A Most Uncommon Weekend | COMMON THREADS, Part 6
Crystal Bridges, Knicks mania, Dua's wedding hat, RIP VIP gays, and other matters of cultural importance
Howdy, fashion fans! Welcome back to AND ANOTHER THING.
I woke up this morning and realized I hadn’t posted on Instagram in more than three and a half weeks—perish the thought!
Not sure exactly what I’ve been doing instead of sacrificing my soul to the algorithm:
Being a good dad? A good co-parent? Googling the names on the backs of Knicks players’ jerseys?
Catching up on the series finale of Hacks? Finishing Bring Me the Beauties, HBO’s doc series about fashion’s number-one male model joining a cult? The final episode dropped last night, and I’m still wondering how such hot people could be so easily duped. (There’s a Zoolander joke in here somewhere.)
I also went on a Broadway bender, seeing Death of a Salesman (possibly the perfect production of Arthur Miller's perfect play), The Lost Boys (I did not expect to enjoy a teen-vampire-single-mother love story this much), Every Brilliant Thing (for a second time, this time with Mariska Hargitay), and The Rocky Horror Show (currently the most gloriously camp thing in Times Square—and that’s saying something).
Public service announcement: There are few things I love more than a Wednesday matinee. If you—or your grandmother—ever want to see a show together, all you have to do is ask.
I was on the road, too.
Last weekend, Nick and I took the kids to Spain to celebrate their preschool graduation. Before you look at me like that’s an absurd reason for an international trip, please know I am aware that it’s an absurd reason for an international trip.
Two weekends ago, I flew to Bentonville, Arkansas, for a celebration of the spectacular new Crystal Bridges Museum expansion by architect Moshe Safdie. (Is it just me, or does Hillary Clinton look better than ever in the image at the top of this post?)
I love this museum, which was founded by Alice Walton in 2011 with the radical notion that world-class American art shouldn’t be reserved for coastal elites. The collection is extraordinary (Rothko! O’Keefe! Koons!), but the setting is what makes it magical. Nestled in the Ozark mountains, which you know I love, it includes a Frank Lloyd Wright residence, a James Turrell Skyspace, and miles upon miles of bike trails. You can also check out Sam Walton‘s office, preserved almost exactly as the Walmart founder left it when he died in 1992.
Bravo to Alice’s niece, Olivia Walton, for organizing an incredible night—and thank you for the after-hours tour of the spectacular Keith Haring exhibit.
(Check out my 2021 interview in the Wall Street Journal with Alice, Sam Walton’s only daughter, about her vision for starting this incredible museum.)
And there was this weekend—what a time to be alive, people!
On Saturday, I celebrated my friend Alex Levy‘s 40th birthday at a black-tie dinner at the Century Association, New York’s legendary—and legendarily discreet and stuffy—clubhouse for artists, writers, editors, and the sort of people who, like me, still subscribe to magazines.
(Alex specifically requested that I identify him as a “six-time Tony winner and single.” As a birthday gift, I am honoring this request.)
The birthday speeches—and a few sing-a-longs—finished before the end of the fourth quarter of game five of the NBA finals, so after dinner everyone congregated in front of a big screen TV to see how the Knicks were doing.
Spoiler? We won.
And the room went wild! Which I found somewhat surprising, since this crowd was more familiar with playbills than playoff brackets. One of Alex’s bosses, Senator Chuck Schumer, was among the revelers, and when he launched into a rendition of Sinatra’s New York, New York, we all joined in.
After the birthday cake, I wanted to continue the night’s festivities and meet some friends downtown. But the second Nick and I stepped onto 43rd Street, it was pandemonium. It was bedlam. It was clear we weren’t getting anywhere anytime soon, and it was marvelous.
People were pouring out of bars and restaurants. Cars were honking. Complete strangers high-fiving each other. Bros were bro-ing, even homo-bro-ing in some cases.
We saw twenty-somethings draped in Knicks jerseys, families with little kids perched on their shoulders, older New Yorkers who looked like they’d been waiting decades for a moment like this. (Here’s a fabulous scrapbook from The New York Times.)
Sure, I felt slightly out of place walking these streets since I was wearing a tuxedo. Nothing like a black tie birthday party in the city on a summer Saturday—thanks a lot, Alex:
But I will never forget that walk home the night the Knicks won the championship.
What struck me wasn’t the celebration itself—it was how many different kinds of people were participating in it. The camaraderie, the civic pride, the feeling that the entire city had wandered outside for the same block party.
It was the first time I’d felt that kind of collective joy from New Yorkers since COVID. It was one of those nights that made me very glad to live here and call myself a New Yorker. (It was lucky I was walking uptown, apparently.)
We’re back, baby. Cue Alicia Keys: Concrete jungle where dreams are made of…
And now what?
