It is the beginning of May, one of the first truly beautiful weeks of the year. I put on a light jacket that buttons all the way to my neck. I’m in a little red box like a fishbowl, all done up in dim lighting. An open bar. I am wearing a see-through dress that was made before the Depression—hand-stitched, short-sleeved, with little blue ribbons on the skirt. I take a sip of my wine, a cheap red blend.
The party spills onto the streets. Everyone around me is smoking. This party—a party for a magazine—could be any party in New York that I have been to. What makes it special is the fact that I do not feel the urge to cross my arms due to the cold. What makes it special is that I am in love. That my hair is so long that I can wear it in two braids. That I can feel summer around the corner.
I’ve never loved going out, but I have done a lot of it. I’m 29, and have lived in New York for seven years. Here are some of the things I’ve done recently: A few weeks before the magazine party, my friends and I were all at the Rhizome opening at Water Street Projects. We decided, after a few minutes of looking at art installations that solely revolved around the concept of a very old computer, that the real fun was upstairs. And by this, I mean we took the elevator up to an empty office block, a space in the Brutalist style: white columns and cream-colored couches. It was deadly quiet, except for our voices. We didn’t stay for too long; we had to go to a book party in Little Italy, where we stayed for 15 minutes, had one drink. Then we had to go to T.J. Byrnes and stay for three, making ourselves comfortable in a cracked red vinyl booth while the DJ played “Windowlicker" by Aphex Twin and I looked at my reflection in the camera of my iPhone 11.
I have been to loft parties where the DJ is my friend and we’re listening to Kompakt mixes and Basic Channel and the light is slanted and bluish and it sounds like a womb and I am never on drugs but I am always dancing. I’ve been to punk basements in clubs that no longer exist—barely ever existed to begin with. Or when I first moved to Brooklyn and all my friends hung out at this one DIY venue, famous for its earnestness. Or when I worked in fashion, at Vogue, at age 22, and, at a party, poured glasses of Champagne while making eyes at one of the models, a girl the same age as me. I think I spent most of the evening not pouring Champagne for guests but drinking it myself. There was a moment with the model on the side of a slate gray building. There was another moment with a guy at Mr. Fong’s. And later in Seward Park. Another with one of the DJs I am friends with. Another with a man I dated for almost a year, a bartender at a bar famous for its lack of windows. We were walking down East Broadway very late at night. We had just run into each other at a show at the Bowery and I knew I would never hear from him again and I was right. I never did.
But summer—summer is here now. And here are my predictions: Rooftops in industrial zones. Getting hot and sticky on Rockaway Beach, watching the sky turn into a big pink scream. Biking to Mister Sunday in my good clothes to dance with my friends. Cheap bowls of noodles, eaten en plein air at the best BYOB spots. Tompkins Square Park at 3 pm in a halter top and a pair of boxer shorts. Prospect Park at 9 pm in a gingham dress. Shifting into a low gear as I climb the Williamsburg Bridge. Overly air-conditioned dive bars. The mac cheese and martini at the Ear Inn. And all of it, I think, will feel good. Even when it doesn’t, even when I don’t want to go out. I’ll be glad to, ultimately. I always am.
In this story: hair, Bob Recine; makeup, Susie Sobol; tailor, Tae Yoshida. Movement Director: Renata Pereira Lima. Produced by Preiss Creative.