Lauren Santo Domingo.

Salvatore Ferragamo is celebrating 35 years of its iconic Vara shoe, the pump with a signature bow. The party features 21 “iconic girls,” from New York society staples Lauren Santo Domingo (dubbed the next Brooke Astor), designer Minnie Mortimer, Olivia Palermo and director Chiara Clemente to movie stars Camilla Belle and Lake Bell and supermodels Jessica Hart, Lily Aldridge and Elettra Wiedemann. Claiborne Swanson Frank, who has become the female Slim Aarons of our time, photographed the event’s well-heeled and well-groomed society swans, many of whom she had already captured in her coffee table book American Beauty.

530 West 27th Street (site of the interactive play Sleep No More), 9pm, by invitation only.

Exclusive Punk-inspired collection from Moda Operandi.

Already have your invitation to the 2013 Costume Institute's Benefit, but can't figure out how to turn your epic ballgowns from years prior to fit this year's theme of "Punk"? No worries, digital luxury retailer Moda Operandi has your back: Starting on May 2nd, the site will be selling 100 one-of-a-kind, punk-inspired clothes and accoutrements from famed fashion houses.

Problem solved! Now you just have to figure out which designer you are pretending brought you to the event.

According to WWD, the items up for grabs include:

T-shirts hand-studded with spikes from Eddie Borgo; a Givenchy chiffon and leather cape, and two corseted Vivienne Westwood tartan dresses. Rodarte, House of Waris, Moschino, Prabal Gurung, Thom Browne, Preen, Balmain, Dolce & Gabbana and Ek Thongprasert also made special pieces for the occasion.

Because nothing says "punk" like Dolce & Gabbana. Actually, this was a brilliant marketing move by the Operandi founders, Lauren Santo Domingo and Aslaug Magnusdottir. The ties run deep: the Internet-only retailer received a second round of funding last June--to the tune of $36 million--from Conde Nast, LVMH and IMG (among others). Not to mention that the exhibition is made possible by Moda Operandi and Conde Nast, according to the Met's website. And as Ms. Domingo is a former contributing editor Vogue (and one of the benefit's chairwomen) and Ms. Magnusdottir a cofounder of Gilt Groupe, creating a web-based fashion event around the hottest Anna Wintour-helmed ticket of the season was probably a no-brainer.

Now we are just left wondering: Who will these ladies be wearing?

Maggie Betts.

Get your masks out, because the social swans are covering their professionally made-up mugs to raise money for Save Venice, benefiting the city that is sinking faster than Lindsay Lohan’s bank account. The theme is very Truman Capote: a black-and-white masquerade ball—perfect for girls to show off those Op Art Marc Jacobs for Louis Vuitton dresses. The benefit committee is a who’s who of young boldfaced names like Maggie Betts, Hayley Bloomingdale, Trisha Gregory, style icon Michelle Harper (who will probably win the Best Female Mask prize), Stavros Niarchos and Jessica Hart, Julie Macklowe, Annelise Peterson and Lauren Santo Domingo.

The Pierre, 2 East 61st Street, (212) 838-8000, cocktails 8pm, dinner 9pm, by invitation only.

The Four Seasons Restaurant, 99 East 52nd Street, (212) 754-9494, 6:30-9:30pm, by invitation only.

Platonically adored by the city’s leading ladies for decades, the flash of Mr. Cunningham’s camera is worth more than any cocktail hour compliment, a thousand-fold. While women have tripped over their trains, desperate to impress him for decades, Mr. Cunningham has remained unaffected, the dogged archivist of New York city’s ceaseless uptown carnival.

Yesterday evening, Mr. Cunningham’s frequent subjects congregated at the Waldorf-Astoria for a night in honor of their beloved photographer, who was receiving the Carnegie Hall Medal of Excellence.

Perched alone at a table, a black fur cape draped over his formidable knee, André Leon Talley arched his neck and surveyed the growing crowd of society peacocks. He was eager to speak about Mr. Cunningham. “He is what I call, the best of the old school world class personalities. He is more than just a photographer. He is a great gentlemen. He represents the best of what Americans can be,” Mr. Leon Talley said, with his lofty, precisely articulated intonation. “It’s not about the moment of bloggers or blogettes or fifteen minutes of fame,” he said, distain audibly dripping through his enunciation of the digi-sphere. “He has always been and will always be the person you see… He’s the same in Paris as he is in New York, and he is the same in New York as he would be in Paris.”

