If it weren't for what happened later, everyone would have forgotten that night entirely. It wasn't like the '70s, you know? Nights when you never knew what could happen, what to expect. No, by 1985, the parties in New York were all the same. One night, one party, bleeding into the next. Nothing specific or momentous enough to press itself into your memory.
After years when I was the only brown speck in attendance, lately there'd been a noted effort to populate the guest list with more 'Third World artists.' This sudden concern for diversity coincided with the Met hiring its first Black senior curator. I'm not being cynical, just honest; it would have been embarrassing to invite her to a party and have her see only white people there. But outside that, in all the years of these fetes, very little had changed.
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