They mounted a unconditional stairs of a Metropolitan Museum of Art long after night had fallen, a celebrities and models and socialites and titans of business, a 1,000 special guest in their attire and furs, past a paparazzi and a quarrel of ushers station during courtesy like a recent Praetorian Guard.
Anna Wintour was there, in prolonged black velvet and gold, rubbing shoulders with Blake Lively and Stephen Schwarzman and Penélope Cruz and Kaia Gerber and Lily-Rose Depp. They sipped Champagne and declined a canapés, and afterwards strolled by a Egyptian collection to a Temple of Dendur, intense underneath a potion roof.
Wait — it’s December. Isn’t the Met Gala in May?
They could be forgiven for feeling as if they had depressed into a time warp, so strongly compared are that conform celebration and this museum. Only a dauntless essence would brave to follow in those footsteps. But afterwards no one ever pronounced that Karl Lagerfeld, a engineer of Chanel (among many other things), lacked ambition.