When I turned 21, I threw myself a birthday party. I needed a party that year. My boyfriend and I had just broken up and my grades were suffering. I gave myself an ulcer. Every morning, as soon as I woke up, I ran to the washroom and threw up. My life was making me sick.
During first and second year, I lived in a wonderful residence at the University of Guelph named Artz Haus. A small building that at one point housed maids, Artz Haus had only 50 people. We grew comfortable with each other quickly and made the bathrooms unisex. My roommate never showed up so my room became the first floor lounge. I pushed the beds together, acquired a couch, and covered the walls with pages ripped from Vogue and posters of Audrey Hepburn and Justin Timberlake. I was bullied during high school, but, at Artz Haus, I felt I could be myself. Not only that– I was popular for the first time in my life.
We sat around my room late into the night, talking and laughing about everything. Looking back, I can’t remember what was so funny.
I made friends with all different kinds of people who lived there. Some were from big cities, others suburbia, and some were from actual farming towns. Areas of study ranged from visual arts to biology and hospitality and tourism. All styles were represented, too–emo dyed black hair, varsity jock Abercrombie, vintage wolf t-shirts soon to become a hipster cliché. The micro-groups of Artz Haus didn’t always co-mingle, but I managed to get along with all of them.
It was during these years I developed into the quirky clotheshorse you know today. Styling myself as some sort of gay boy Carrie Bradshaw, my Value Village shopping bags spilled over with cowboy shirts, boy scout/sailor uniforms, argyle sweater vests, grandpa sweaters, Japanese cycling tops, jean overalls, and a long-sleeved shirt with an image of Michaelangeo’s Pieta. Because Artz Haus was right on central campus, I could change three times a day. Often, I did.
I see those first two years of university as the most fun time in my life. But by third year, when my big breakup happened, I had lost my way. Even though I was living with a couple friends from Artz Haus in an odd, triangular-shaped, purple-painted apartment on campus, I missed the warm embrace of my extended group of weirdo friends. They had become like family, and I needed their support. In short, I needed a party.
For inspiration I turned to Truman Capote’s celebrated Black and White Ball at the Plaza Hotel. In 1966, flush from the success of his best-selling In Cold Blood, Capote decided to throw the party to end all parties. It was to be an intimate affair for his friend Kay Graham, publisher of The Washington Post, and 540 of his most famous friends. Invitations were so sought after that, according to rumour, one woman threatened to attempt suicide were she left off the list.
Truman instructed the guests to wear black and white, as well as masks, and the women to carry fans. (Most of them didn’t, as even the most elegant socialite felt awkward carrying a fan and a carnival mask at the same time.) Masks were designed by people like cartoonist Charles Addams and milliner-turned-photographer Bill Cunningham. The author George Plimpton had to take his off as the fumes from its glue were making him dizzy. One witty guest remarked, “The only people I can’t recognise are those with their masks off.”
The famous guests were a mix of New York society, Hollywood, Washington D.C., and the literary world– Normal Mailer, Mia Farrow and Frank Sinatra (for years people incorrectly thought Farrow was hiding a pregnancy under her empire waist gown), Lauren Bacall, Henry Fonda, Joan Fontaine, Richard Avedon, Cecil Beaton, Candice Bergen, Lee Radziwill, Andy Warhol (who wore his wig but no mask), and the daughters of three presidents. Avedon claimed to have discovered the willowy model Penelope Tree that evening. She became one of the faces of the 1960’s. Guests were surprised to encounter CBS camera crews at the entrance and filming the proceedings inside. In some ways, you can think of Capote’s Black and White Ball as a historic turning point–the quiet, closed off world of New York’s traditional elite (Astor’s Four Hundred and all that) replaced by our modern form of aristocracy, the celebrity.
Still, when you read accounts of the ball, you can’t escape the impression that nothing much happened. My favourite anecdote concerns a woman who successfully crashed the party and Capote, being a good sport, offered her a glass of champagne. “Spending all this money,” she said to him, “when there are people all over the world starving to death.” A security guard asked her to dance and waltzed her out of the ball. The best part of any party are the things that go wrong.
When I threw my black and white party I wasn’t concerned with party crashers so much no one showing up. Would my first and second year friends make the effort? I’m the type of host who has everything ready an hour before the start time and wanders the house, rearranging plastic cups, fretting that no one will come. Whenever you throw a party, there’s that little fear in the back of your mind that tonight is the night when you find out no one likes you.
Not only did everyone come, but everyone followed the black and white theme. I had selected the theme less as a homage to Breakfast at Tiffany’s writer and more out of practically–it’s a theme practically everyone can follow. But, because everyone’s costume came from their own closets, everyone still looked like themselves, albeit glammed up. My housemate Jess wore a large white puffy crinoline and curled her hair like Shirely Temple. My friend Daniella wore a white dress with small black polka dots, a tribute to her Italian mother. Others wore punky combinations of ties, black mesh shirts, and knee-high leather boots. The straight guys wore t-shirts. There were long black Goth jackets. There were pearls.
My guests followed the dress code, but each in their own way. Rather than hide behind masks, they showed who they were. They supported me, were there for me, would follow my silly party gimmick, but stay true to themselves. That’s the best you can ask from friendships. At the height of the party, when everyone had arrived and our cramped living room was overflowing, I climbed halfway up the stairs, and took in the scene.
“These are my friends,” I thought. “I am not alone.”
Rarely mentioned in accounts of Capote’s Black and White Ball is that it was the highlight of his life. He never published another full-length book after that. In 1975, an excerpt of a tell-all novel Answered Prayers was published by Esquire. It featured gossipy caricatures of his society friends, some thinly-veiled, some by name. He was swiftly ostracized from New York society, and his alcohol and drug abuse increased. He brought people together, but felt nothing of betraying their trust. He was a charming host, but not a friend.
For a couple years after my black and white party, I revived the theme for my birthday. None surpassed the fun and emotional significance of that first one.
This month, I turn 28. (“That slipped out,” Bette Davis says in All About Eve, clutching her drink, after disclosing her age. “I hadn’t quite decided to admit it yet.”) I’m more confident, world wise, and emotionally healthy than I was in third year. A disappointment of my post-university years has been losing touch with friends I thought I’d know forever. But I know they’re out there, having adventures, living life, and growing older as well. If I ever really need them, I can always message them on facebook.
I don’t think I’ll throw a birthday party this year. Sometimes, you don’t need one.
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Max Mosher writes about style for Toronto Standard. You can follow him on Twitter at @max_mosher_.
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