Harry Brant strikes a pose for the cameras at Emporio Armani's flagship store opening.

Despite that Harry Brant has barely cleared puberty, the social-buzzing, babygay spawn of model Stephanie Seymour and billionaire media/art/real estate tycoon Peter Brant, has a busy schedule that rivals those of Paris Hilton and Olivier Zahm. This past Friday at Emporio Armani’s 601 Madison Avenue boutique opening, we approached the 16-year-old high school sophomore to find why is he out socializing with Roberta Armani, Luigi Tadini, Ms. Hilton, Ricky Martin, Ryan Lochte, artist Rashaad Newsome, Anna dello Russo and Kate Lanphear, when he should probably be cracking those Algebra books.

“What have you been up to today?” we asked.

“I went to Rag & Bone. I liked it,” replied Mr. Brant, smiling profoundly.

“What are you doing at Armani?”

“I’m here for the clothes!”

“Are you going to be at any of the parties later? John Varvatos? Jason Wu?” The Observer prodded.

“Um tomorrow is Carine [Roitfeld]’s party,” he replied.

“So have you started school?” we questioned, suggesting he should be at home studying.

“Yes, today I went to Rag & Bone and then I went on a field trip to the aquarium with my school.”

“How do you balance your social schedule with school?” we asked.

“I mean, I’m pretty much like a modern-day Hannah Montana!” Mr. Brant said.

Does that mean Mr. Brant is living a double life? Is he secretly a world famous pop star? And since when did being a spoiled billionaire socialite boy constitute as a “normal teenage girl?”

Before he could clarify, a chaotic pack led by Cory Kennedy and Ms. Hilton stumbled drunkenly into the fiesta.

The Observer quickly grabbed a few glasses of water and offered them to Ms. Kennedy and her coterie, who more than needed it. Then we were off to rowdier pastures.

Screengrab. From left: Andrew Warren, Serena Marron, Peter Brant II, and Nick Gruber.

Friday, opening night at pop-up club Chez André at The Standard, East Village, found teenage dandy Peter Brant II and ex-porn star Nick Gruber, who was apparently taking a night off from writing a book and developing a TV show about his two-year relationship with Calvin Klein, on stage. The duo, joined at the mic by Andrew Warren and model Serena Marron, sang and mumbled their way through a live-band karaoke rendition of "Born to Be Wild." We have the video evidence. Arguably, it is the best version of the song ever performed. Arguably!

Olivier Zahm is French. Can you tell?

In the wake of last Saturday’s Purple Magazine party, we were left with several questions: What is it about Fashion Week mag soirées that seems to whip everyone into a frenzy? What mysterious gravity does Olivier Zahm carry that sucks the clothing off of so many stunningly beautiful women? How is Lindsay Lohan even still alive?

Our prospective evening began unfolding with an incoming text from Natalie White, former muse of photographer Peter Beard and current item of lust on Purple’s website: “Will I be seeing you at Purple Magazine tonight?” Of course, we replied, “but Natalie, how will we spot you?” Seconds ticked by, and came the response, “I’ll be the one wearing a see-through dress, darling.” With that image firmly lodged in our mind, we began to wonder what kind of party were we getting ourselves into.

We mulled the question as we hoofed it over to the Standard, a fittingly unglorified way to approach what would be a fittingly glorious event. Refinery29’s Kristian Laliberte—on full Fashion Week tilt—and his posse spotted us a block out. After a ritual passing of the flask, the group rolled over to the (suspiciously quiet) entrance.

“Sorry baby, it don’t start ’til 11,” deadpanned an Amazonian doorgirl. “You gonna have to go wait in the lobby with the rest of ’em.” Mr. Laliberte and our newly formed crew shambled into the appointed holding area with our tails between our legs—joining what more than one person referred to as “The Ellis Island” of the Purple party.

Our attempt to be fashionably late was unfashionably thwarted.

“O.K., let’s head back over there so the line won’t be too long” suggested Mr. Laliberte after a short time.
In the eight minutes we stood in the lobby, approximately 60 people had crowded the door, jostling for invisible spots on an invisible list that we were reminded would be “referred to as gospel” by the Amazonian.

