Last night’s Hermès soiree at Skylight on Vesey had many rooms. There was the Tapestry Room, a space smothered in red velvet where Champagne was served and performance artists, inexplicably, made guests sign for packages. (“What do I do with this?” one man asked, bewildered, as he held a box labeled “fragile.”) The Garden Room was an enchanted forest complete with trees, chocolate, and a sparkling chandelier centerpiece the size of a small car. The Kitchen Room, aglow with mint-green light, was stocked with chefs concocting various nibbles. And in the Kings Room, there was a seemingly never-ending table that stretched the entirety of the space and was filled with a feast: paté, swans made of artichoke leaves, topiaries of langoustines, and a lobster telephone (a playful nod to Salvador Dalí’s surrealist sculpture).
Guests including Victor Cruz, Emmy Rossum, Jason Wu, and Constance Jablonski wandered throughout all of them, admiring the night’s artistry and extravagance—nonsensical eccentricity abounded. Back in the Kings Room, a man dressed like a Parisian street performer grabbed a Vogue editor’s plate. She got it back only when she negotiated—in French. In the Garden Room, a woman paced, muttering poetry. And then there was someone in a sparkly dress who just screamed.
What prompted such an eventful affair? The opening of the Hermès boutique in New York’s Meatpacking District. The two-story store aims to attract a younger luxury customer. There are leather bags alongside fanny packs and scarves among skateboards, and store employees swapped suits and ties for sneakers. So the French luxury brand decided to celebrate with a party three neighborhoods south. “Join us if you fancy crossing the line,” the invitation read. It would seem there was much to fancy last night; the party pulsated late into the night.