Confessions from the Velvet Ropes

2019: My year in jet-setting photos. By Glenn Belverio

New gold dream: Fondazione Prada in Milan

 

Dear jet boys/jet girls,

From Italy to Great Britain, fashion weeks to exhibitions (with a few healthy dollops of holiday downtime), it was an eventful year of European travel.

In February, I was invited by the Italian Trade Commission to Milan to cover the MICAM shoe fair for A Shaded View on Fashion. Chinese designer Wang Ping sent his charming wife to represent the brand. I really liked her style!

 

I made the obligatory trip to Fondazione Prada which is located in a rather desolate area, replete with vast, dusty lots and melancholic, abandoned train tracks that provide an arresting juxtaposition to the various artworks. Indeed, the windows of the galleries in the Fondazione's tower are designed to make the landscape an important component of the exhibitions. Sure, Jeff Koons Tulips are quite lovely, but for certain viewers who have that seen-it-all jadedness associated with Koons’ work (that would be me via my exploits in NYC’s Soho art world of the ’90s), the lay of the land outside transformed my feelings about the piece into a totally new and satisfying experience. Take that, boring white gallery walls!

 

Milan's mysteries blossom at night.

 

After the shoe show folded, I made a beeline to Milan's majestic train station. Destination: Turin!

 

Referred to by some Italians disparagingly as "southern France" because of its far northwestern proximity and its decidedly un-Italian-ness, Turin is quiet, elegant and unbothered by tourists, especially in the winter.

 

Art Nouveau details abound in Turin.

 

I lodged at the splendid Hotel Victoria, centrally located. One evening while I was taking my aperitivo by the fireplace, this cozy cocktail den was invaded by gaggles of seriously chic ladies of a certain age, festooned in furs and leading their equally stylish canines on leashes through the lobby. They threw themselves on divans and overstuffed club chairs as they gossiped about their husbands and quaffed copious amounts of Moscato d’Asti.

I highly recommend this hotel. The affordable rooms are comfy, full of quirky character (mine had a golf theme), aperitivo is accompanied by a very generous array of freshly made complimentary canapes, and the breakfast, served in a bright, lemon-yellow room next to a garden, is indulgent. (Have the lemon cake—it goes with the decor.)

 

One of the reasons I made the jaunt to Turin was to once again commune with Lord Lucifer, who guards the Gates of Hell in the Piazza Statuto, which are located under a manhole cover (according to legend). This seriously sexy statue—who floats over a monument to the workers killed while building the Frejus rail tunnel linking Italy and France—was designed with the Sigil of Baphomet sprouting from his head. (This square is referred to as "the black heart of Turin," and indeed the city is a point in both urban triangles that represent the world centers of Black Magic and White Magic.)

Much to my dismay, the five-pointed star was missing from the statue's head. In a panic, I rushed into a nearby witchcraft store in search of an explanation. The proprietor, sighing with resignation, told me that the official story is the star fell from the statue during a storm. There should be a movement to have it replaced!

 

Diana the Huntress on a sport's store façade. Speaking of game, I was treated by my dear Turinese friend Barbara Papuzzi to a delicious, if unusual, dinner at Ristorante Consorzio, notorious for its experiments in all manner of offal. At one point, Barbara passed a bowl of spicy, ultra-velvety chunks of mystery meat to me which were quite delicious.

Our lesbianic waitperson hovered nearby, grinning broadly, and when I had finished every melt-in-your-mouth morsel, she approached the table and announced what I had just eaten: a cow's vagina! I rose to the occasion and fired back, "Well, this is the first time I've ever eaten pussy—and it was wonderful!"

 

Ristorante Consorzio in Turin

 

"Our lesbianic waitperson hovered nearby, grinning broadly, and when I had finished every melt-in-your-mouth morsel, she approached the table and announced what I had just eaten: a cow's vagina!"

 

All roads lead to Rome: After my Turinese idyll, I jetted down to the Città Eterna to visit friends.

 

As is my custom, I took a suite at the legendary Hotel Locarno.

I sprinted down to the Accademia di Costume e di Moda to visit my dear friend Adrien Yakimov Roberts (and his colleague Barbara) before he jetted off to a business trip in India.

 

My friend Alessio de' Navasques invited me to the opening of "Giardini Acquatici" by artist Giovanni Vetere (center in cobalt corduroy pantsuit) at The Orange Garden Gallery. Lupo Lanzara from the Accademia is on the right.

 

After the opening, Alessio and Clara Tosi Pamphili took me on an adventure at the Piazza Vittorio. Despite all my visits to Rome, I had never been to this area that's famous for its immigrant populations, and that was documented most excellently in Abel Ferrara's film Piazza Vittorio. We strolled through this arcade next to the piazza—unusual for Rome but common in Turin—and I was mad for the old tiles.

 

As in many multi-ethnic and working-class neighborhoods around the world, hipsters have swooped in, taken advantage of the lower rents and opened trendy bars and restaurants. Here's me and Alessio at one housed in what used to be either a haberdashery or jewelry shop (can't remember which) in the 1920s.

 

After drinks we had Chinese food at a place I've been dying to go to ever since I saw it featured in Abel's documentary, Hang Zhou da Sonia—and here's Sonia in action!

 

A glamorous Maoist and Gucci model, Sonia gave Abel's cameras a hair-raising, hilarious account, in Italian, of the time she was robbed at gunpoint in the restaurant. (The robber was Italian, not a migrant, btw.)

 

I loved the t-shirts of the waitstaff.

 

Turns out I'm not the only person in the world who has a Mao Room!

 

The Hotel Locarno is right behind the beautiful Piazza del Popolo.

 

Designer Hina John, a refugee from Pakistan, and A.I. co-curator Clara Tosi Pamphili.

In July, I was back in Rome again for AltaRoma fashion week. The highlight of the week was the summer edition of A.I. Artisanal Intelligence, "The Shape of the Water." Clara and Alessio de’ Navasques worked with Nation25, an open platform founded in 2015 by Elena Abbiatici, Sara Alberani and Caterina Pecchioli, to bring together a selection of immigrant-created designs.

During the two-day exhibition, we met migrants from African countries and Pakistan who have honed their skills to create beautiful clothing. Many of the migrants live in Italy’s detention camps (centered in Treviso) in the evening, while spending their days searching for fabrics in the Piazza Vittorio and designing clothes.