(At this point, an aspiring—if misguided—partygoer was overheard remarking to his date, “I think we can sneak in. I’ve been here before.” Raised eyebrows and knowing glances were exchanged among the on-the-list set.)

The extent of the door difficulty was underscored when Patrick McMullan, nightlife photographer and fixture extraordinaire, sidled up to the wrong side of the gate. “Yes, I’m Patrick McMullan, I’m here to shoot the Purple Magazine party,” he informed her flatly.

The Amazon sized up the late-night veteran, thumbed through her clipboard and said: “Sorry, baby, you ain’t on the list, and if you ain’t on the list, you ain’t getting in!”
Whoa.

The be-guestlisted mob waiting behind the velvet ropes noticed the martyr having a hard time, and began a rallying cry: “LET HIM IN! LET HIM IN!” The solidarity of New York party people can be a beautiful thing.

Once inside, The Observer took our post on the railing and waited to see who trickled by. First up: Writer Bennett Marcus, nightlife veteran that he is, gave us a few pointers on what’s going to be what at this circus of an evening.

Peter Davis already seemed to be having a significantly better time than we, posing with the always-striking Anh Duong. We make a quick stop by the DJ booth to check in with the Misshapes, who reminded us that the evening might get a bit messy. (What was everyone so afraid of?) They neglected to mention, however, just how much of their set would be dedicated to the late, great, Whitney Houston. As a camouflage scarf-wearing Hamish Bowles strutted in, an onlooker remarked, “You almost kind of think that he’s always listening to Madonna’s ‘Vogue’ in his head.”

Spying Derek Blasberg, with his hand wrapped around Sofia Vergara, we thought of Woody Allen’s remark that he would like to be reincarnated as Warren Beatty’s fingertips.
We ran into Alexander Skarsgard, whom we urinated next to a few nights prior. “It’s good to see you again, Alex. Are you enjoying yourself this go around?” we asked, already knowing the answer.“Yes, of course!” he enthused. “Look around you! Everything, everyone is so beautiful.”

We looked around us. Everything and everyone was, indeed, beautiful. But even through the temporarily borrowed eyes of an international heartthrob, we had questions that were largely unanswerable: Who were all of these people? Where do they go between Fashion Weeks? Where were all of the promised see-through dresses?

Beyond a few standout characters, a few regulars, a few club kids and a few DJs, we noticed that even at this party, one of the most exclusive of the weekend, the froth that filled the gaps between celebrities was largely made up of people who don’t seem to exist outside of party photo websites. People who snuck in by knowing a guy who knew a guy who knew a PR girl. Extras on the backlot of downtown nightlife.

As we reached the peak of our vodka-soaked state of reflection, we grabbed Waris Ahluwalia to gather his thoughts on what we were all doing here, and why: “What do you make of all this, Waris?” we asked. “Well, you know, Olivier Zahm does what he does, and you know, this is what it is.” Hmm, elliptical.
Back into the froth.

Our photography degree was tingling, is that Juergen Teller? It was. We followed him for a bit, hoping to pry him away for a quick comment, but suddenly found ourselves in front of Russell Simmons: “You hangin’ in there, man?” Looking out below the brim of a Yankees cap, a slightly weary Russell demurred, “Yeah, yeah, you know how these things go.” We did.

Then it happened. Here we were in a fit of evening weltschmerz, and now confronted with the visage of the fast life’s most cogent cautionary tale—the Go Ask Alice of the corner banquette—Lindsay Lohan.
Fresh from what appeared to be a bit of a spat with world-renowned gentleman (cough, cough) Brandon Davis, LiLo looked surprisingly good.

Staring into the void, we thought it prudent to introduce ourselves. “Evening, Lindsay,” we said. “It seems we’ve gotten swept up into your posse!” A look of mortified disgust washed over her as she regarded our extended hand. The void was staring back into us.

We were swatted away by Ms. Lohan, as she made the most adorable “get the fuck out of my face” motion with her own little hands. We obliged, warm with the knowledge that we were back among the living.

