I guess I should know these things, these New Yorky things, like who Mr. Posen is, but until last Friday I didn’t. If I were to guess I’d have said he was from High School Musical, or a hippy musician. Lots of hippies are named Zac (or Zack or Zach… and Tobias, for some reason), you know. TONS of ’em.
On Friday we attended a fundraiser of sorts for Lincoln Center, though I had only a vague notion of the whole thing, my head (and arms) immersed in painting (and paint) the past few weeks. Colleen seemed to know what was going on so I just grinned and nodded, like when we got our mortgage. The party was down the street from our apartment, at the Time Warner Center, and only after we got there did I grasp the – how you say? – fabulosity of the event.
Red carpet, Olympic medalists, photographers, flashes, Uma, Zac, some dude who looked just like Jake Gyllenhall but who probably wasn’t, but you know, close enough…. Veuve Clicquot a-flowin, fancy vodka drinks being passed out like Halloween candy, etc.
From the mezzanine of the Allen Room, I looked over the crowd, through the three-story windows and out at the lights of Columbus Circle and Central Park South, and I had one of those Gatsby moments, where the legend of New York is there in front of you. That movie-set idea of New York, at night, shining and bright with all the windows of the buildings lit up over the river of taxis and tail lights. The myth is in front of your face, alive and vibrant and noisy and you think about F. Scott Fitzgerald and wonder how he felt 80-some years ago when he was drenched by this glittery version of New York City. This idealized self that it lays on you on those perfect autumn nights.
Right. So Zac Posen is a designer.