 

Journalist Rebecca Voight, designer Marianna Cimini and moi at AltaRoma's Showcase Roma.

 

Sylvio Giardina at his couture presentation MONOCROMO at Galleria 1/9unosunove arte contemporanea in the Palazzo Santacroce.

 

Moi, AltaRoma press agent Lavinia Caldani and Paulo Mariotti of Brazilian Vogue at Sylvio's presentation.

 

There was an al fresco sundowner each evening of AltaRoma, with guest DJs—and by far the best one was Enrico Palazzo!

 

After AltaRoma, I flew up to the northeastern city of Trieste, at the suggestion of my friend Anita Kravos, an actress who is originally from there. Peculiar and subtly beautiful, this seaport city is located between the Adriatic and Slovenia. Because of its Austrian history, the city has a Viennese vibe.

 

The headquarters of ITS, International Talent Support, is in Trieste, where they hold a yearly fashion competition every July. Rebecca Voight and I were invited for a private tour of their archives. This was a treat for me since I was not able to stay in Trieste for the event.

 

When visiting Trieste, a bus trip up the coastline to Miramare Castle is mandatory.

Built between 1856 and 1860 for Austrian Archduke Ferdinand Maximilian and his wife Charlotte of Belgium. Cursed and haunted, Miramare has a melancholy history—and bad things befell just about everyone who lived or stayed there. Jan Morris's excellent book Trieste and the Meaning of Nowhere is full of vivid tales about the castle. I read the book but seemed to have lost it (did I leave it on the plane?) but do remember a few fuzzy details of Maximilian's downward trajectory as related by the marvelous Morris.

 

As I remember it: Not long after Maximilian moved into this castle—which commands splendid views of the sea from just about every room—France offered him a gig as an Emperor in Mexico. (France was in the midst of colonizing Mexico to give Europe a toehold in the region.) He was hesitant at first, but realized he could do it for a few years and it would be something that looked good on his resume. Above is my photo of the marble-topped table, a gift from a pope, where Max signed the contract to accept the crown in Mexico. Also of note: when the castle was built, the windows were all tinted so that the sea's colors would appear more vivid.

So Max and Charlotte set sail for Mexico where they were crowned Emperor and Empress. Long story short, the French chickened out and withdrew their troops from Mexico not long after Max arrived. Max was captured by the Mexicans and executed immediately. Charlotte (now Empress Carlota of Mexico) fled back to Miramare Castle. Upon her arrival—I'm really improvising here, so correct me if you know the exact details—she discovered that their court had organized a giant cage of doves, awaiting the return of the Emperor and Empress as a token of their affection. Charlotte/Carlota opened the door of the cage and watched wistfully as the doves escaped and flew across the sea. She soon went mad and went back to Belgium where I think she committed suicide.

 

The sphinx and the sea.

 

I had a wonderful lunch of fish freshly caught from the Adriatic, near the castle.

 

My lunchtime view.

 

After Trieste, I returned to Rome and checked into the Villa Laetitia's Black & White Suite. Equipped with a kitchen, a spare bedroom, two bathrooms and a garden, this suite in the Fendi-owned hotel features a bed by Mies van der Rohe, and shelves, sconces and a writing desk by Ettore Sottsass.

 

After cocktails at the Hotel Locarno, Consuelo Aranyi and I went to one of our favorite trattorias (the name escapes me) where we had artichokes four ways: raw, steamed, sauteed and deep fried. Yum!

 

I was mad for this Brutalist apartment building near my hotel.

 

On another evening, I was blessed with the company of Adrien and Kamen Yakimov Roberts. They took me to Le Grotte, a pizza joint with an interior that looks like a Dean Martin movie on acid. We dined al fresco and I opted for a rather marvelous plate of pasta. And that wasn't the only dish that was served, if you catch my drift!

 

On my last day in Rome, I lunched with Samuel Beckett, and my close pal, screenplay writer and actor Rinaldo Rocco, at the prison-chic Fendi Hotel. Rinaldo is delightful company, so I barely noticed the sadistic experience of lunching here. First, we were roasted under Rome's merciless midday July sun as we waited, and waited, for a waitperson to appear from the seemingly deserted restaurant. After a few blistering moments, a blasé waitress sauntered out from seemingly nowhere—Waiting for Godot, waiting for the waitstaff—who didn't deign to open the roof's automated canopy until we begged her for mercy.

My entree, a mere wispy tangle of pasta small enough to fit inside a teaspoon, came with a Fendi price tag, and as soon as the plates were cleared, the impassive waitron cruelly retracted the canopy (vaguely citing a time constraint on roof access), leaving us once again exposed to the unrelenting Mediterranean sun. But as I mentioned, Rinaldo and I were so enjoying our conversation, I barely noticed any of these unpleasantries!

 

Rinaldo attempts a dialectical discussion with Signore Beckett.

 

After lunch, Rinaldo and I took a stroll around the charming Isola Tiberina, an island in the Tiber.

 

Fast-forward to September where I was once again in Vienna, covering MQ Vienna Fashion Week for A Shaded View on Fashion. I met up with my friend, the Austro-Egyptian editor and owner of Pashion Magazine, for dinner at the famed Zum Scharwzen Kameel, followed by cocktails in the Blue Room of the Hotel Sacher. Here we are afterwards in the Red Room. Redrum!

 

Fashion supernovas Elisabeth Muth and MQ Vienna Fashion Week co-founder Zigi Mueller-Matyas at the residence of the Thai Ambassador to Austria. We were invited there for a delicious Thai breakfast and a preview of collaborations between Thai and Austrian designers.

 

We loved the collab between Ek Thongprasert and Karin Oèbster of Kayiko.

 

Head games with Iris van Herpen at her Vienna boutique.

 

After Vienna, it was onto Bristol, UK to unchain unicorns and to attend the opening of Act 3 of Still I Rise: Feminisms, Gender, Resistance at the Arnolfini Centre for Contemporary Arts.

 

This groundbreaking feminist and queer art exhibition—previously staged in other iterations in Nottingham and Bexhill by Sea—featured two of my videos: Two Spirits Speak Out from 1992 (above) and Glennda and Camille Do Downtown (1993), my collaboration with Camille Paglia.

(If you missed this show in Bristol, you can catch Two Spirits Speak Out at the Museum of the City of New York, in the exhibition Urban Indian: Native New York Now, through March 8, 2020.)