Sunday afternoon at the Tents is always a scene. The climax is when legendary designer/aristocrat, Diane von Fürstenberg takes the stage. CFDA President-regnant; she is fashion royalty and attracts a fitting crowd:

Olivier Zahm from Purple magazine carried on with Terry Richardson…

"Could we get a word with you, Mr. Richardson?" we asked.

"No!" was the tart response.

All the same faces—no one fresh and inspiring. We're running out of options this Fashion Week. Clothes can't entertain and inform forever!

Ah-ha! Barbara Walters! She would be stupendous. The Observer stealthily began meandering past chic throngs of French editors and buyers. We weren't more than a few steps from our target when—"We're done!" snapped a KCD Gestapo.

Humph, back we dashed to our seat in A-6-1.

"A rendezvous is a meeting with suspense and expectation…" stated Ms. von Fürstenberg and creative-head Yvan Mispelaere. "Glamorous at a moment's notice, she is alive with anticipation," the program read.

The lights dimmed and Brigitte Bardot’s seductive voice purred sweetly. Out sashayed 48 ravishing looks: Parisian elegance worked in rich hues of scarlet, sea foam, lapis and glossy obsidian. Wrap dresses hugged the body with sophistication, but exuded a confident sexiness. There were DvF prints on crepe satin, including puzzle pieces, which had also decorated our invitations.

Was that a scowl from Cathy Horyn? We can't tell when she's pleased or horrified. But we love her and The New York Time’s, Eric Wilson (juste à côté), all the same!

While a few outfits would have been cozy on the dance floor at Studio 54, the majority of looks suggested an elegant femme fatale, who is a tad more timeless.

As applause filled the Tent, von Fürstenberg (guided by Mispelaere) greeted her guests with much aplomb, waving to her subjects and giving double-cheek kisses to her VIP pals...

Oh quelle chance, Lorenzo Martone!

“What are you wearing?” The Observer prodded, “is it vintage?”

“No it’s Marni,” the man about town laughed.

“Very nice! So are you going to Diane’s dinner at Indochine tonight?” (More like: can we be your date?)

“Yes…. I think I am!” Martone dished.

“Do you have a date?” we wanted to know.

“Yes I’m bringing my friend, she’s an artist…”

“What happened to Studio 54? Where is the Studio 54 of today?” we pressed on.

“I actually went to an event last year that recreated studio 54—it was great!”

…and no, we didn’t attend DvF’s intimate feast.

Photos: Patrick McMullan

Andre + Annabelle

Barely halfway into The Shoe, the 20-minute debut film from nightlife curator Andre Saraiva and fellow Frenchman Olivier Zahm, a young man meets a pretty girl in a Paris park scribbling in a notebook and they lock eyes and begin kissing as the music shuts off, the only sounds the clicks of teeth on teeth, and seconds later they're at her apartment -- clothes fly off and they go at it, the camera catching all. He wakes the next morning, steals the titular footwear, and we never see her again.

Who was she, that girl with the notebook? She was, of course, the director's girlfriend, Annabelle Dexter-Jones, and she watched the X-rated dirty deed with her mother sitting beside her.

"She liked it!" Ms. Dexter-Jones told The Observer much, much later in the night.

We told her we liked it, too.

"It was tasteful, no?" Ms. Dexter-Jones responded, and curled back her hair onto the big collar on her orange sherbet-colored dress.

"For sure," we said.

We had ended up at Kenmare --yes, yes, but where else? -- and so did the director and his starlet, so we stayed until after closing time and sat down to talk about the stacked levels of awkward that struck her during the screening. An edited version had been scheduled especially for Ann Dexter-Jones, but mom insisted on seeing her daughter's risque scene. And things couldn't have been all peachy for Mr. Saravia -- he had to watch Leo Fitzpatrick, the kid from Kids, get hot and heavy with Ms. Dexter-Jones.

But it seems all is well.

"In the scene," Ms. Dexter-Jones said after a sip of her drink. "I was writing a love letter to Andre."

