The Party Reporter: Pull Up to My Bumper

Growing up in East Hampton Village, I walked past Eric Firestone Gallery nearly every morning on my way to class in middle and high school. The Newtown Lane exhibition space has been pivotal in my understanding of curation and my knowledge of post-war and contemporary art history. Eric has that rare skill of bringing well-known American artists’ careers into conversation with both emerging and working artists — no easy task, especially during the onslaught of mid-size blue chip galleries in New York.

Late afternoon last Thursday, I changed from my flipflops into my black leather Sabah Bolos and schlepped over to the Watermill Center, where the Nomad Hamptons art fair was renting out the grounds for their art and design art fair. I was mostly looking forward to seeing Eric Firestone’s booth, and particularly Almo Taud’s folk-like washed-out paintings. By the time I got there — traveling the backroads all the way from Springs — the valet-parking employees’ arms had been burned from being in direct sunlight all day, and their faces looked like they had been yelled at by too many Bentley drivers with too few bumper stickers.

As I was pulling in, there was an attendant in the road who told me I had to use the valet, despite none of the marketing for the event saying absolutely anything about valet parking. For any of my gorgeous readers who have not been to the Watermill Center, the 10-acre campus sits west of Water Mill Towd Road and, frankly, shouldn’t require valet parking. To my memory, when attending their summer benefits over the years I hadn’t ever been required to use a valet service; I’d parked on the side of the road like any other Hamptonite, and went into the party hoping my rearview mirror wouldn’t get taken out by a drunk driver. . . .  However, here I was in a field with a parking attendant telling me not only that I had to use the valet, but it was “cash only.” Well, dearest Nomad Art Fair, I do hope it was a success renting the grounds of a local arts nonprofit that I love and adore. I never made it.

After calling my P.R. agent — that is, my friend — to complain, I sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic heading into Southampton, where I scarfed down a McChicken, then drove back east, stopping for gas in Wainscott at what is now 7-11 but used to be Speedway, the gas station near Sweetwater drycleaners and Levain Bakery. (I met the new owner last week when they were changing over the P.O.S. systems. . . . There were no gas signs out for a couple of hours, but she was wearing a gorgeous Dôen dress.) While filling up my tank, there was a well-groomed man in a runway gray suit making weird noises and watching me, ostensibly on his way to or from the Watermill Center. His car plates were from Ontario. Canadian guys usually have personality, maybe he just has the looks, I thought to myself. He pulled his car up next to mine, despite his gas cap being open, and proceeded to ask me how to pump gas. I told him that because he’s visiting from abroad, he’d have to pay inside. Meanwhile, inside of his car, Carmen D’Alessio was picking —what I assumed to be — chicken out of her teeth. After she caught whatever was hiding in between her teeth, she gave me a quick glance, and, I guess, figured I was also passing through. Her friend was coming back as I was tightening up the gas cap on my own car, and I asked him who he was wearing; he shared with me that it was a design his friend made for him — hm, was it?— and he’d be able to tell me via Instagram D.M. I passed him my phone as I sat down in the driver’s seat. A Grindr message popped up on my iPhone screen. He looked at me (smitten, as he’d already told me with his eyes), and passed me back my phone. Haris F Sardar was his name: “Artist + Actuary = Actual Artist” his social media bio. He winked goodbye. I put the pedal to the metal.

So, fine, I didn’t attend Nomad Hamptons 2026 — but I got to see one of the founders of Studio 54 pick hors d’oeuvres out of her teeth and met an artist whose work is “gallery wrapped canvas,” according to his website. If I wanted to buy something like that, I’d go to the L.V.I.S. Bargain Box, not pay for valet parking.

My Friday night was simple: I did laundry and called my friend Elma Kondi and talked about what we’d be wearing for the busy weekend ahead. I decided on another pair of pleated black trousers, this time paired with a spare white tuxedo shirt I had lying around from my sister’s wedding last August, and a salmon-colored archival 1999 Issey Miyake top I’d been hoping to wear all spring but didn’t have the right occasion for. 

