Sharon Socol

Last week, the Transom took the elevator to one of the most fashionable floors in town--the ninth floor of Barneys New York--for a celebration of photographer Sharon Socol’s new book, Plus One: An Outsider's Photographic Journey into the World of Fashion. And it was nothing so much as an insider's affair.

There was a towering geek-chic Jenna Lyons with girlfriend Courtney Crangi, photographer Gilles Bensimon, and designers galore including Isabel and Ruben Toledo, Richard Chai, Tommy Hilfiger, Yigal Azrouel, and Rag & Bone’s David Neville and Marcus Wainwright, among others.

Pretty fancy line-up of insiders, considering Ms. Socol's theme. Then again, Ms. Socol was never a true outsider herself. She gained access to high-profile industry events and fashion shows as the "plus one" to her husband, Howard Socol, the former CEO of Barneys New York, using her camera to document and navigate the fashion world.

Hosts for the fete were friends of Ms. Socol--Diane von Furstenberg (a no-show), Narciso Rodriguez and Simon Doonan--all of whom are featured in the book of black-and-white photos and happen to be the holy trinity of wrap dresses, minimalist sportswear and window dressage.

After powwowing with Mr. Rodriguez and Paper Magazine’s Mickey Boardman, Mr. Doonan waxed philosophical with the Transom on the importance of being an outsider.

“It's good to be a bit of an outlier. It's not good to be always in, because then you get your objectivity, you keep your objectivity. It's good to be in and it's good to be out," he said.

And how might a young person infiltrate the wondrous world of fashion, we wondered?

“I think young people have become too driven and too demented too young,” said Mr. Doonan. “When I was in my twenties, I was having fun, travelling and being stupid, and being useless. Everyone's too uptight. So my big advice to young people is: chillax.”

Chill as hell, we sauntered over to a nearby tête-à-tête, where we asked Mr. Rodriguez if he ever felt like an outsider. The sweet and soft-spoken designer seemed shocked at our implicit suggestion that the fashion industry could ever resemble Heathers-esque competition. "I think it's very open for all people, who come here and study fashion,” said Mr. Rodriguez. "I was never locked out."

Just before leaving, we tracked down Thakoon Panichgul, a modern it-kid, as a companion tugged him toward the elevators. Mr. Panichgul said, “I always hung out with, like, people who are not inside. Even in college I was like, I always wanted to be on the fringe of things. I never wanted to be in the fix of everything."

So what did the Transom learn from fashion's cool kids? That out is in and the industry is one big happy family?

Hmm. Dubious. Although the Transom did deduce one truth: if you want to crack into the fashion world, the least you can do is dress like you belong--and if that fails, marry a luxury department store head.

Natasha Lyonne, “Bon Qui Qui” and Simon Doonan. (Rooster New York)

We all know that during the days leading up to Fashion Week, designers tend to go, in the words of Anthony Perkins, "a little mad sometimes." Still, it's hard to imagine what sort of monumental pressure Alexander Wang was under when he agreed to contract Rooster New York, a new branding content site run by Vice magazine co-founder Gavin McInnes (who also directed this segment), for his T by Alexander Wang spring 2013 campaign video. Did we mention that it also stars sketch comedienne Anjelah Johnson as Bon Qui Qui, a pretty racist caricature she developed on MADtv, which we would have certainly been bothered by, had we or anyone we knew watched that program?

Also, Simon Doonan and Natasha Lyonne.

Yikes. When you get an idea this perfect, it must be hard to turn it down.

We guess the joke is that, in reality, Bon Qui Qui would be kept in a windowless factory loft, forced to work in inhumane conditions for less than minimum wage. Did we get it?

A single person clapped and, realizing they were all alone, stopped.

Mr. Shanks continued, “It exudes the grandeur of Gotham and the dazzle of the iconic Mad Men design gone modern.” Mr. Shanks cleared his throat. “It’s really amazing.”

Last Monday, a group (of “top hotel and publishing executives as well as media industry influencers,” per a press release) was gathered at a private party to celebrate the grand reopening of the gut-renovated hotel and the launch of its new partnership with Penguin Books.

Scheduled to coincide with Book Expo America, a massive publishing trade show that forces attendees to trudge all the way to 11th Ave., three evening readings and panels were to take place in the lobby.

These readings, called the Penguin Preview Series at the Round Table, will continue on a quarterly basis. Another aspect of the new partnership is the Night-table Reading promotion, in which books and galleys from Penguin’s recent releases will be distributed to hotel guests each night.