The film may have been Mr. Saraiva's own mash note to his muse, too, but it was also infatuated with the contraband loafers, made by J.M. Weston. It was a particularly convincing ad for the shoes -- it's perfectly clear why Mr. Fitzpatrick steals them, has them stolen from him in kind and, when he finds the thieves, beats them to a bloody pulp to get them back. The guy cares about loafers!

The crowd skipped the first showing, the edited version, in favor of vodka drinks on the third-floor stone balcony, and then filed into the screening room for the film. Paris, pretty people, sex, loafers, cafes, etc. And yes, as Annabelle would reiterate later, her mother had no problem whatsoever witnessing the spectacle.

"I was very comfortable!" the elder Ms. Dexter-Jones told The Observer. "She was acting. It's not like I'm a peeping Tom! I had to appreciate --"

"Can I get one photo for Women's Wear Daily?" said a woman with a Polaroid camera. Apparently the rag has gone retro with its fashion slideshows.

She snapped it and the hazy undeveloped image puttered out of the clunky machine.

"But yes," Ms. Dexter-Jones continued. "I think she's a great actress."

The party migrated to Le Bain, where it's finally warm enough for the hot tub to be open, but The Observer chased the party downtown and split for to the pop-up Madame Wong's (which got the full Thursday Styles treatment in today's Times). Before seeing The Shoe we had run into Simonez Wolf, impresario behind the traveling hush-hush infrequent club, and he told us it was on tonight. But when we arrived at Jobee, the nondescript place the party occupies, there was only Nico, a waiter, and he said it had been quiet.

"Just went to wong's at jobee, is it somewhere else?" The Observer texted Mr. Wolf. "Nico was cleaning up."

"idk," Mr. Wolf responded.

Oh well. Luckily enough Kenmare had on display a wobbly Josh Brolin who rolled through with his bros, Paul Sevigny hauling his DJ rig brought over from Le Bain, and eventually Mr. Saraiva and Ms. Dexter-Jones. It got late and after discussing The Shoe Ms. Dexter-Jones changed the subject. She wanted a book recommendation.

"Have you read The Day of the Locust?" we asked.

She hadn't. But later we realized that, given the film we had watched her in earlier that night, a much more appropriate choice would have been the book stuffed in our jacket pocket: Dylan Thomas' Adventures in the Skin Trade.

Then the couple left, driven away by one of the bouncers as dawn started to hit the rooftops, and as we walked away we realized we had two lighters in our pocket. If you want yours back, Annabelle, let us know.

Richard Geoffroy, Olivier Zahm, Dree Hemingway

THE SUNDAY TRAIN TO GREENWICH left near the brunch hour and wound fast from Grand Central up out of the city, through the tree-dotted commuter towns, decrepit cities and expanses of green space. Just across the Connecticut border we stopped and at the taxi stand we spotted an editor from Interview magazine in red, bulb-shaped sunglasses. Her date wore a chrome sport coat with mannered rips below the lapels. We were going to the same address. “The Brant Foundation,” the editor said, and the cab took us there, sliding by the outsize faux-Place Vendôme homes that inhabit North Street.

The Observer looked up to see the stone building built by Peter Brant, the billionaire art dealer whose mansion lay across the street. It was stuck there, a rock fortress of art, surrounded by finely manicured grass that first rose up and then flattened into an immaculate polo field.

The man in the ripped chrome sport coat was talking with the editor about Josh Smith, an artist who writes his name in childish script on canvasses the size of elephants, and whose show had recently opened at the Brant Foundation.

“Peter lives there,” the editor said, pointing toward Mr. Brant’s mansion. It was completely obscured by foliage. “Can you see the puppy?” Puppy is a two-story, canine-shape topiary artwork by Jeff Koons, wrapped in kaleidoscopic vegetation.

On the wooden patio flanking the entrance, white-jacketed waiters set the table with placards, and once The Observer procured a flute of rosé, by Dom Pérignon, Allison Brant—whose father had opted to stay on in Basel after the art fair—led us through the Smith exhibition. The paintings were very much in his style—his name in various shades and scripts, the curling serifs of the letters repeated, one after another, lining the walls down to the barnlike skyroom.