On Saturday evening around 6, I was dropped off by an actual valet that did not charge me for parking at the LongHouse Reserve in East Hampton. It was LongHouse’s annual summer benefit the theme for the evening was Beautopia, and works by Ross Bleckner, Kenny Schachter, Ai Weiwei, Daniel Arsham, Ugo Rondinone, Alex Katz, Jill Platner, Barbara Dayton, and Jason Bard Yarmosky were being auctioned off to benefit the arts organization’s programming.

Almost immediately after walking in, I found Dianne Benson and said hello. She was dressed in a dashing silvery look and standing with her wife, Lys Marigold, who wore a Yves Klein blue top and blue-sapphire necklace. We shared a few giggles, and promised to find one another during the evening. I turned my head to the right, and found myself drooling over Susan Wood’s Dries Van Noten silk coat — Ms. Wood described it to me as being “a rabbi’s coat” — with orange and black detailing. She asked me if I was an artist, to which I said yes, and shared about my M.F.A. and video practice, though I also shared that I am the Party Reporter for East, and needed more info on her coat. Honestly, and humbly, she told me that when she sees something she likes, and if she can afford it, it’s hers — well, that makes two of us. Before I left our conversation for a glass of rosé, she shared a bit about photographing John Lennon and Yoko Ono, who I’d danced with previously at LongHouse’s summer benefit. Ms. Benson and her committee know how to throw an excellent party.

Right before sitting for dinner, I saw Pamela Willoughby, the newly appointed director of Shooster Arts and Literature in Sag Harbor; I didn’t want to interrupt the conversation she was having, which seemed to be quite fun, though we made eye contact, which seemed to be enough. After meandering over to the opposite side of the grounds, I ran into Isla Hansen and Tucker Marder, who founded the Folly Tree Arboretum in Springs. Hansen is an incredibly talented artist who makes wearable sculptures, and the two recently started a family. On my walk over to the dinner tent, I also ran into Kara Lenkeit, the founder of WKND Gallery.

Charming evening greetings were given by the new executive director of LongHouse, Lara Sweeney (despite her being introduced as an “almost Hamptonite”). The evening’s honoree, Sean Scully, also gave an inspiring and humorous speech that included an account of his karate skills. After a quiet first course, and chatting with Lee Tal, a New York and Jersey City–based artist, and his guests who were on my left, I was curious to determine who hadn’t joined us and had left an empty table setting to my right: It was none other than Lynn Scotti, the president of Hamptons magazine, which was one of the party’s sponsors. The wait staff asked me if she would be coming, and I said I didn’t know but didn’t think so  — sorry, Ms. Scotti. A few short minutes later, my waitress came back to offer a splash more white wine. After I thanked her, we introduced ourselves during the crowd’s applause for a speech, and I asked her name: It was Allyson. I quickly looked up Lynn Scotti’s Instagram page to see where she might be, and she was at . . . a polo match! Perhaps not such a surprising choice for Hamptons magazine, considering it’s a glossy filled with images, advertisements, and not many words. (My mom always told me “Half of the job is showing up.”) Any press is good press, right? 

The bidding wars started: Trees were sold for $12,000, and vacations for 12 started at $3,500. The auctioneer was quick, though she kept shushing the crowd . . . I guess we were noisy, but we were hungry. On our way back from the bathroom, Tony Watson complimented my outfit, suggesting I was the best dressed one there — best dressed man, gal, person? — and the two of us hustled back to our tables to be greeted by organic chicken and veggies.

After finishing up dinner, Allyson came back, and we had a quick chat, which ended up with me giving her my business card. I asked for her last name, to be credited as The Best Waitress on the East End, and she told me “Downey, like Robert Downey… I’m his sister.”

Around here, the person who is taking your order is probably the most interesting person in the room.