We wondered if one could describe Mr. Cunningham’s contribution to American fashion. Mr. Leon Talley thought for a moment before, with particular gusto, pronouncing the following: “One of the great chroniclers, as well as an oracle. A visual oracle, word oracle, word chronicler; master. American master.” He smiled, pleased with his poetical report.

We noticed Anna Wintour enter the room, swathed in a white fur wrap. We asked if she wouldn’t mind sharing a few thoughts on Mr. Cunningham. She sized us up. “Yes, in a minute,” she said, disappearing into the dense taiga of couture gowns as quickly as she had appeared.

The foyer was filling fast, and, between the ball gowns, flying bisoux and circulating crab cakes, there was little room for movement. Guests shuffled, as best they could, toward the bars with an unabating harmony of “pardon me, excuse me please, and so sorry could I scoot by.”

The guest of honor was barely visible in the crowd, an unceasing receiving line surrounding him and heaping praise upon him. In typical fashion, Mr. Cunningham did his best to recoil from the attention as politely as possible.

Chatting with friends at the bar, Mercedes Bass appeared particularly resplendent, in a full length feathered gown, a self-conscious swan queen. “Only for Bill. I never speak to the press,” Ms. Bass replied when we asked for a moment, bristling slightly.

She described her first impression of Bill Cunningham, some forty years ago. “I thought he was adorable and weird looking and I thought ‘Why is he doing this?’ and when he talked I thought he should be a professor. He has a wonderful command of the English language,” she remarked.

Others, however, could not quite recall when they first met the lensman. “It was many, many moons ago,” Sarah Jessica Parker professed, appearing in a blue Oscar de la Renta dress, a nod to Mr. Cunningham’s ubiquitous blue jacket. “But I knew who he was. I’ve always known who he was,” she said. Ms. Parker was glad Mr. Cunningham is finally being recognized for his decades of singular effort. “His work is deserving. Every now and then a deserving person is recognized,” she suggested, “and it’s such an enormous body of work! That’s what’s also so special, is that he doesn’t seem interested in stopping,” she said.

Mr. Cunningham had left his place in the eye of the storm and had, much to the delight of the guests, reprised his preferred position: behind the camera. As guests began to head into dinner, he snapped pictures of the meritorious few whose habits met his standards.

Inside, we spotted Ms. Wintour once again and re-approached. “Oh,” she said thinly. “You’re back.” She did, however, share her thoughts on Mr. Cunningham. “It seems he was practically the first person I met when I moved to New York,” she said, waxing nostalgic. “He’s so unbelievably authentic. If he doesn’t like something, he’ll tell you. And if he does like something he’ll tell you. His eye is extraordinary,” she said.

Feeling bold, we asked if Mr. Cunningham had ever objected to one of her ensembles. While she did not sigh or murmur “Oh my dear child,” both were implied in her response. “You know he doesn’t like it because he just won’t take your picture,” she said, an imperious smile on her lips as she walked away.

Nearly everyone in the room had seen Bill Cunningham New York, Richard Press’s recent documentary, which paints an intimate portrait of the photographer’s life. We asked Lauren Santo Domingo if she felt uncomfortable peering into the life of such a discreet man. “Maybe for someone whose so private, but you know he captures so many people in private moments, that maybe it’s a fair trade off,” she offered.

His contribution to the world of fashion, Ms. Santo Domingo said, cannot be underestimated. “You know, I think at one point fashion could have been considered trivial, but now it really defines it defines our entire generation. So, the art that he’s been practicing has historical significance,” she explained. “He almost records it almost from an anthropological, sociological perspective.”

After baby spring lamb chops were served, Mr. Cunningham took the stage to accept his medal.
“Everyone in this room, that’s why I’m here! It’s because of you, not me!” he began, pointing out the until-then unspoken irony of the evening: the society photographer, being honored by society.  “Do you realize what you mean to me?” he asked the crowd, his life’s work.

After dinner, we asked Sandy Weill why he thought Mr. Cunningham had been selected for the award. “I love him,” Mr. Weill responded. “We all should love him.”
editorial@observer.com

Penthouse Terrace (Photo from Corcoran)

Julio Mario Santo Domingo owns a private island off the coast of Colombia, where he made his fortune in beer. His grandson of the same name is a D.J. more familiar with Ibiza, and he has settled for a penthouse appropriately close to the meatpacking district.

Julio Mario Santo Domingo III just paid $4.07 million for a 2,737-square-foot spread atop 325 West 13th Street, according to city records.
That is one-20th of a percent of the $7.8 billion that grandpappy sold the Bavaria Brewery to SABMiller for in 2005.