“He did it with cranes, in a few weeks, here at the foundation,” Ms. Brant reported. She was talking about the work depicting a T. rex, which rose dramatically toward the ceiling. It was a fire-breathing dinosaur of a kid’s imagination: enormous and crude, surrounded by volcanoes. Beside it was another painting of the same size. “Josh Smith,” the painting said. Olivier Zahm knelt to take a picture. The exhibition is called “The American Dream.”

The Observer looked at our empty glass of rosé and went upstairs for another. We had several, and then it was time for lunch, presided over by Richard Geoffroy, Dom Pérignon’s chef de cave, the man who oversees every bottle of vintage. “We believe in the power of Champagne, the family method,” Mr. Geoffroy said. He was flown in for the day from France. “So raise your glasses, and toast,” he said. We did. The bubbly was the Dom Pérignon Oenotheque 1996.

There was to be a polo match but it was canceled, and a scrimmage would have to do. There were just lakes on the pitch, we heard.

As dessert cheeses arrived, a steed galloped toward the deck, the rider swinging his polo mallet up and around his head. The fashion designer Johan Linderberg walked over to watch his date, Dree Hemingway, run her hands through the mane.

“I never ride,” she said. The model sat with The Observer on the steps and had a cigarette. The green field spun like a carousel in the lenses of Ms. Hemingway’s black, crescent sunglasses. She had recently moved from the Lower East Side to the West Village. “I just got the cutest red bike,” Ms. Hemingway said. We were now standing together and the wind peeled from the green. “Do you bike? I’ll help you find a new one.” And then with a peck to our cheek, she hopped into a car with Mr. Linderberg back to the city.

Everyone was leaving, it appeared, but there would be a quick detour to see the Puppy. Someone said they had the code for the gate, but when we arrived it would not open. And so The Observer craned our neck, and over the wrought-iron spokes we could just see it, the live flowers piled all over the body, the floral beast in the Brant front yard.

The cavalcade of models — including familiar face Agyness Deyn — all had white paint heaped on their hair, and walked in airy looks that came in waves according to color. 

"The colors were so beautiful," Mr. McGinley told The Observer after the show. He agreed with us about the sci-fi feel of some of the clothes, which was set up by the foreboding balloon structure. "There were some pieces that kind of reminded me of Blade Runner that I liked."

But perhaps the accentuating detail that made the strongest impression was the music: a churning series of start-stop blippy and booming dub that would attack over and over again. Memorable, to be sure, though polarizing may be the better way to describe it. So we talked to M.I.A., sonic provocateur par excellence, about what she thought of the soundtrack.

"It just seemed like a Die Antwoord CD on repeat, yeah, with a bit of dubstep thrown in," Maya told us in her thick English accent. "But it was interesting. It's definitely juxtaposed with what the style of the clothing was. It was a good contradiction, I thought."

Suffice it to say that Alexander Wang makes sure the music at his show — much like the show itself — brings something different to the table. 

Late last week, in a moment that feels particular to the neighborhood of Williamsburg, Brooklyn, a girl in her early 20s with long, seemingly unwashed brown hair, stained denim cutoffs, scuffed boots and a loose white tank top that exposed lacy bra straps rode by on a bicycle and caught the attention of a 31-year-old man.

She belonged to the species of Dirty Girl that have been shuffling around this city for years: youthful, thrifty, indifferent to grooming-and in possession of an undeniable and confounding sex appeal.

"There are different kinds of hotness," explained her admirer, who preferred not to be named. "Sometimes you see a woman and you think, 'My God. I would do anything to take that woman out to a nice meal and see if she's crazy enough to think I'm nice and marry me someday.' And then there are times you're walking home and you step into a bar and there is this chick in the corner and I can go home and have sex with her for a weekend. And those girls radiate that."

The levels of trying and looking like you're not, so that everyone knows you actually really, really are, have an appeal, he added. "You know how in middle school you would rip your jeans, and your parents would mock you? That's kind of how I feel about them. It's like you know that that was such a curated attempt that it inherently exposes a softness in the middle, a kind of vulnerability. Like, 'You don't know who you are very well yet, but you're trying to create a facade that supports a certain thesis.'"

