The Point Suite Art Ball was unlike any other black tie event I had attended in New York. As the taxi dropped me off on the corner of 31st and Dyer, I thought that I had gotten the address wrong. I assessed the street, noticing a distinct lack in foot traffic, well-shod or no. Building number 450 opened into a sparse lobby; a guard perched behind a teetering folding table manned a pea green-striped atrium, adorned with static light and paper flyers. A flutter of silver silk and a determined tapping of heels, three to four inches I imagined, touched upon my peripheral senses—I entered the freight elevator with uncertain courage and a similarly confused (but well-dressed) companion. We slowly made our way to the 12th floor, and I had ample time to ruminate on the dreaded “what if?” death scene scenarios that can only be fostered in medieval contraptions such as this. We finally stopped. As the steel doors folded into the wall, indicating our arrival to the Point Suite Ball, I thought that I had died, that the tiny filament connecting us to an impossibly heavy metal box had breathed its last somewhere between floors 10 and 11—was I in Heaven?