 

Moi (center) with the Still I Rise curators—Cédric Fauq, Rosie Cooper and Irene Aristizábal—and Kieran Swann, Head of Programme at the Arnolfini.

 

Cute guy watching Glennda and Camille Do Downtown at the opening.

 

It was a thrill meeting punk feminist artist Rachael House, who was in from London for the opening.

 

Rachael's piece in the show celebrates punk icons Patti Smith, Ari Up and Poly Styrene.

 

My friends from the North, Mark & Mark Simpson, drove down to spend some quality time with me. We took a tour of Brunel's SS Great Britain.

 

First Class dining, 1850s style.

 

The two Marks and I also paid a visit to Bristol's breathtaking Suspension Bridge.

 

But perhaps the biggest thrill of all was discovering, quite by accident, this show-stopping Brutalist cathedral in Clifton, a serene, residential area of Bristol.

 

Designed by architect Ron Weeks, the Clifton Cathedral was completed in 1973.

 

After Mark&Mark returned to the North of England, I lied down on a grassy knoll in Castle Park, enjoying the last remnants of summer.

Thank you for taking this journey with me.

Love,

Glenn Belverio

My Saints Tree-Trimming Party, December 7, 2019. Photos by Drew Gardner. Text & additional photos by Glenn Belverio

Ellen Sampson & Alexis Romano

Photographer Catherine Talese, lesbian rock icon Carole Pope, Terry & writer Katie Degentesh as Saint Scholastica

Fashion designer Ela Erdogan, fashion icon Lauren Ezersky & your host, Glenn Belverio (wearing my John the Baptist tee)

Living saint Chay Costello, Swiss artist Nives Widauer & makeup artist Virna Smiraldi

Filmmaker Allison Berg & Catherine Talese

Filmmaker Allison Berg & Catherine Talese

 

Dear Saintly Sinners,

What do you get when you combine halos, Catholic accoutrements, a Biblical flood of prosecco, sacred and profane gossip, sanctified hors d'oeuvres, beautifully rendered ornaments and an international crowd par excellence (the most important ingredient)? Answer: a party far more interesting than the Met Gala for Heavenly Bodies—it's the latest edition of my annual tree-trimming bash!

The theme for this year's already-legendary fête, Saints, was chosen by my MoMA colleague Chay Costello. We collaborated on the dress code:

St. John the Baptist headless couture, sexy Saint Sebastian arrow accessories, Joan of Arc melting hearing aids, Buñuel surrealist saint and Jodorowsky Holy Mountain acid trips, Saint Nicholas and Krampus mud wrestling, Danny Kaye Saint Jude cocktail attire, nun looks a-go-go: Anita Ekberg killer nun, Sally Field flying nun, The Nuns punk-rock DIY ready-to-wear, Nina Hagen Nunsexmonkrock runway realness, Saint Dolly Parton real Christianity Opry glamour, Edna St. Vincent Millay boozy melees, Padre Pio stigmata realness, Saint Lucy eyeballs worn as earrings, brooches or pasties, Lili St. Cyr non-stop burlesque action, Vatican Swiss Guard uniforms for butch lesbians, reliquary zombie re-animations, 1980s S&M leather looks from The Saint club, halos, wings and harps for holier-than-thou attention whores, and Saint Teresa multiple spiritual orgasms.

Now, onto the party....

A mysterious flapper accompanied by her patron saints: writers and curators Ellen Sampson and Alexis Romano.

Chay Costello was inspired by the stigmata of Saint Padre Pio, a distant relative of hers.

Billy Miller of Straight to Hell fame.

Legendary East Village artists Peter Cramer and Jack Waters of Allied Productions and Naked Eye Cinema fame.

Louis Armstrong by Dana Schein

North West Kardashian by my MoMA colleague Miranda Lim. My prediction for the get-go has been that he will one day launch a fragrance called North by North West.

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Virna Smiraldi's ornament was inspired by the Blood of the San Gennaro Miracle in Naples. On the feast day of San Gennaro, believers gather to pray and follow specific rituals, to bring about the miracle that is the liquefaction of the saint’s blood. The “miracle” of liquefaction takes place inside the Duomo, when the substance in the cruets dissolves into a vivid red liquid. The event is celebrated on the first Sunday of May, then again on the 19^th of September, and also in December.

Eerily, a few days after my party, Virna's ornament leapt from my tree and landed on the kitchen floor with a loud POP. The dark "blood" slowly spread across the shattered glass and glitter, forming a large viscous pool. It was very Dario Argento art direction.

A couture-clad Barbie with a Jesus brooch. Ornament by Kyle P. Wagner of the National Arts Club.

St. Elmo's Fire by my cousin Kathy Garrigan.

Saint Andy by Corey Sabourin.

My MoMA colleague Lisa Carr brought this owl ornament because "Glenn is wise." Aw, shucks!

Creator unknown. (Meaning, I can't remember!)

Another Saint Andy, this one by writer Janice Eidus and her husband John Kastan.

Creator unknown.

Two views of an ornament celebrating the 1960s TV series The Saint starring Roger Moore.

Another Roger Moore Saint ornament with a young Yves Saint Laurent on the flipside.

Ornament by Vienna-based Swiss artist Nives Widauer.

Two views of the Saint Catherine of Siena ornament created by my MoMA colleague Cathy Citarella. Yes, dolls, the severed, mummified head of St. Catherine is on public view at the Basilica San Domenico in Siena. I saw it with my own eyes during a day trip to Siena back in 2003, during a press trip in Tuscany which involved a multi-town tour of Chianti Classico vineyards, punctuated by a lavish dinner party at the 12th-century Castello di Brolio, to celebrate the 1000th anniversary of Brolio, land of the Ricasoli Barons.

"Next we are off to Castello di Cacchiano's wine tasting room that is housed in a former 18th-century prison," I wrote while living and working in Hong Kong as a guest editor for WestEast magazine. "As I noted the day-counting marks on the wall left behind by assorted criminals in 1781, we sampled Cacchiano's incomparable vin santo ('wine of Saints,' known also as 'wine for meditation'), a nectar so sublime that I would, if I could, bathe in it daily."

Creator unknown.

Which saint is this? "Whichever one you want to be," said this ornament's creator, fashion designer Ela Erdogan.

Creator unknown.