PHOTOS> Meet the Dirty Girls

The Dirty Girls of New York have some well-known ambassadors, commonly found in the front rows of certain fashion shows and the pages of Nylon magazine and (with their nipples showing) on Purple magazine founder Olivier Zahm's blog. They are well educated in the art of heavy eyeliner, like that smudged and smeared around Becka Diamond's eyes; of concealing your actual, sizable wealth with vintage T-shirts, like Peaches and Pixie Geldof; and of uncombed hair, like that framing the disinterested, remote look of Cory Kennedy's eyes. (All of the above are often identified as model or socialite or "It girl" or "party girl," though their actual professional pursuits are unclear.)

Ms. Kennedy appeared in ad campaigns and on the cover of Women's Wear Daily after the photographer (and her onetime boyfriend) Mark "The Cobra Snake" Hunter began posting photos of her on his Web site back in 2005. And though the look has all but disappeared from editorial pages, the photographer's Web site is still a place where the number of skinny, adolescent thighs in ripped stockings, navels exposed by dingy crop tops and various states of intoxication demonstrated by suggestive poses on the ground would make any man, young or old, feel instant guilt-if not for having looked, then for the place their imagination took them. 

"I know a lot of those girls and for some of them it's real, you know?" said Mr. Hunter by phone. "They sleep in their clothes and then go to a party and they won't shower, for real. I'm not a girl, but it must be a relief that that kind of look is acceptable because it's a lot easier to pull off than throwing pounds of makeup on and trying to make your clothes steamed and unwrinkled and stuff. I've traveled with some of them, and they just throw their shit in their suitcase and they put it on wrinkled and then they just put dry shampoo in their hair. It's a lifestyle."

Asked about the appeal of the look to the opposite sex, Mr. Hunter said, "It just gets a dirty idea in your head. Like, 'This girl is wild,' or it's just very sexual, like, 'Let's degrade this person.'"

Meanwhile, the fashion editors-who almost always take a position contrary to that of a straight man when it comes to what's sexy-see the look a different way.

"Some people equate dirtiness with soulfulness. That it makes you interesting," said Elle's fashion news director, Anne Slowey. "I don't think it's necessarily one of fashion's biggest trends, but kids of a certain age are always discovering it. But, it's like, can't someone rediscover Stephen Sprouse or Geoffrey Beene? Alex White is doing styling with Oscar de la Renta and re-creating that whole 'Upper East Side kid mimicking parents' thing, which is more interesting to me than always doing Marc's Perry Ellis collection.

"I think it works for Cory Kennedy, but there is a fine line between expression and clamoring for attention," she continued. "The minute it becomes ... who was it that used to roll around on the floor at clubs? Or like Paz de la Huerta. I've seen her pick her nose and fling it across the restaurant, and at a certain point you're just out of control."

Ms. Slowey later added on The Observer's answering machine, "Erin Wasson is like the epitome of the dirty underpants look, but even her line got cleaned up for fall." (Last month, in fact, Ms. Wasson's line for RVCA consisting of denim cutoffs and baby tees-the debut of which was marked by the model claiming, 'Homeless people have the best style'-was discontinued altogether.)

What's frustrating at this point-for someone who first glimpsed the Dirty Girl look eight years ago at N.Y.U., tried it on and ultimately abandoned it by graduation-is that it still dominates young women's idea of style. Even as the clothes on the runways have become beautiful and elegant and clean. Even as Alexander Wang has traded in his burnout tees in favor of deconstructed suits in sophisticated fabrics and pinstripes. And even as 17-year-old actress Taylor Momsen has amplified the look to an ungodly extreme, looking dirtier, cheaper and self-consciously more desperate than all the Dirty Girls before her.

But there is hope: Examine the spreads in the just-out September issues of the major fashion magazines, and you will find a refreshing precision to both the tailoring and hair-styling. "I think there's always going to be a place for that rebellious dirty look with the torn sweaters and leggings," said Katie Connor, Marie Claire's fashion features editor. "But in terms of what we're looking at on the runways, right now, it's much more a return to the classics, and what we're seeing is very ladylike-it's longer hemlines and square top-handle bags. That goes directly in the face of these young starlets in the tattered clothes."