The duplex penthouse has 1,500 square feet of outdoor space, including a private rooftop deck, which “is perfect for lounging, sunbathing, dining, and grilling far away from neighboring view,” according Brian Babst, Daren Herzberg and Jason Brantley's Corcoran listing.

Developers Josh Najjar and Michael Petrillo claim that it's the closest penthouse to the meatpacking district (we report, you decide). “I mean, not that I know of at least,” Mr. Najjar conceded.

Although perhaps the neighborhood would be a bit foreign to the family patriarch, the youngest Julio Mario Santo Domingo is very familiar with the West Village: The penthouse property deed shows that his most recent address is a condo at 175 West 12^th Street, most recently purchased in 2003 for a paltry $610,000.

eknutsen@observer.com

Francisco Costa with Bronwyn Cosgrave

The wind was picking up when The Observer walked into the private entrance of Le Bernardin yesterday evening. Les Salons Bernardin, the famed New York eatery’s private rooms, was the venue for a cocktail celebration of fashion designers shortlisted for the 2011 Dorchester Collection Fashion Prize.

A variety of fashionistas and fashionistos including  “classy” writer Derek Blasberg, short-pant man Thom Browne, Vogue-ette Lauren Santo Domingo, Pradambassador Shala Monroque and Marchesa duo Georgina Chapman and Keren Craig served as judges for the event. They deliberated in one of the Salon’s back rooms and drew up their final shortlist just before 6:00pm when guests arrived.

Although several of the judges had to leave soon after the first bottles of champagne were popped, guests nonetheless enjoyed themselves, hobnobbing and mingling in the Salon. A slew of waiters whisked endless bottles of champagne through the room while others offered platters of Bernadin delicacies to guests.

As expected, the dainty dishes were incredibly delicious.  Zucchini flowers stuffed with succulent crab were complemented by miniscule chicken skewers and bites of tuna tartar.  Guests continued to sip their bubbly as the evening’s torrential downpour game and went unnoticed.

The Dorchester Fashion Prize’s chairwoman Bronwyn Cosgrave graciously introduced guests to the designers and the judges. Wearing a striking teal ensemble she circulated throughout the party, convivially chatting with everyone in the room.

One of the shortlisted designers, menswear extraordinaire Siki Im, came just after the party started. “I just found out ten minutes ago. I came up here, I had no idea,” the designer said. “ I feel like a reality show,” he added.

Siki Im joins Anndra Neen, Giuletta, Julian Louis, and Setareh Mohtarez as the final five designers in the competition. The selected designer will be granted a $40,000 endowment and the opportunity to display their wares at the Hôtel Plaza Athénée during Paris fashion week.

Walking outside, the ground was wet but the sun was shining once again on Le Bernardin.

Mayor Bloomberg has announced a six-part fashion initiative to strengthen the city's fashion industry in the wake of the massive growth of online retailers. [The Daily]

A lookbook of the Lanvin for H&M collaboration was released this morning, modeled by Irina Lazareanu. [Racked]

Lauren Santo Domingo, Lady Gaga and Madonna go to the same hair stylist. [Refinery 29]

The Accessories Council Excellence Awards last night recognized Kanye West as Stylemaker of the Year for 2010. [WWD]

No, seriously. Has it ever been more mind-numbingly confusing/complicated to be a goil than it is right now? And I fear the situation may be getting worse. While men sit around farting and twiddling their BlackBerrys, the chicks writhe in agony under the increasing pressure to optimize every aspect of their lives, and everyone else’s. They are expected to look like Angelina Jolie; be as nurturing and upbeat as Maria Von Trapp; be as decisive and reassuring as Winston Churchill; and be as tigress-y and protective as Gloria Allred. The pressure to be perfect, self-imposed and otherwise is, like, totally off the chizzies. 
This past week, I was forced to confront, in no uncertain terms, the epic scale of the challenges that dog the glamour-pusses and socialites of N.Y.C. on a daily basis.

TUESDAY, APRIL 6: An amazingly good-looking group of chicks—Lauren Santo Domingo, Chloë Sevigny and Dasha Zhukova, amongst others—all showed up at Barneys for the launch of scribe-socialite Derek Blasberg’s hilarious new etiquette manual, titled Classy. Derek’s book directly addresses one of the biggest challenges facing women today: How to project the ludicrous degree of sizzling hotness that our culture demands of every female, without turning into a skank. Classy’s tips are broad-ranging and include a vital and cautionary note about the fad for Japanese tattoos: ‘You might think you got “goddess” on your hip bone, but it could very likely be “toilet seat.”