Another St. Elmo's Fire ornament, this one by Christy Nyiri. And now it's time for me to admit I have never seen St. Elmo's Fire—however, I did meet Judd Nelson (and Anthony Michael Hall) in the Michael Todd Room at Palladium in 1986.

Saint Elvis by Billy Miller.

That's gotta hurt! St. Loempius by painter Scott Neary.

Creator unknown.

More Catholic torture porn! Saint Agatha by Suzanne Batmanghelichi.

Santo Orgasm by Peter Cramer and Jack Waters.

Ornament by Alexis Romano. Apparently there's a pannettone inside there—I guess I better eat it soon before it descends into reliquary decrepitude!

Saint Nicholas Cage by MoMA colleague Nemtsov.

Saint Padre Pio by Chay Costello.

Creator unknown.

Another Saint Nicholas Cage ornament? How on earth does he get to be a saint? Snap out of it!

The following photos are by Drew Gardner (my official event photographer):

My MoMA colleague Audrey Gascho and Virna Smiraldi

Katie as Saint Scholastica looks on as Nives Widauer shows off her pussy tie.

Earth angels: Catherine Talese & Chay Costello

We are family: Carly Sommerstein chats with my paternal cousin Kathy Garrigan.

Terry telling tall tales to the gals.

It takes two: Rob & Chay

Saint Scholastica (Katie Degentesh) makes a beeline for the bar. I love the trompe l’oeil t-shirt!

We are living in the digital age (even if my apartment is a time warp of old New York…)

She’s into leather: Lauren Ezersky with Ela Erdogan.

Quaff, baby, quaff! Cathy celebrates the moment as Jack Kastan looks on.

The radiant Suzanne Batmanghelichi.

Moi delivering Saint Elvis to the tree.

As I am often happily marooned in the ’90s, I was a big fan of Allison’s Amanda de Cadenet look (remember that night she and Courtney Love went out in matching ensembles?)

Writers Corey Sabourin & Nancy Stout.

What is Christy Nyiri saying to Catherine Talese?! (We love Catherine’s pendant.)

Janice Eidus in a Warholian mood in my Mao Room.

Artist Dana Schein with graphic design guru Christy Nyiri.

Giddy-up, cowboy! Saul Arber & Catherine Talese.

Nancy having a rap session on my bed with painter Scott Neary.

Alexis Romano partaking in the holy sacrament that is my famed radis farcis au chèvre.

South American chanteuse Carlota Gurascier and her pal David.

Nives and Saul

Josh Casey of MoMA Design Store holds onto his makeshift crown.

Moi, Katie & Carlota

Alexis & Dana

Nives & Alenia

Katie & my MoMA colleague Lisa Carr

And a few more of my shots…

Chay's husband Rob channeled Saint Sebastian via Steve Martin's A Wild and Crazy Guy.

Glennda Orgasm archivist Stevin Michels and artist Dana Schein.

Alenia in—you guessed it—The Mao Room!

Josh Casey, king for a day? Almost!

The ever-ebullient Lisa Carr loved meeting Peter and Jack.

Found under my tree the next morning: an Eve Kitten Clock designed by Nancy Bacich!

Not sure who brought the beautiful Saint Ziggy candle...the Greek Orthodox icon of my favorite saint, John the Baptist, was picked up during my 2008 trip to a fashion week in Thessaloniki.

Merry Christmas,

Glenn Belverio

2018: My year in jet-setting photos. By Glenn Belverio

Yabba dabba doo! Moi at the Indian Canyons Hiking Trails in Palm Springs. Photo: Sameer Reddy

 

Dear jetsters,

Elsa Peretti said it best: "Travel is important for your mind." Art, architecture, nature, friends, fashion, food and the occasional dalliance—I had so many reasons to head to the airport in 2018. It began in the late winter with my return to relaxing Palm Springs.

 

For the first half of my trip, I stayed at my favorite hotel in Palm Springs, the Alcazar. Here, you won’t be bothered by cocktail waitrons or distracting raw-bar towers. Drinks are DIY from the petite lobby and the best breakfast spot in Palm Springs, Cheeky’s, is a 5-second walk away (the hotel owns it). Cheeky’s is the only place in the world where I will eat bacon, and once you’ve sampled the ever-changing bacon flight (Beeler’s apple cinnamon, anyone?), you’ll know why. After a beaker full of the red-purple lusciousness that is their blood-orange juice, you’ll stroll down North Palm Canyon Drive, throw your arms up to the Sun God while exclaiming “California!” and wonder why you continue your real life of stress and toxicity in New York City.

 

After an idyllic breakfast at Cheeky’s with the painter Scott Neary and his ex-NYC pal Diane, we piled into the convertible and drove to the “House of Tomorrow” aka Elvis and Priscilla’s honeymoon house.

 

Me and Scott stockpiling Vitamin D in preparation of the return to frozen New York.

 

Moving from the blinding-white austerity of the Alcazar to that kitsch riot known as The Parker Hotel is like being airlifted from a Zen monastery and dropped into a Long Island flea market.

 

Designed by Jonathan Adler, The Parker boasts a carpet sourced from the creators of the carpet in Kubrick's The Shining. It was fun staying here for for two nights, even if there was an eerie undertone of dystopian luxury.

 

My rather secluded room had a lovely view of the lush gardens.

 

It may have been 85F outside, but that didn't stop The Parker from having a roaring fire going at all times in the rear lounge. That's Michael and his twin brother Patrick McDonald, the Northern Hemisphere's most famous dandy, hanging out in the background before we headed out to their favorite Mexican restaurant in Palm Desert for lunch. 

Pity I didn't take more photos of the McDonalds but there were plenty of Facebook live videos, including our trip to tiki heaven Tropicale where we dined with our friend Carlos King before taking in a show by 1970s disco legend France Joli, of "Come to Me" fame, at the gay club next door.

 

During my stay at The Parker, I hung out with my (camera-shy) friend Sameer Reddy, visiting from LA. At his suggestion we took a long, invigorating hike through the Indian Canyons.

 

I absolutely adore desert flowers.

 

After the hike, Sameer and I repaired to The Parker's Lemonade Stand for frosty libations and hot gossip.

 

I'm always in Rome—at least that's what Nicholas, the head bartender at The Locarno Hotel, always says of me—and indeed, there I was again at the end of June for the summer edition of AltaRoma and to visit friends.