Even Ashley and Mary-Kate Olsen, who arrived in the hallways of N.Y.U. practicing what became known as homeless chic, seem to be cleaning up. (The latter is Marie Claire's cover girl this month, with pink lips and a tailored jacket slung over her shoulders.)

"I look at the Olsen twins, and they've come so far in terms of when they first came to New York and started that whole wide-gaping-holes-in-your-leggings look," Ms. Connor said. "Now they're talking about how they would love to see the first lady wear The Row or Elizabeth and James"-their fashion lines-"and you see even in them this shift towards sophistication."

Perhaps that will soon trickle down, and all these wanly bicycling, pallid Williamsburg Winonas will morph into the Betties of Brooklyn Heights?

But for now the Dirty Girls are still with us: staring out blankly from American Apparel ads and most conc
entrated in the photographs of Mr. Hunter.

"There are always people who will live this lifestyle," Mr. Hunter said, "And people who will follow it, get bored and change. But I don't think it's going anywhere."

Perhaps that's exactly what the Dirty Girl look is, then: a phase, no different from mean boyfriends or naval piercings, that will always define a time in young womanhood and that, inevitably, passes with time. "They are clearly investing a lot of time into how they get dressed-and in lieu of what can be a whole conversation," Ms. Slowey said. "And then they grow up or they actually have the talent to back it up, like Chloë Sevigny, and eventually they probably want to start marketing themselves somehow, whether they are actresses or performers, and they're going to have to start taking themselves seriously. At some point how you look becomes business. It's fun to slum it, but there is a shelf life to that."

ialeksander@observer.com

In the fall, the beloved Jane Ballroom in the West Village closed temporarily to obtain proper permits that the space lacked when it first opened last summer; two weeks ago, a more polite, well-behaved Jane finally reopened.

"It looks exactly the same, but it's super-roomy now. Just imagine one-tenth of the amount of people," said a fashionable 28-year-old DJ who was there last Thursday and Friday nights (fearing future exclusion from the premises, patrons surveyed by the Transom were reluctant to have their names printed). "Because remember? It used to get so packed you could barely walk around. I remember nights at the Jane dancing on tables. Now it's very tame."

There are a few other changes. "The music doesn't get loud at all-it's very lounge," said the DJ. "You can totally have a normal conversation." Meanwhile, smokers who want to light up are sent walking down the street. "They hate people smoking outside, so they make them go to the corner-like you literally have to go stand on the corner." Right near the West Side Highway, no less.

But the nightspot's regular patrons have loyally returned to the space at the Jane Hotel. Late last week, visitors spotted aspiring actress Becka Diamond. Also: Elle style director Kate Lanphear, Purple magazine's Olivier Zahm and Harper's Bazaar's David Thielebeule. On Saturday, May 8, there was the mandatory Olsen twin sighting (Mary Kate).  

"I think it's much better now," said a 32-year-old editor at a monthly fashion magazine. "It got to the point last year where you really couldn't move. It was like, 'Really? All I want is a drink.'"

So who exactly gets in now? "I guess it's more who I haven't seen there," said the editor. "I have this distinct memory of being in the bathroom and two stalls open and two of my interns emerged!"

"This is a kinder, gentler Jane," Sean MacPherson, co-owner of the Jane Hotel as well as Bowery Hotel and the Waverly Inn, told the Transom. "We were victims of our own success. If you look at the place, it's really built to feel like a living room, loosely based on places like the National Arts Club and Bowery Hotel. So we've just become more disciplined."

Mr. MacPherson conceded that the music is lower; the door policy more clenched; smokers are indeed shepherded far away from the entrance; and the doorman checkpoint has moved inside the hotel as opposed to the street-"so the comings and goings are just more contained." 

He laughed when the Transom said that his guests were too petrified to give their names when talking to a reporter. In fact, earlier in the day, Mr. MacPherson said he received a text message from jewelry designer Waris Ahluwalia asking permission to speak. "I haven't had a chance to get back to him," Mr. MacPherson said. "That's funny. I'll text him."

Mr. Ahluwalia did not return the Transom's calls.