Safely ensconced back at my desk, I’m finally catching up on everything that had fallen behind. (Look, Mom. I posted on Instagram. I’m alive!)
I’ve finally read all the open tabs and dug into my COMMON THREADS folder, which is how I refer to the hot topics my friends are debating over texts and DMs, and I like to share with everyone here.
(For more COMMON THREADS, check out my posts from February, March, April, and May.)
Today’s post is free, by the way. My Substack overlords keep encouraging me to use the paywall more often, and after my one-year Substackaversary, I thought I probably should.
But I’m feeling generous. Maybe I’m still taken by the Knicks’ spirit.
Ready? Set. Read!
Let the record show: I’m a longtime Tyra Banks fan. I’m talking way back, when she was a fresh-faced model with a recurring role on The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. Of course, I watched America’s Next Top Model. I still think about the moment Jade Cole delivered the immortal line, “This is not America’s Next Top Best Friend,” in Cycle 6. (Yes, Tyra called each season a cycle. Clever.) When Netflix dropped Reality Check: Inside America’s Next Top Model in February, I devoured the three-part exposé in a single night. Was it shocking? Sure. The allegations of sexual misconduct were difficult to watch, the treatment of Miss J and Mr. Jay was genuinely heartbreaking, and some of those makeovers were absolutely diabolical. But shocking in a way similar to almost all of reality television from the early 2000s, when viewed through our modern lens. (I was also distracted by Tyra’s outfit: a cinched trench coat that looked like a mix between a streaker and a high-fashion Inspector Gadget.) I didn’t understand why she agreed to participate in the documentary back then, and I’m totally flabbergasted now that she’s decided to sue over her portrayal in it. She says nuance was lost in the edit! To borrow a line from Cycle 1 winner Adrianne Curry: “Biiiiiiiiiiitch, for real? Like?”
The Wall Street Journal made a case that bisexual men are having a moment in television and film, and I’m still trying to determine whether that’s an accurate observation about a wonderfully enlightened popular culture or simply another example of legacy media exploiting a trend as a clickable headline. Excuse me, but Connor Storrie’s character in Heated Rivalry was not bisexual. He dated women as a security blanket while navigating a deeply homophobic environment before eventually running off to the cottage in pursuit of his true love. Duh! What the article did inspire me to do was make a list of my favorite sexually charged films. The top five? Cabaret (1972), My Own Private Idaho (1991), Y Tu Mamá También (2001), The Dreamers (2003), and Call Me by Your Name (2017). Watch party?
One of my favorite fashion photographs of all time is Helmut Newton‘s image of a model wearing Yves Saint Laurent‘s Le Smoking tuxedo on the Rue Aubriot in Paris. You know the shot: Black suit, hand in pocket, slicked-back hair, lit cigarette, standing alone on a dark street looking drop-dead cool. Harper’s Bazaar reminded me that of the The International Center of Photography’s new exhibition, Yves Saint Laurent and Photography, which explores the designer’s extraordinary relationships with photographers including Irving Penn, Richard Avedon, William Klein, Annie Leibovitz, Steven Meisel, and Newton himself. The show argues that Saint Laurent wasn’t just one of fashion’s greatest designers—he was one of the first to understand that photography would be essential to building a fashion brand. Who wants to go with me to see this next week?
There have been approximately 1,000 think pieces written about the deluge of celebrities at the Knicks game, particularly the genuinely thrilling fourth game, which the Knicks won with less than two seconds left on the clock. (I still have goose bumps.) Some people were thrilled to see so many 90s legends—Larry David, Spike Lee, Seinfeld himself—supporting the team. Some people were annoyed by the celebrities’ attendance and the constant cutaways to their reactions, and questioned whether they were real Knicks fans or just there to look cool. I don’t have a lot of thoughts on all that—what constitutes a real fan? Fucked if I know. (New York did a roundup of people who identify as Knicks fans first, celebrities second.) What I’m interested in is the fashions. Good for Alana Haim for knowing how to make her own silkscreened T-shirts, and as a lifelong lover of puns, I loved seeing her “Knickole Kidman” and “Stevie Knicks.” But I want to know if Timothée Chalamet gets a lifetime discount at Chrome Hearts. (GQ cataloged 35 of his courtside outfits.) I want to know where Spike gets his merch. Like, is that on the online store? Or is it custom? I want to see the data on how much sales of Knicks merch have spiked in the last two weeks. Who can help me with this? Can you data, but make it fashion?
New York’s mayor announced a ticker-tape parade to celebrate the Knicks’ win on Thursday. It’ll be the team’s first parade ever! High school students aren’t thrilled about this. And I have a question: Would I be crazy to bring my five-year-old son to see it?