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 7: The Women in Need gala at the Waldorf—my Jonny and I were there to cheer our honoree pal, Glamour magazine editrix Cindi Lieve—was full of women who clearly were in need of very little, except maybe a respite from the burden of looking totally perfect every time they appear in public. The standards of flawless coiffure and couture for the prominent New York gal have become sadistically high. Unfortunately, it is no longer considered cool to show up with fag burns in your miniskirt, à la Edie Sedgwick. FYI, girls: I hate to sound smug, but it took Jonny and me about two minutes to get dressed that night.

THURSDAY, APRIL 8: I flew to Scottsdale, Ariz., with Ashley Olsen. Actually, she was in first class and I was back by the turlets. But that’s O.K. I’m not bitter. I would rather be an F-list celebrity man, back by the turlets, than face the kind of fan onslaught to which Ms. Olsen and her twin sister were subsequently subjected.

We were headed to the new Barneys store to stage a fall fashion show of the Olsen clothing line, The Row. After the flawless defile, out came the phone cameras, flashing away. Mary Kate and Ashley were impressively tolerant of this insanely intrusive ritual. The horrifyingly naff mania for documenting social events with phone pics now includes all generations. This gruesome substitute for human interaction is assault—packaged as homage, making it impossible to remonstrate with the amateur paparazzi. Women seem to be the primary target. They are also the primary perpetrators.

FRIDAY, APRIL 9: Back to N.Y.C. at the crack of ass. If further proof is needed that being a woman is fraught with complexity, then I certainly get it on this particular morning. While I breeze through security, my colleague Delphine—a new mom with a hungry lad named Hugo waiting at home—is forced to unpack and repack a breast pump AND a massive quilted nylon bag filled with gallons of BREAST MILK!!! While I loll in the lounge reading US Weekly, Delphine has to wait for hours while her copious lactations are tested for traces of explosives.

Cheers, Hugo! Drink up and celebrate the fact that you were born a carefree little bloke!

sdoonan@observer.com
 

“None of us canceled!” cried one young attendee who had made it safely inside the mansion, to her circle of girlfriends.

“I know, I’m impressed!” said another.

Still, there had been obstacles. Redheaded socialite and model Annabelle Vartanian, lingering by the entrance to the grand old mansion museum in a black Oscar de la Renta gown, had arrived from the Lower East Side. “Getting out of the car, there was, like, a huge pool of water,” she said, “but it’s one of my favorite parties, and I love to make an appearance. We may go home soon.”

The event had 15 co-chairs, including Christie’s Lydia Fenet, who was wearing a blue Vera Wang number and Tiffany jewels. “I’m a sponsored unit,” she said. “I actually sewed a rubber band on the bottom of my dress so I could hold it up by myself on my wrist when I’m going into the snow. My friends at work were like, ‘Oh my God, you’re a Renaissance woman!’”

The Deco theme had been suggested “because it’s a year when people are coming out of a Great Depression era,” Ms. Fenet explained.
Around her, doughy, fresh-faced scions in tuxedos gave the party the innocent air of a mid-century collegiate mixer. Socialite and Vogue contributor Lauren Santo Domingo appeared for pictures, but didn’t linger.

Blond co-chair and jewelry heir Coralie Charriol Paul, wearing a bedazzled, floor-length Carlos Miele gown, dragged the Transom into one of the galleries to rest her feet after gettin’ down to “Oh What a Night.” “I love theme parties,” she sighed. “I think they’re fun.” She had on a diamond headpiece—not genuine Deco, alas. “I wish, baby. I bought it at Henri Bendel this afternoon.” The snow had posed no special obstacle to her. “If you organize yourself right, you get picked up by a car, you get a gentleman helping you with an umbrella, then your feet get wet for maybe 30 seconds and you’re inside,” she said. “I live three blocks away. I still got a car, ha-ha-ha. A hybrid car!”

The dance floor was full late into the night, presided over, somewhat unexpectedly, by downtown DJs-of-the-moment Cassie Coane and Harley Viera-Newton, who were playing Lady Gaga and Outkast. “They’re embarrassing everyone here by playing this wedding music,” hissed one young buck from Tribeca who said he worked in the tequila business. “They wouldn’t be playing this if they were at Avenue, at 1 Oak. They’re playing down to the crowd.”