dreaming of derek blasberg
have we met?
I am at the Met on this, the most well-known Monday of my people. Or my former people. At least I think we are at the Met. It is quiet and I am inside. Perhaps we have skipped the step and repeat or I am once more, the hired help. In the “before” days, I owned a fashion and beauty public relations agency. Always fashion adjacent helping promote designer clients, produce shows in Bryant Park and dream up promotional schemes and themes to garner press and brand recognition. Oh, that one time we simulcast a show on the Sony Trinitron when it was new in Times Square. It was major. Like, New York Times, major. This behind the scenes evening is familiar but otherworldly.
Upon entering, there is an exhibition of all black sofas. Every incarnation. Slooping modern numbers, made of Marquina and Nero Portoro marble. Sleek and honed. Overstuffed and enormous sectionals, that go on for days like a runway, in combinations of liquidy velvets. There are a few black Chanel accessories dotting the exhibition. I carefully place many of my own coveted pieces about, styling the installation. A satin bag given to me as a gift from a designer. A pair of earrings I wore once to The Woolmark Awards. Each with a story and hard earned monthly retainer.
I drape and style my own clothes on nearby mannequins and over the seats and sofa arms. They are not familiar pieces to me upon waking. But they were mine in the dreamscape. They are all black tie for sure. Perhaps they are client wares from past Met Galas? I have prepped clients for the event, but have never been. One year, I found myself accidentally nearby at arrivals time and took in some of the frolicking from behind the security stanchions. It made me smile and glad I was no longer in the work. The closest I had ever been was in a nearby hotel corridor helping a client maneuver a large bustle into a standing van.
A wide taffeta ball skirt with real florals and butterflies looks like AI before its moment. Mostly black with greens and bursting garden roses that would make Martha jealous. Another, in shades of pinks dripping in peonies. Two black Chanel bags. Coveted numbers with hand-sewn baubles on tweed. Gold 5’s and signature CCs, script Coco and tennis ball sized pearls.
As I looked back there are now women laying and lounging on the sofa – suddenly wearing the skirts. They slide into them as if it were an interactive exhibit.
I was not asked to style this – or be a part of it.
In my dream I am watching it all unfold. I am doing this job I once knew so well. On a grand scale and stage.
Derek Blasberg is here. He is chatting with a young woman who is playing live music alongside the exhibition. He asks, “Want to learn to play the violin?”.
The woman tells us it will just be a few minutes. I confess to Derek, and let him know I have added my own pieces to the mix. He giggles. He is a well known journalist and had long been on my every press and invitation list. We have met more than once, only for work.
The woman gets on a brocade coat and we are about to head outside for the lesson.
I notice there are large orange and white boxes alongside the exhibit. They are filled to overflowing with trash. Upon closer inspection, they appear to be Hermes and heaps of discarded shopping bags all from high end boutiques. Perhaps another dreaming stylist has added their own interpretive installation.
We jam on electronic violins. Derek and I laugh and vibe.
He asks, “Have we met?”
Join me virtually in June. There are a few spots left in my Living With Loss grief support groups and upcoming Solstice Soirée. Hope to see you soon.
x, B.
So vivid... wow.