You want more sports? Sure. If the Knicks didn’t make you cry enough last week, wait till you see this: Soccer player Sebastian Berhalter reading a letter from his father, Gregg, ahead of his first World Cup appearance. I was a mess reading this! Who knew men in uniform could be so emotional?
And check out the Vanity Fair article I wrote for this month’s Sports issue about how professional team ownership is high society’s most recent trophy asset.
It’s June, so happy Pride, everyone! But on a more somber note: we’ve said goodbye to three iconic gays in as many weeks.
First, Barney Frank, one of the first openly gay members of Congress and co-author of the Dodd-Frank financial reform bill, died at 86. His line, “Prejudice is based on ignorance,” feels more relevant than ever.
Then came the loss of pioneering photographer Duane Michals, who died at 94. I’ve been knocking off his portrait-thru-the-mirror-selfie portrait of Johnny Cash for years!
But it was the third one that really got me: British painter David Hockney, who died at 88. I was especially moved by Mark Rizzo’s obituary in Vanity Fair. In his New York Times newsletter, Jacob Gallagher also reminded readers of one of Hockney’s more memorable observations, from 2023: “I hate what men wear today. It’s just sports clothes. Where’s all the style?” Even at the end, he was asking the important questions.
Speaking of London and gay icons dying, Lady Pamela Hicks—otherwise known as Pamela Mountbatten, daughter of Lord Mountbatten, cousin to Prince Philip, bridesmaid to Queen Elizabeth, lady-in-waiting to the Queen, and one of the last people alive who attended every important event of the twentieth century—died on June 5 at the age of 97. What. A. Life. At 17, she was in India as her father served as the country’s last Viceroy. She met Gandhi and Nehru. She was one of the first people to know that Princess Elizabeth was in love with her cousin Philip. She was with Elizabeth in Kenya when King George VI died, and Elizabeth suddenly became Queen. She survived the assassination of her father by the Irish Republican Army and later said she had forgiven them. And then she married the legendary decorator David Hicks, proving that even after the collapse of the British Empire, one must still have impeccable taste. One of my favorite Pamela quotes came when she was asked about Queen Elizabeth: “She had a great sense of humor. She was very good at impersonations.” Imagine! Playing charades with the Queen of England? Check out her daughter India Hicks’ wonderful remembrance here.
We all know that Dua Lipa and Callum Turner got married, first at a civil ceremony in London on May 31, and, like the rest of the internet, I was obsessed. Thank you, Dua, for bringing back wedding hats. (The millinery industry thanks you, too!) The Schiaparelli wedding suit, inspired by Bianca Jagger, was picture perfect. And Callum, you look dead sexy in that Ferragamo suit, which GQ was as excited about as I was. The happy couple (and I say that because they really do seem happy, don’t they?) traveled to Italy for a larger wedding—in the same venue as Mariacarla Boscono’s 2024 wedding to Olympic pole vaulter Claudio Stecchi—and the looks keep coming. Surely official wedding pics are going to run somewhere. Right? How much longer do we have to wait? Never underestimate the power of a good wedding. Sofia Richie’s whole life was changed when images of her polished, super-chic wedding at the Hotel du Cap hit the internet. (She wore Chanel couture, so that helped.) Now, I’m wondering: What if all this wedding press is what gets Turner the James Bond gig everyone keeps talking about? I’m in.
Blah, blah, blah, SpaceX went public, and a bunch of people are about to get very rich. Maybe? Elon Musk is now worth a trillion dollars. On paper, at least. I tried to follow all the coverage—Vanity Fair even did a helpful rundown of who owns what—but the space story that caught my attention was this: Prada is making astronaut suits! That’s right, my favorite fashion brand has teamed up with NASA to design garments for astronauts headed to the moon as part of Artemis III. Gives a new twist to the phrase “the devil wears Prada,” no?
I got a last-minute invite to go to the Tony’s, which I had to decline because I was taking my kids on that aforementioned preschool graduation trip. (Stop laughing!) When I saw Pink’s opening number, I was kicking myself. I love Pink! And, to borrow a phrase from 96-year-old June Squibb in her cameo, she “slayed.” Some of my Broadway friends rolled their eyes when she was announced as the host, but I know for a fact they were all singing “Gitchie, gitchie Carrie Coon” when they left that night.
Speaking of Broadway, three Saturday Night Live icons are currently on stage: Rachel Dratch, Ana Gasteyer, and Maya Rudolph, in The Rocky Horror Show, Schmigadoon!, and Oh, Mary!, respectively. These people raised me. My parents would make me behave all week so I could stay up and watch SNL on Saturday nights, and those were some of the cast members who defined the show for me. Reading The Hollywood Reporter‘s interview with the three of them about reuniting on the Great White Way felt a bit like running into your coolest childhood teachers and discovering they’re still cooler than everyone else.
