barely any makeup on and I was just telling my friends, she looked so incredible. I’m so proud.”
The Hilton sisters slid into a neighboring banquette and appeared positively bored the rest of the night. Laura Love, Matthew Hitt, Atlanta de Cadenet and a beaming Rebecca Dayan smoked at the next table. “It’s vintage,” Dayan smiled, when asked who designed her plum cutout body-skimmer that looked as if it could be just one incredibly intricate henna tattoo. “I always wear vintage.” Nearby, Max Stein and Reece Solomon caught up with Chrissie Miller. “I’m exhausted,” Solomon offered. “Thank God, it’s nearly over.”
Leonardo DiCaprio, his now-ubiquitous newsboy cap on his head, slipped in just before 1 a.m., parking himself at a table overlooking the Hudson. His baseball-hat-wearing clique boxed out photographers and aspiring paramours. Girlfriend Toni Garrn soon joined DiCaprio, the actor greeting her by pulling her in and planting a kiss on her. The two only stayed briefly before heading out.
“You ever see this installation?” DiCaprio asked Garrn, tapping on the glass wall of the elevator on their way down, Marco Brambilla’s “Civilization.”
“I see it every time I come here but it looks different now,” she replied. (It was indeed a new work by Marco Brambilla installed that day.)
“Yeah, it looks like a dancing hell right?” he mused.
Olivier Zahm and André Saraiva strolled in past 1:30 a.m. and set up court by the bar on the Le Bain side, just two Gallic bros with their arms around each other.
Saraiva was feeling emotional.
“He’s my best friend,” he said.
They had landed in the city five days earlier, but New York Fashion Week had so far failed to impress. Zahm was already looking toward Milan, where they’ll do a repeat of Chez André. The highlight of the week?
“Tonight. Only this party,” Saraiva said. “I never understand why — he’s not from New York, and I’m not from New York — why do we throw the best parties here?” Finally, he concluded: “We have freedom in our head.”