The inspiration for Jeremy Scott’s latest collection was New York City in the 1980s. “I was thinking about the pictures you see of how…seedy, dirty, and kind of scary the city was,” the designer said.
At the after-party at Flash Factory, the theme got literal. While on the dancefloor, I realized my passport and wallet were missing. I later found my wallet in a dirty corner, emptied of cash and cards. “Three or four other people” at the party reported items missing, a guard named James King, of Alpha One Security, told the Voice.
In addition to a report of a stolen purse, police were called about an assault. An NYPD spokesperson said that an intoxicated 23-year-old male was asked by security guards to leave numerous times, then was punched and thrown to the ground by security. No arrests have been made, according to the spokesperson.
I’m fairly certain I witnessed that incident. Sitting on a stoop outside, I heard shouts coming from the exit. A skinny fashion kid was being carried out of the club in a body lock by four burly security guards. He was black, and most of them were white. “They violated me,” he repeated after they let him go, sitting on the stairs and sobbing. Later, when a guard came back out, the kid threw a punch and was slammed by the guard into a nearby car.
“We are deeply saddened to hear of these events,” a rep for Scott said in an email. “We have been working closely with the venue as of this morning to assist in any way possible with the relocation of these items and finding those responsible.”
The guest list was one of the tightest I’ve seen at a party this week. The event officially began at 11 p.m. When I arrived at 11:20, no one had been let in. There were more than a hundred people waiting outside the 10,000-square-foot club in Chelsea, and they didn’t look accustomed to the habit.
“She’s the director of Jeremy Scott; she runs everything,” one girl muttered to her friend as she texted furiously. “I have a confirmed celebrity client waiting in that line,” one manager snarled to an overwhelmed PR rep. “You guys invited her. She sat second row at the show!”
There was an open bar, a V.I.P. section, and an “It”-girl DJ who played dance, hip-hop, and a couple of cheeky on-brand tracks (e.g., Calvin Harris’s “Acceptable in the ’80s.”) A bodybuilder type in a Moschino sweatsuit lingered next to a girl in Harajuku gear. A white-haired man in a python hat danced next to a winner of America’s Next Top Model. A scion of a modern artist whose name you probably know bumped into stationary objects, white powder trailing down her face.
The thief fit in with this crowd: Late last night, they tried to spend $2,000 on one of my credit cards at Bergdorfgoodman.com.
On my way home, I saw a teen lingering outside the club. He was beautiful, with perfect makeup that probably took hours to complete. “How’s your night going?” I asked him.
“How is it in there?” he responded, eyes aglow. A freshman at Parsons who moved to New York from Georgia one month ago, he came just to breathe in the scene from the sidewalk. “It must be amazing inside.”
Alice Hines is a writer in New York. Follow her on Instagram @deadmallkiosk