Anna Wintour took one look at Marie Antoinette and said, “hold my cake.”
At a moment with widespread protests against the government, and trendy calls to “eat the rich,” the Queen of Condé Naste decided the theme of her annual Met Gala should be a short story about wealthy people staving off mobs of plebians.
The lavish Upper East Side bash was practically “The Hunger Games,” but with Kim Kardashian.
On Monday night, the usual parade of celebrities, billionaires, semi-recognizable faces and trashy social media randos ascended the stairs of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and tried not to trip on their outfits.
Mentally, however, everybody stumbled on this year’s dress code: “The Garden of Time” by J.G. Ballard.
The majority of attendees took the extremely boring vines-and-buds route and affixed “florals for spring” frills to their couture frocks and suits, looking like motel shower curtains.
Allow me to speculate that almost none of these geniuses actually read the tale that partly inspired the event they scored a coveted ticket to.
Because that work of literature is about much more than roses and orchids.
Ballard’s 1962 piece concerns a reclusive pair of aristocrats, a count and countess, who live in a palace filled with books and art. When they are threatened by an advancing rabble, they hold them off by plucking magical time flowers.
For countless reasons, this is hilarious. And breathtakingly out of touch.
Predictably on Monday, an actual mob arrived. More than 1,000 anti-Israel protestors chanting “Gaza!” gathered near the glitzy soiree that was filled with some of the most self-righteous people in America.
Did the stars — some of whom wore Palestinian solidarity pins at the Oscars, but this time stuck with daffodils — invite the crowd in for hors d’oeuvres? Of course not. They love to lecture until the situation remotely affects their evening plans. For these posers, the revolutionary costume was a dress with hydrangeas on it.
Rev. Al Sharpton called for a ceasefire, and then headed into the gala where tables start at $350,000.
The war aside, there were more laugh-inducing miscommunications.
Over the years, critics have interpreted Ballard’s tale in myriad ways. Some see the story as a metaphor for the cyclical fall of civilization — Babylon, Rome, etc. — while others view the count and countess as emblematic of the valiant struggle to protect culture against all odds.
Vogue’s own website assertively says the duo live in a “utopia of leisure, art, and beauty” and that an “unthinking mob” descends on their precious villa.
So, is Wintour suggesting that our vaunted custodians of fine art are Andy Cohen, Lala Anthony and a basically naked Emily Ratajkowski?
Come on. The Met Gala’s chief sponsor this year was TikTok.
Regardless of the social media platform being on the verge of a total ban in the United States, are we supposed to commend this algorithmic Gen. Z attention-span destroyer as the torch-bearer of that which is refined and exquisite?
TikTok and the Met Gala are saving the world. Who knew?
That Wintour’s pet project makes money for the museum is laudable, even if attendees Jeff Bezos and the Norwegian salmon heir worth $3.8 billion could fund the entire building with the ease of buying a Poland Spring.
But this year’s ball was neither entertaining nor smart. Fun as math, the display of pathetic petals was lethargic. It came off as pointless and particularly trivial.
The reality the bland night exposed is that we the “unthinking mob” aren’t drawing nearer to the stars of the Met Gala. Average people at home are moving further and further away.
We’re bored of them.
