255, 247…241, in gold leaf…that’s it…
Upon invitation by nightlife royalty Patrick Duffy to The New Twenty film premier party, we embraced a perfect Monday evening scene for the provocative Scallywags.
Crossing the thresholds of Norwood is like a tantalizing bite into a petite four. One with fondant in shades of Wedgewood Jasperware pastels and trimmed in neon Stephen Sprouse Day-Glo, quaintly fit for the forefinger and thumb of a Downtown Marie Antoinette.
A cordial greeting at the foyer, “Patrick Duffy, yes, up the stairs to the left.”
Shedding some layers at the complimentary coat check (one of many perks of a private club), we ascended the wooden staircase. My fingers grazed the softly polished railing. The atmosphere was enveloping calm and sophisticated with chic gentility. A slight addictive buzz with a mixture of fresh cedar and Channel no. 5, in one inhalation I was fondly reminiscent of childhood days on the manor in Virginia.
Finding our way to the third floor, red beams of light exuded into the hallway, signaling we had arrived. Stepping into a small room leading to the bar, I paused on the 4×6 Persian rug to catch a heartbroken silhouette. In an Anna Sui dress, the strap of her Chanel 2.55 fell slightly off her right shoulder. With slight Renaissance contrapposto, her elbow leaned against her ribs, her hand held the stem of a quarter glass of Bordeaux, she gazed longingly over the Chelsea windowsill. Cameron Diaz with a martini glass came to mind.
The aroma from a tray of fresh amuse-bouche taunted us into the main bar.
The third floor bar is a culmination of West Elm and vintage furniture that found residence near a harem tent under the atmospheric lighting from the red light district, touched with scavenged art from a Williamsburg loft, all within the skeleton of refined architectural details of cornices, antique door handles, and plaster crown molding. Most notably adding to the successful finishing touches were the singular Victorian black boot and a statuette, which I would title death to the Royal Doulton, backlit in red.
The room was a flurry of bi-coastal energy. Mingling amidst the director, stars, and crew from the hot new Indie flick, we found ourselves delighted in Hollywood New York sophistication fit for the days of Carry Grant and Grace Kelly. Patrick whisked us into the handshakes and hugs of stars, including Ryan Locke, Nicole Bilderback, and producer Laura Heberton. We wound down for a moment with the director.
When talking with Director Chris Mason Johnson the continuum of time paused. He has an intellectual strength, quiet charisma and energizing charm that it is easy to gather how he could create a masterpiece with a pauper budget (I saw the movie the next day). I admitted “frankly, I’m not going to lie, I haven’t seen the film yet.” Completely relaxed, he told me not to worry and suggested I see it the next day. Lime marguerita in hand I proceeded to ask questions.
What do you think about the Norwood?
A precarious grin spread, “What’s that Kubrik Film… you know with the private club and Kidman?” Before I could respond, his eyes sparked “Eyes wide shut… as soon as I walked in, that’s what I thought, and I said are the naked ladies going to come out?”
“Really, though, the Norwood … its the way you always wanted New York to be, but didn’t think it was.”