 

This edition of AltaRoma was held at the storied Cinecittà Studios. These recreations of the temples of Jupiter and Venus were built for HBO's Rome. (They made me chuckle because whenever anyone asks me if I was raised Catholic I tell them that my paternal Grandfather was not Christian—he preferred to commune with the pantheon of ancient Roman gods instead.)

 

On our first day at Cinecittà, Diane Pernet and I were taken by curator Clara Tosi Pamphili to Makinarium, the award-winning special visual effects studio, founded in 2014, that produces lifelike creations for TV and film, as well as those famous baby dragons and severed heads for Gucci’s Fall 2018 runway show.

 

During my first evening at Cinecittà Studios for this edition of AltaRoma, we were invited to the premiere of La Moda Proibita, a documentary about couturier Roberto Capucci, at Sala Fellini. During the cocktail I was thrilled to meet costume designer Milena Canonero, resplendent in stylish knots of ethereal white.

Canonero was born in Turin (where I'll be visiting this February) and grew up in Genoa, and designed the costumes for three of my favorite Stanley Kubrick films: Clockwork Orange, The Shining and Barry Lyndon (clip below for the scene that was naturally lit only with candles). She won an Academy Award for her work on Barry Lyndon and also picked up Oscars for Chariots of Fire, Marie Antoinette and The Grand Budapest Hotel. When my friend Susan Sabet (above left) from Pashion, a magazine based in Cairo, said to the designer, “I want to interview you for my magazine,” Canonero replied, “No, no…I want to interview YOU!”

 

Lebanese trans woman couture designer Robert Abi Nader showed ghostly glamour at the 17th-century Biblioteca Casanatense.

 

Lupo Lanzara, Deputy Chairman of the Accademia Costume e Moda, Diane, Paulo Mariotti of Brazilian Vogue, Rebecca Voight and Alessio de Navasques during a tour of the Accademia.

 

As humiliated Italian World Cup fans gathered in piazzas before wide-screen TVs, my friend Consuelo Aranyi and I enjoyed marinated zucchini, raw artichoke salad and rosé from Israel in the Jewish Ghetto.

 

My pal Rinaldo Rocco—the actor and screenwriter who was just back from walking the red carpet at the Shanghai International Film Festival—invited me to his rooftop terrace where we caught up on a full year’s worth of global anecdotes over a delicious dinner of figs, octopus and tomatoes the color of rubies.

 

On my last night in Rome, Nicholas made me a heroic martini at the Locarno, my favorite hotel in Italy where I always stay.

 

"Travel is important for your mind." —Elsa Peretti

 

Gold rush: It's always a thrill to return to Vienna where I'm invited to cover MQ Vienna Fashion Week for A Shaded View on Fashion every September.

 

The opening night extravaganza was a best-of Austrian designers.

 

The Queen of the Catwalks: MQVFW co-curator and my friend Zigi Mueller-Matyas!

 

A delightful lunch at the home and atelier of Vienna-based Swiss artist Nives Widauer: Moi avec Champagne, Nives, my publicist pal Elisabeth Muth, New York’s one-and-only Chip Duckett of Spin Cycle and Werner Greigertisch of Kracher Weinlaubenhof wines.

 

Nives' Syrian chef friend prepared a delightful vegetarian lunch for us, with wonderful Austrian breads.

 

Just about every day in Vienna, I had lunch at Glacis Beisl. Favored by locals, this garden patio restaurant is hiding in plain sight, tucked away in a corner of the Museumsquartier. On this day, I had an appetizer of Styrian pumpkin mousse, with squash salad, all dressed with Kürbiskernöl. I always eat meat here and my favorite dishes are beef goulash, blood sausage, wiener schnitzel and their famous dumplings stuffed with pork cracklings.

 

I was again blessed with a suite at my favorite hotel in Vienna, Le Méridien, where the illuminated headboard had me galloping off to dreamland.

 

No, it wasn't the legend of Robin Hood that drew me to Nottingham, England (even though Errol Flynn's tights loom large in my imagination): my 1993 video Glennda and Camille Do Downtown, co-starring feminist pugilist Camille Paglia, is featured in a major exhibition of women and queer artists—Still I Rise: Feminisms, Gender, Resistance—at Nottingham Contemporary, and I flew in to attend the opening.

 

Journalists view my video during the exhibition's press preview.

 

The wall text I wrote for my piece.

 

Moi on opening night sporting my very limited-edition Rick Owens x Vaginal Davis shirt, a gift from Lia Gangitano of Participant Gallery.

 

Yes, folks, that is the one-and-only Mark Simpson, author of Saint Morrissey, Anti-Gay, Male Impersonators et al, who drove down from northern England to attend the press preview and opening night party with me. We also did some sightseeing around Nottingham, including an amusing tour of 18th-century prison cells and gallows at the Justice Museum, and lots of pub visits (because the weather turned cold, rainy and miserable—in England, whaat?!—the day after the opening).

I hadn’t seen Mark since my 37th birthday dinner at Antica Pesa in Rome, in January 2016—an evening that shall live in economic infamy!

 

It was a delight meeting Matt Carter, who works for my London video distributor LUX, and curator Cédric Fauq at the opening night party!

 

The entrance to one of Nottingham’s most famous buildings, an Art Nouveau masterpiece from the early 1900s. (The ground floor houses a Zara—groan!—and I’m afraid that this magnificent building is now officially known as The Zara Building. The architect was Albert Nelson Bromley.)

 

"Travel is useful, it exercises the imagination." —Louis-Ferdinand Cèline

 

The Castle Rock

 

No visit to Nottingham is complete without a pint at Ye Olde Trip to Jerusalem, a pub—which purports to be England’s oldest —that’s carved into medieval caves. (Mark referred to it disparagingly as "The Medieval Times Restaurant.")

 

An outstanding venison pie, with bacon, red wine and shallots mixed in with the luscious chunks of deer meat, served with mash, mushy pies and gravy, at Pieminister.

 

Wollaton Hall: Grand on the outside, tatty on the inside (it houses a rather shop-worn natural history museum).

Thank you for taking this trip with me. See you somewhere, in some time zone, for cocktails and effervescent gossip in 2019, dolls.