It’s all a concerted effort to reclaim the “rich literary history” (a phrase repeated ad nauseum through the night) of the hotel, where, during the 1920s, the Algonquin Round Table met for lunch to exchange jokes and barbs, where The New Yorker was born in 1925, and where Dorothy Parker said that thing about leading a horticulture (you can’t make her think).

Penguin authors abounded: Elizabeth Gilbert, Ron Chernow and Simon Doonan milled around, Rachel Dratch chatted with John Hodgman in another corner, and Andrew Ross Sorkin, who dropped by on the late side.

We asked Mr. Hodgman if a literary salon could be revived in this way. Can there be another Algonquin Round Table?

“Salon culture still exists, but it’s online now. Writers don’t need to get together in an actual place any more,” Mr. Hodgman mused. “Though writers would benefit from a meeting place, because there would be alcohol and table service. Writers love hotels because they are the living rooms they cannot afford themselves.”

Pulitzer Prize winner Junot Diaz responded to the same question with characteristic flourish, but no optimism. “An incubator for personalities supremely attuned to this socio-cultural moment—it would be a wonderful thing for human circuitry. But communities have diffused and moved into the thinnest splinters,” he said.

Marion Meade, biographer of Algonquin patron sinner Dorothy Parker, clutched a glass of white wine with both hands, and proudly gestured toward one of her books, displayed in a glass cabinet in the lobby.

When asked if the spirit of the place could be revived simply by hosting readings and stuffing a new novel next to the Bible in each bedside drawer, Ms. Meade replied with an acerbic pragmatism.

“They are probably the only hotel in New York that has this kind of literary history. If they don’t use it, they’re pretty stupid, and they’re not stupid. Whether they can keep it up with Penguin, who knows, but I give them credit for trying.”

What would Dorothy Parker think of this latest campaign to capitalize upon the hotel’s literary pedigree?

“She’d think it was bullshit,” came the answer.

The O.G. Algonquin Round Table (Al Hirschfeld)

Well, luckily there were more than 11 people on the Round Table (original flavor), and there is certainly room for more speculation. So, here are the new submissions...and as always, send us your picks!

Simon Doonan (Getty Images)

Fashion Week and its grind have receded into memory (or so it would seem from our Twitter, on which every Condé staffer we follow has finally stopped totemically retyping their every Starbucks order), and Simon Doonan is free to swan about the society soirées from which he draws his coy observations. Tonight brings the 24th Annual Auction and Party for Bailey House, an organization that provides housing and services to homeless people with HIV. Will the author of Gay Men Don’t Get Fat (Harvey Fierstein apparently notwithstanding) press the point by pouring a salt shaker over the plate of fellow guest Andy Cohen? Will fellow attendee Sherri Shepherd look on, nostalgic for the relative camaraderie of The View? The answers shall be revealed at this auction! (And you thought you were just going for the charity.)

Lexington Avenue Armory, 68 Lexington Avenue, VIP reception at 6 p.m., event at 7 p.m., auction at 8:30 p.m. Visit baileyhouse.org/auction or call (212) 633-2500 x455 for tickets.

The Diet Pepsi-sponsored show, presented by Simon Doonan (creative ambassador-at-large at Barneys), brought four regional designers to create looks on themes of Mr. Doonan's devising, including “fierce hyena” safari prints, avant-garde workwear that he touted as inspired by Daphne Guinness and Tilda Swinton. (Also, we noticed the Diet Pepsi-inspired looks, which basically meant silver dresses.)

In the front row sat Debra Messing, Kristen Chenoweth, Kelly Rutherford, Angela Simmons, Mary-Kate Olsen, Tinsley Mortimer and Jonathan Adler.

Mr. Doonan opened the show with an air of exasperation, as the poor man professed to searching such lowly places as hostels (the horror!) and “old person homes” for the best young designers the fashion world could cough up. Perhaps instantly recognizable of the designers was Shirin Askari, an alum of Project Runway.

Jay Manuel of “America's Next Top Model” arrived post-show and was immediately mobbed in a storm of camera flashes and clamoring voices, later posing on the catwalk for photos with his fans.

Diet Pepsi was ubiquitous in the event's décor. Johnathan Adler's red, white and blue retro pattern was everywhere, festooning the invitations, program and giant lamps in the studio space. Adler's retro pattern extended to the smallest details, like long, plastic straws that balanced precariously in glasses of pinot grigio clutched by party-goers, or tumblers filled with the signature drinks of the night: Diet Pepsi mixed with rum or vanilla vodka (Um, ick!). Not to mention that the catwalk was lined by those skinny cans Sofia Vergara dances around with in those commercials.

