by Hiko Mitsuzuka
Here in Los Angeles we are in the midst of Brit Week, that time of year when UK-born artists of all types living in Southern California (and Anglophiles like myself) gather together to mingle and celebrate each other's achievements and overall fabulousness.
I was honored to be invited to attend a Brit Week party in the hills above Sunset Boulevard celebrating opera, fashion, and art (OPARTASH, get it?). Thrown at the private home of Genlux fashion editor Amanda Eliasch (pictured, below), the guest-list-only "soiree" held about 150 guests including actress Lisa Zane from -- yep -- Freddy's Dead: The Final Nightmare (I'll let that sink in for you 90s horror junkies out there). And who knew she could sing? Early in the night, the raven-haired artist slinked up next to a pink piano and performed an Italian number with opera singer Charles Eliasch.
My plus-one for the evening was a filmmaker friend of mine who wished to remain nameless here because of his following description of the house: "It's as if Betsy Johnson and Ed Hardy had sex in 1987 and exploded." Indeed: white walls, onyx tables, pink velvet chaise lounges, baroque sculptures, and neon artwork made for a decor that would've done Andy Warhol proud.
Since we arrived shortly after 6pm, the actual start time, we expected to enjoy some gourmet nibblers as our dinner, but lo and behold, a dining table strewn with cheese plates and hummus wasn't enough to satiate our appetites.
After stuffing my face with brie and grapes, I searched the rest of the party for anything that would quell my stomach. No such luck. Instead, I gulped down two glasses of Veuve Clicquot and a vodka cocktail at the open bar. I then peeked my head into the kitchen where two catering staff members asked if I needed anything. I politely asked them if anything else was being served since I, like some of the guests I knew, didn't prefer to graze on pita chips and berries like farm animals.
That's when we snuck into the dressing room where some half-naked models were getting ready for the pending Pam Hogg fashion show. One smiling waif offered us some pizza that some of the models had eaten for dinner (yes, you read that correctly: models eat pizza before walking the runway).
I scarfed down a slice of barbecue chicken pizza as if I were a vagabond who had just traveled across a post-apocalyptic Earth after weeks without sustenance.
Somewhat satisfied, we made our way outside to the pool deck to grab a good seat for the pending fashion show. A runway had been constructed over the pool and a spotlight had been situated next to the DJ. A hush came over the Euro-centric crowd.
Amanda Eliasch came out and tapped on a microphone, thanking everyone for coming, especially designer Pam Hogg who had flown in from London to showcase her new line of out-of-this-world outfits. Hogg, one of Gaga's fashion femme fatales, isn't known for making public appearances, so tonight's occasion was quite special.
The models strutted and did their thing. I caught Smiling Waif making her way towards our seats. In a moment of recognition I smiled, nodded my head, and on behalf of my stomach, mouthed the words, "Thank you."
Without missing a beat, before she walked off the pool deck, she turned and said, "It was soooo good, right?"
My kind of supermodel.
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