Love,

Glenn Belverio

 

 

 

My Women Heroes, Villains, Vamps & Tramps Tree-Trimming Party, December 8, 2018, by Glenn Belverio. Photos by Glenn Belverio & Drew Gardner

Once again, New York City's most notable demimonde descended on my East Village apartment for the annual pagan ritual of decorating my Christmas tree, and to engage in tipsy debauchery, spirited debate, salacious gossip and mutual admiration. Like every year, the guest list was carefully assembled and vetted ( this time with consultation by committee) to bring together the most dynamic, intelligent and stylish creatures possible. (Or, as one guest quipped: "One timely bomb at this shindig would wipe out most of the extant counter culture.")

The theme I chose this year was Women Heroes, Villains, Vamps & Tramps, inspired partly by the  exhibition of feminist and queer art at Nottingham Contemporary,  Still I Rise (where my video "Glennda and Camille Do Downtown" is now on view), and partly by the current feminist zeitgeist.

A few guests rose to the challenge of my dress code, while others used it as inspiration for their ornaments:

Mary Shelley cold-shoulder duchess satin gowns, Jacqueline Susann savvy and Pucci dresses, Lucy Ricardo as “the Wicked City Woman,” live snakes worn as jewelry à la the Marchesa Casati, Angela Davis righteous radicalism, Vaginal Davis ferocious shrimping action, Celia Sanchez guerrilla chic, Jayne County punk rock glamour, Camille Paglia gender-bending Napoleon costumes, Ruth Bader Ginsburg chutzpah, P.I.G. (Politically Involved Girls) pandemonium, Madame Mao mayhem, Wendy O. Williams mohawks and chainsaws, Jane Fonda Viet Cong helmets, Kate Bush interpretive dancing, Yoko Ono cathartic wailing, Dorothy Parker dipsomania, Dorothy Height hats, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez Democratic Socialist solidarity, Marlene Dietrich anti-Nazi activism, Elizabeth Hawes radical ready-to-wear, Lina Wertmüller white eyeglasses, Grace Jones Haring body paint, Carole Pope lesbian rock ‘n roll runway realness, Ann Magnuson magnetism and Emma Goldman nonstop ecstatic revolutionary dancing.

And now on to the party....

When David Johansen of New York Dolls and Buster Poindexter fame showed up for my party with his uber-cool wife, my friend Mara Hennessey, I literally almost fainted. We chatted about his dinner at Jade Island—an early-1970s-era Polynesian kitsch mecca in Staten Island (where Johansen is from)—with Anthony Bourdain, on No Reservations. ("I'd never even been there before until Anthony invited me." Did you like it? I wanted to know.  "YOU'LL like it!" he replied after a dubious glance at the string of plastic tiki lights in my kitchen.)

Later, I handed David one of the homemade cheese puffs my friend Alenia made. "What do you think?" I asked hopefully. He took a bite, grimaced slightly and announced, "I think these are from the Perry Como cookbook!"

 

Mara Hennessey hand-made this ornament which depicts Leigh Bowery and Trojan at Taboo, Bowery's mid-'80s club in London. I told Mara and David the story about the night Bruce LaBruce and I met Leigh Bowery, in 1994 (a few months before he died) at a club night Michael Schmidt was doing in the old Boy Bar space on St. Mark's Place (I think Schmidt's party was called Cocksucker). Bowery was wearing a spiked German helmet and a crinoline ball gown, with camouflage makeup. After we shook Bowery's Lurex-gloved hand, LaBruce quipped, "We've just been introduced to a spectacle." (I still remember, quite vividly, Bowery spinning around the dance floor like a whirling dervish, raising his Pickelhelm heavenward, as the DJ blasted the Sex Pistols' "God Save the Queen.")

In my 2006 book Confessions from the Velvet Ropes, I recount the night, in 1987, when I witnessed Bowery causing a seismic shift at a club called Savage, where he debuted his lightbulbs-in-the-ears look and profoundly influenced the future ensembles of the Club Kids in attendance.

 

Fashion legend Lauren Ezersky was head-to-toe in Rick Owens.

 

Lauren's friend, the fashion designer Ela Erdogan made this couture-inspired ornament. Ela was a delightful party guest but somehow managed to elude our cameras.

 

Dan Callahan, author of many movie-star bios (Barbara Stanwyck, Vanessa Redgrave, The Art of American Screen Acting) came dressed as Joan of Arc, complete with REAL sword!

 

Dan's ornament was an homage to Ingrid Bergman's portrayal of Joan of Arc.

 

Glennda Orgasm archivist Stevin Azo Michels chatted with Mara Hennessey's daughter, Leah Hennessey, who only happens to be the hottest underground playwright and stage actress in New York City right now. Her brilliant play Slash, co-written and co-acted by Emily Allan, has a buzz that's getting louder and louder by the second. It features a brilliant satirical  reenactment of the early '90s catfight between Susan Sontag and my pal Camille Paglia.

 

 

The Paris Review’s Ben Shields (who came costumed as Camille Paglia as Napoleon at 8 years old) and artist Dana Schein.

 

Transgressive literary titan Bruce Benderson, Ben and fashion designer Nile Cymlo. Nile's private fashion presentations at her Chelsea Hotel salon are the high point of every New York Fashion Week.

 

Ben Shields' ornament depicted the medieval Brunhilde being torn asunder by galloping horses.

 

Dana Schein's ornament was an homage to the polarizing Judith Butler. (I'm not a fan!)

 

Fashion designer Lola Faturoti, performance-art legend Penny Arcade and Bruce Benderson.

 

Bruce Benderson's ornament celebrates Shirley Stoler as Martha Beck, the homicidal obese nurse in the 1970 midnight-movie cult classic The Honeymoon Killers.

 

Stoler and her co-star Tony Lo Bianco.

 

My friend the makeup artist Virna Smiraldi is recovering from surgery and could not make it up my stairs—but Virna's friend Penny Arcade delivered her ornament: a glittery rendition of gender terrorist Christeene Vale.

 

Legendary ladies Lauren Ezersky and Nile Cmylo.

 

My parties always have that small apartment/big party Breakfast at Tiffany's vibe and this year, Alenia completed it by coming as Holly Golightly.

 

A former colleague at MoMA Design Store, Christy Nyiri and Studio 54 legend Snoogy Brown. No party is complete without Snoogy!

 

International woman of mystery Isabel H. and Stevin Azo.

 

Stevin Azo's ornament: The First Lady of the Night, Melania! I did not vote for Donald Trump (I'm a Bernie Sanders supporter), however I do not approve of the slut-shaming that has proliferated since Melania's nude photos were released. I am pleased to have her among my ornaments.