As Mr. Doonan put it, Fashion Week is "vast, annoying, hilarious and fabulous at the same time. You just have to surrender to it."

Though when asked what he hated about Fashion Week, he parried.

“I hate that there are so many shows that I can't get to them all. I would want to go to everything, but that's virtually impossible. It's utterly overwhelming and completely insane but kind of fabulous as well.”

After the celebrities had split and the music was still blaring, off-duty models and party-goers took to the stage and runway, busting out model poses, or danced as they awkwardly sipped the Diet Pepsi concoctions with Adler's tall straws, trying to keep the dwindling party alive before getting kicked out unceremoniously at 10pm.

I am surprised there were no poofs caught in the net of that Russian spy haul last week. The connection between espionage and the "friends of Dorothy" is well documented. Paging Guy Burgess, Anthony Blount and other tweedy inverts!

It all makes perfect sense: We gays have a much greater familiarity than the average breeder with the concept of secrecy, spending, as we are obliged to do, our early years wrapped in a feather boa of undisclosed thoughts and desires. With good reason, too. If I had told anyone at my Secondary Modern School that all I wanted to do was dance the frug with David Hemmings-remember him from Blow-Up?-they would have turned me into Piggy, as in Lord of the Flies.

My gay secret life was at its naughtiest and most clandestine when watching TV. Though we Doonans might all have appeared to be staring at the same box, I was focused on very specific aspects of the program content, and getting all hot and bothered in the process. While my family was doggedly following Efrem Zimabalist Jr.'s sleuthing in 77 Sunset Strip, I was fantasizing about a kiss with Kookie, the slim-hipped parking lot attendant played by Edward Burns. While my mum and dad were white-knuckling it through Lloyd Bridges' underwater adventures in Sea Hunt, I was focused on his other harpoon, if y'all know what I'm sayin'.

This is not to say that the straight Doonies did not have their own share of secrets. For example: When I was in my late 20s, I asked my parents for my original birth certificate. They had always been evasive on this issue, proffering a range of excuses, including "Your Aunt Phyllis's seeing-eye dog ate it." I finally put the squeeze on Betty Doonan because I needed it to process my green card.

When, reluctantly and with lowered lids, she handed over the document in question, I suspected it might contain a secret or two. I was correct. His name was Mr. Jones. Between anxious puffs on a Woodbine cigarette, Betty told me that this man was her first husband, a wanker, by all accounts, who had abandoned her for some Italian broad at the beginning of the war. My mum had kept it a secret for almost 30 years, hiding any documents that referred to her as "formerly Jones," my birth certificate included.

People say that keeping secrets makes you a prisoner and releasing them sets you free. This was not the case for Betty. Her life was much better back when Mr. Jones was a shadowy memory, stuffed in a drawer. Once the cat was out of the bag, she had to deal with my relentless, stress-inducing inquisitions and reproaches. Why, when she knew how much I enjoyed a bit of sizzling scandal, had she withheld this succulent, Lana Turner-esque detail of her life?

But sometimes the discovery of a family secret can bring true happiness and genuine exaltation. Such was the case with my Jonny. When I met Jonathan Adler 15 years ago, he was  a workaday potter who thought he was just like everybody else. He had no idea how very, very, very special he was. Everything changed when, about a month after I met him, he found out that ... hang on to your chromosomes, girls! ... his grandparents were first cousins!!

Far from inducing feelings of discomfort or shame, this revelation increased my Jonny's joyous self-esteem about tenfold. He rebranded and repackaged this potentially concerning tidbit as follows: "I'm not inbred. I'm purebred."

Go, Jonny, go!

sdoonan@observer.com

"I'm going to Carnaby Street to get a flat and a modeling job, and I'll be back in half an hour."

These words were spoken by La Redgrave in the 1967 movie Smashing Time. The basic plot of this unsung cinematic mistress-piece revolves around the arrival in London of two adorably common trouts named Yvonne (La Redgrave) and Brenda (Rita Tushingham). Their goal? The same as yours and mine and everyone else who escapes naffsville and shleps to the big city: fame, fortune and beaucoup de pooblicitay.

The advertising campaign that lured me to this movie at the age of 16 used the slogan "Two girls go stark mod!" I wasn't disappointed. When the lights came up at the shabby Gaumont movie theater back in Reading, Berkshire-lo those 40 years ago-I knew that I had found a raison d'être. I decided that I too would go in search of a trendy Carnaby street pad and, in the absence of any modeling offers, a switched-on, groovy, pace-setting occupation.