Last week, I wrote about how to throw a patriotic party that celebrates America’s 250th birthday without looking tacky or Trumpy. It can be done, promise! One of my suggestions was to decorate cocktail napkins with quotes from iconic Americans. One of my favorites (who didn’t make the cut because I worried it wasn’t quite patriotic enough) was from John Waters: “If you go home with somebody and they don’t have books, don’t sleep with them.” I was thinking about that quote when I read a New York Times essay by Brian Bannon, the chief librarian of the New York Public Library, imploring Americans to start reading again.
As someone who has never fully embraced fiction—what’s the point when real life is already so bizarre?—I was delighted to learn from Town & Country that this is shaping up to be the summer of nonfiction. I tore through Lena Dunham’s Famesick two months ago. What should we read together next, guys?
Speaking of reading, what about writing? Earlier this year, NPR reported that cursive handwriting is making a comeback. It had better! I spent years perfecting my cursive. How lucky was I to be named Derek? A cursive capital D is one of the great joys of the English language! Jimmy Kimmel did a segment about kids' inability to read cursive, which was very funny—and slightly terrifying. Are we really headed toward a future where an entire generation can’t read a handwritten letter from their grandparents? Or decipher the signature on the Declaration of Independence? I see you, John Hancock. This one made me clutch my pearls and my fountain pen.
I’m an insomniac, so I click on any story about beds. Turns out this one wasn’t about sleep. Still, it piqued my interest anyway: The rebels of the French Revolution incinerated King Louis XVI’s gilded 18th-century bed at the Château de Versailles in 1793, but after years of research (including writings from the time and surviving similar designs), we have a new one, mes amis!
Two of the chicest, most well-traveled, occasionally hedonistic, and always fun people, Coco Brandolini and Christian Louboutin, collaborated on a shoe collection, which Air Mail revealed.
Gisele is so iconic that when she was shooting this month’s cover of W magazine, she had no idea how many W covers she had shot in the past. It’s 15, Gisele. You’ve had 15 covers.
Speaking of W, the magazine also released its annual TV portfolio, which includes topless pictures of Charles Melton (hubba hubba) and video interviews with folks like Grace Gummer, who reveals her childhood crush was Titanic-era Leonardo DiCaprio (the prototypical hubba hubba).
I’ve never used LinkedIn. I don’t even have a resume! But after I read this in The New York Times, I wondered, should I be on it?
We get it, we get it. Obsession and Backrooms—two films made on shoestring budgets by Gen Z YouTubers—have murdered the Hollywood studio system. (Obsession turned a viral internet thriller into a box-office hit, and Backrooms transformed a creepy online urban legend into a feature film.) Enough with these headlines already! But I did enjoy listening to 20-year-old Backrooms director Kane Parsons’ interview with Matthew Belloni on his Puck podcast. “Ten times wiser than his age suggests,” was Belloni’s teaser.
I also liked Douglas Greenwood’s piece in i-D asking what it takes to be a great teenage artist.
Is everyone following the lawsuit between Patagonia, the outdoor apparel company, and Pattie Gonia, the drag queen, environmental activist, and professional pun? I’ll catch you up: Patagonia is suing Pattie Gonia—whose real name is Wyn Wiley—for trademark infringement, arguing that her name, merchandise, and branding are too similar to its own and could confuse consumers. Pattie Gonia, meanwhile, says the lawsuit is less about trademark law and more about a corporation trying to silence an activist. Patagonia is seeking just $1 in damages, but the legal fees could reportedly climb into the seven figures, which is where things start to get spicy. Vanity Fair‘s José Criales-Unzueta has done a fabulous deep dive into the whole saga. I reached out to tell him that following this story has been an emotional roller coaster. On the one hand, I firmly believe drag queens should rule the world. On the other hand, is there anything more sacred than intellectual property? It’s the classic showdown: sequins versus trademarks. Camp versus compliance. RuPaul, do something!
Who’s still with me? One last treat: I loved this story about how David Hackney taught Los Angeles how to see itself, specifically by painting pools and sunsets.
Thank you for reading all the way to the bottom!
I’ll be publishing an interview with two old friends who love print media as much as I do in the next few days. In fact, they love it so much they’ve started calling themselves “mag hags.” Check back soon.
Until then, stay safe and chic,
Derek C. Blasberg
You know the drill:
guess I’ll brush up on my French to read about this reconstructed bed, cheers Derek
I recommend London Falling for your next NF read. It’s a gripping, family drama/true crime by New Yorker writer Patrick Hadden Keefe about the death of a 19 year old English kid. I read mostly fiction, plus fast paced un-put-downable narrative non-fiction. This book is incredible. So is his first book about “The troubles” in Ireland.