 

Ben Shields and his friend, the writer and contrarian feminist Janet Stern Capron.

Janet's ornament: Betty Boop riding side saddle while sporting a cock ring scarf.

 

Investigative journalist Aaron Rasmussen and Katie Degentesh (as a lucha libre).

 

Christy, Dan, writer Johanna Lenander (alas, her promised Andrea Dworkin ornament never materialized), and one of my colleagues from MoMA Design Store, Cathy Citarella.

 

Cathy's ornament was a beautiful tribute to Katherine Hepburn...

…with Kate’s quote. (Because there’s nothing more tedious and annoying than a self-proclaimed “rules person.”)

 

Writer Corey Sabourin with Cuban Revolution documenter and author of One Day in December Nancy Stout.

 

Nancy's ornament was the subject of her biography One Day in December: Celia Sanchez, the most prominent woman in the Cuban Revolution.

 

MoMA collection artist Martirene Alcantara and Corey.

 

Martirene brought two beautiful gold show ornaments (the Liza tree above it is Carly Sommerstein's ornament from last year)....

Corey Sabourin's ornament looks ahead to the impending election.

 

Fashion writer and curator Alexis Romano and Martirene Alcantara.

 

Alexis' ornament was a sassy homage to Simone de Beauvoir!

 

Janet Stern Capron and me surveying Janet’s ornaments.

 

Product designer and Lucky Wang store owner Emily Wang discussed her love for Rick Owens with Lauren Ezersky.

 

Dan and Ben

 

Josh Casey of MoMA Design Store, Aaron, Martirene and Josh's friend Ben.

 

Dana and Alenia

 

Me feeling the effects of the bubbly with writer Janet Rosen.

 

Many of my guests dispensed with the saccharine tradition of twee ornaments and instead favored violent themes:

Janet's ornament celebrated Old Testament badass Judith and her beheading of Holofernes.

Artist Scott Neary's re-telling of the Salome tale with a beheaded Donald.

 

A felt tribute to Lorena Bobbitt as Katie Degentesh's serene angel looks on.

 

Harriet Tubman on a roll of $20 bills. There has been a movement in favor of replacing Andrew Jackson with Tubman on the bill and I say it's high time for that!

 

Thanks for reading, Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, good fortune in 2019..

xxx

Glenn Belverio

 

Patti Smith Surprise Performance at The Museum of Modern Art, December 21, 2017. Video & words by Glenn Belverio

 

Dear Barefoot Dancers,

Patti Smith and Lenny Kaye did a free Winter Solstice show at my place of work, MoMA, and it was something akin to a religious experience. She sang the last song that John Lennon wrote, for Yoko, and electrified us with her boundless optimism. ("2017 has been a year of great, unexpected strife...but it's also another year of being alive, and being a alive is the greatest thing we have, it's the greatest gift.")

She read poems she wrote for Robert Mappethorpe and Sam Shepard and sang a gorgeous rendition of "O Holy Night." Michael Stipe was there and joined her on stage (which I missed because I had a meeting to run to) but I videotaped most of it, four videos below, enjoy this lovely performance. (You'll need to turn on the sound in the lower right-hand corner of each video.)

Love,

Glenn Belverio

 

 

 

 

2015: My year in jet-setting photos. By Glenn Belverio

Dear frequent-flier free spirits,

When I wasn't chained to a desk in an office, I managed to have a fascinating year of flitting from Bermuda to Palm Springs, Rome to Palermo. Here is my year in pictures.

 New Year's Day in Bermuda: a harbinger of hope near Horseshoe Bay. I flew down to the pristine British Overseas Territory to visit my cousin Kathy and her family.

Ivory tower view: Kathy's husband, David, took this photo of me atop Bermuda's famed Gibbs Hill Lighthouse.

A spelunking we will go: deep down in Crystal Cave.

 As Hyacinth Bucket might say, yelling to everyone within earshot of her white slimline telephone: "It's my cousin Kathy, the one with a swimming pool, sauna and room for a pony!"

Kathy has a lovely house with lovely hospitality in Hamilton, located conveniently near the Pink Princess Fairmont Hotel, home of the formidable hand-shaken bartender piña colada. It packs a wallop!

 At the end of January, I escaped the wet gloom of NYC and took a jaunt to the divine desert community of Palm Springs. I never got used to the 3-hour time change and fell asleep early every night (the bed at the Alcazar Hotel was like sleeping on a cloud)—so, I might have missed out on a few swinging nights at the Purple Room (next time) but I awoke every day at 5am and walked down to the corner of North Palm Canyon Drive and Alejo Road and watched the sun rise. The dawn's early light kissing the sky and the mountains is one of the greatest shows on earth!

The main reason I went to Palm Springs was to visit Patrick McDonald, North America's most important dandy institution. Patrick relocated to Palm Springs from NYC, transmogrified into the Desert Dandy and helped run the charming shop No. 6 Palm Springs with his twin brother Michael. Now Patrick is back in NYC because he missed the limelight—and the soup at Veselka!

 During my stay I took a tour with Palm Springs Modern and visited some of the most fantastic examples of mid-century modern architecture in the world! The clean lines of modernism are the perfect complement to the zen minimalism of the desert landscapes. My idea of heaven.

 The Edris House by E. Stewart Williams, 1953

 Side view of the iconic and meticulously restored Kaufmann house (yes, the one that appears in the famous "Poolside Gossip" photo). Designed by Richard Neutra, it is widely considered to be one of the finest works of residential architecture in North America (along with Frank Lloyd Wright's "Falling Water," which was commissioned by the same family.)

 Another view of the Kaufmann house designed by Richard Neutra.

A very rare Studebaker Avanti, manufactured in Palm Springs in 1963.

 I had a lovely outdoor brunch with Michael McDonald and Carlos King at the Escena Lounge & Grill where we had a visitor: a very chic roadrunner!

 My close pal, the Hollywood-based lesbian rock star Carole Pope, took a private stage coach down to the Springs to join me for some desert sun and tiki drinks at Bootlegger Tiki.