When my childhood best friend, Biddie (a.k.a. James Biddlecombe), and I simultaneously flew our respective coops, we hung out of the train window, in conscious imitation of Brenda and Yvonne, singing the Smashing Time theme song:

"Going down to London, going down to London, we're going to have a SMASHING TIME!!!"

We rented a squalid bed-sit and set about the task of clawing our way to the middle: I dove into the mad-cap world of window-dressing, and Biddie vamped his way into the spangled West End drag/cabaret circuit. Like Brenda and Yvonne, Biddie and I were two idiotically naïve, glamour-starved funsters who were mesmerized by the fashion and fabulousness that shimmered on the horizon. And, guided by visions of our two irrepressible heroines, we quickly learned that the best defense against any disappointment/rejection is humor.

Lynn Redgrave's portrayal of the tall, loud, brassy Yvonne is memorable and utterly hilarious-YouTube the scene where she performs her hit record, "I Can't Sing but I'm Young"-but also poignant. The ability to inhabit a character so dripping with emotional ineptitude and imbue it with genuine vulnerability was Lynn's great gift. She did the same thing in Georgy Girl and was rewarded with an Oscar nomination. Vanessa's younger sister was an empathetic thespian who, despite the gravitas of the Redgrave dynasty, instinctively understood that inside us all lurks a totally uncool, bleached-blond Yvonne screaming for a bit of love and attention.

I met Lynn Redgrave at a Tina Brown-hosted do in the mid 2000s. When I gushed, she surprised me by matching my deranged Smashing Time-ophilia with equal enthusiasm. She was only too happy to talk about this under-celebrated movie and was at pains to assure me that she and Brenda, as she still referred to Rita Tushingham, had remained the best of pals. During lunch, Lynn chuckled and self-deprecated about her chemo wig and her burgeoning career as a playwright. I was left with the distinct impression that here was a woman who, despite baroque family dramas, eating disorders and cancer, still believed it was possible to zip off to Carnaby Street to get a flat and modeling job and be back in half an hour.

R.I.P. Yvonne. You will be missed.

sdoonan@observer.com

"He's a mensch! He's just extremely altruistic; he's been mentoring a lot of designers and helping them with their business model," Barneys creative director and Observer columnist Simon Doonan told the Transom. Mr. Socol's mentees include Narcisco Rodriguez, Philip Lim and L'Wren Scott.

Mr. Socol has also been helping out on the real estate front. According to a deed filed recently in city records, he purchased a $2 million apartment at 771 West End Avenue. Carey Socol-Kregsman and Jonathan Kregsman, Mr. Socol's daughter and son-in-law, appear on the deed as well. Corcoran's Susan Neirenberg had the four-to-five-bedroom listing-with a claw-foot tub in the maid's room bathroom and an eat-in kitchen with a Sub-Zero refrigerator-which was sold in an estate sale. "I certainly can't comment on the buyers," Ms. Neirenberg said.

Meanwhile, Mr. Doonan and his husband, power potter and Top Design judge Jonathan Adler, have just put their summer getaway, a 1,800-square-foot Shelter Island A-frame cottage, formerly owned by a 1960s Pan Am pilot, on the market for $1.795 million; they are completing work on a larger oceanfront property on the island with Connecticut-based architect Gray Organschi. The cottage features a 75-foot swimming pool, three bedrooms, a naughty outdoor shower, a Ping-Pong court and lush landscaped gardens by Buttercup Design Group-and the couple will probably throw in a couple of crocks to the lucky buyers!

"We bought it 12 or 13 years ago when we first started dating," Mr. Doonan said, sounding a bit wistful. "If I wasn't an orphan or if I had more family, I'd wish that someone in the family would buy it so I could visit. I just love the house so much."

As far as working on a small scale, he felt it was “so cute! I’m married to a small-scale husband, after all!” A.k.a. Observer columnist Simon Doonan (see p. 6). “I look at all these middle-aged women in pink dresses squealing over blond Barbies,” Mr. Doonan said, “and I wonder what my feminist lesbian activist sister would think of all this?”

Mr. Adler introduced his own sister, Amy Adler, and her escape-bent 3-year-old son, Harry, to the Transom. “Harry, do you remember the story I told you about Uncle Jonny and the Barbie doll?” asked Ms. Adler. Harry tried to twist off his mother’s arm and run away, not unlike what Uncle Jonny used to do back in the ’70s to Ms. Adler’s own Barbies. “It’s a more accepting time now,” said Mr. Adler, cleaning up some spilled Champagne. “Now little boys can play with Barbie.”