Bootlegger Tiki is located on the site of Don the Beachcomber's PS outpost, which opened in 1953. Don the Beachcomber arguably invented tiki pop in the U.S. in the '30s and here he served his trademark Zombies and Cantonese food dressed up as exotic Polynesian cuisine (just add pineapples!). Now, only a small area of the space is dedicated to the old tiki mecca, and Bootlegger Tiki has updated the aesthetic by serving more refined versions of tiki cocktail classics.

  Here I am in what quickly became my daily cocktail-hour booth enjoying what I think is the most delicious cocktail on the menu: the Pod Thai. It's made with Selvarey rum, house-made cardamom lemongrass syrup, coconut cream, lime juice and Thai basil. I need more of this in my life!

 Carole and I stayed at the idyllic Alcazar Palm Springs, located in the chilled-out Uptown Design District. The Alcazar, opened in 2011, is a classic Spanish Colonial building transformed into a modern boutique hotel that oozes charm and relaxation. In the 1930s, the property was a secret hideaway for celebrities who went there to dry out (which was the last thing I was there for!) and in 1950 it opened as a hotel called the Pepper Tree Inn.

 In July, Diane Pernet and I were invited to my favorite city, Rome, to cover the bi-annual fashion event Alta Roma for A Shaded View on Fashion.

 The Inn Crowd: me, Ari Seth Cohen of Advanced Style and fashion writer Rebecca Voight at the Rome Times Hotel before the Azzedine Alaïa cocktail at the Galleria Borghese.

 Skin is always in: python halter top by Azzedine Alaïa.

 The man of the hour: Azzedine Alaïa during the morning press preview at the Galleria Borghese.

 Designer Alessandra Carta, moi and Pashion magazine editor Susan Sabat at the Alaïa cocktail. (No, that is not Vaseline on the lens—it's what happens when you hand a real camera to someone who is used to taking photos only with an iPhone. Oh, the times we live in....what a world, what a world...)

 Trigger warning, dolls! The Galleria's most famous sculpture: The Rape of Proserpina.

 The Galleria's gorgeous ceiling.

 A diaphanous delight at the Rani Zakehm show at Alta Roma.

 Enrico Palazzo, Diane Pernet and I arriving for the Zoolander 2 wrap party at the Villa Brasini.

 Diane, who has a cameo in Zoolander 2, took a moment to chat with the film's star Ben Stiller.

 Susan Sabet during the open house at the Accademia di Costume e di Moda.

 It was boiling hot this past July in Rome, so Diane and I sought air-conditioned refuge in a cash machine.

 During my leisure time in Rome after Alta Roma, I visited the show of Uruguayan sculptor Pablo Atchugarry at the Mercati di Traiano.

Say it loud and wear it proud: I love-a the spaghetti! From the "Tales About Fashion & Food" exhibit at the Mercati di Traiano.

Hangin' and a' jiving—good times! Me and Moz at the Rome Times Hotel.
 

Tiki madness in the Hotel Locarno garden with designers Alessandra Carta and Paola Balzano.

 The Holy Trinity: Alta Roma's Conseulo Aranyi, luscious Italian olives and the Locarno's Earl Drunk.

In September, I was back in Italy—Palermo, Sicily to be precise—for my yearly end-of-the-summer holiday. I was over the moon for the Arab-Norman architecture.

 Just about every day I had an aracina, bigger than my head, for breakfast at Arancini Bomba. This one was filled with spinach and mozzarella but my favorite was the sausage ragú version. Divoonly delicious and gloriously greasy.

You see the most curious things wandering around the rambling back streets of Palermo. I loved this '70s-style spaghetti ad wheatpasted to a crumbling shack.

I met Sicily's most important art gallerist, Francesco Panteleone, and he took me on a tour of his family's mesmerizing, multi-level religious articles shop.

I paid homage to one of Italy's founding fathers, Giuseppe Garibaldi, in the Giardino Garibaldi, famous for its mammoth banyan tree and the arrow-motif fence.

 The so-called Fountain of Shame, named thusly by a group of frustrated nuns who had had to gaze at its nudity from their cloister window.

 I visited the fascinating Museo Internazionale delle Marionette (puppet museum) and wandered around alone in its spooky rooms, absorbing the history of Sicilian puppets that began sometime in the early 19th century.

This looks like a Christmas present from Krampus for hopelessly naughty adults.

 I took a day trip to the town of Monreale, which seems to have more consideration for the impossibly blue Mediterranean than Palermo does.

 The reason one goes to Monreale is to visit the jaw-dropping 12th-century cathedral, famous for its gilded mosaics that depict just about every story in the Bible.

 Meanwhile, back in Palermo...

 The famed Quattro Canti.

 The most transcendent dish I ate in Palermo was the bucatini con sarde at Casa del Brodo: a perfect composition of wild fennel, sardines, currants, pistachios, fennel seeds, pine nuts, pepper flakes, saffron and breadcrumbs. This is what life is all about.

 Palermo's massive cathedral.

 One of the games you play in this city is trying to locate all of the Genius of Palermo statues. This one was tucked away in a tiny garbage-piled alleyway. Pre-Roman in origin, this mysterious icon is the laic patron of Palermo. One interpretation is that, because Palermo has an ancient history of colonization and conquerors, the snake represents the foreign presence which eats from Palermo while imbuing it the knowledge and cultural contributions.

During one of my epic flânerie, I stumbled upon this Genius in the Piazza della Rivoluzione.

 I rented this splendid apartment in Butera28, which is run by Nicoletta Polo, the Duchess of Palma, in the Palazzo Lanza Tomasi (the last home of the author of The Leopard, Giuseppe di Lampedusa).

 View from the Duchess's garden.

Nicoletta Polo Lanza Tomasi, the Duchess of Palma, by the bay laurel tree in her garden at the start of "Cooking with the Duchess," a cooking class that I took.

Nicoletta took us to one of the city's oldest markets, Il Capo, to buy ingredients for the lunch we prepared. Here's where we got the swordfish for our involtini.

 At Capo Market.

 Me in the Duchess's kitchen zesting some lemon for the involtini (swordfish rolls) stuffing.

The table is set for lunch in the grand dining room.

 The white gloves were out for the silver-service lunch. We started with the ruvidelli con pesto alla Trapanese.

After lunch, we adjourned to the ballroom where Nicoletta recounted the compelling history of the palazzo, Palermo during WWII and The Leopard.

Later that evening, the Duchess and I attended an opening at Francesco Panteleone's gallery in the Quattro Canti. Here she is with Francesco exchanging stories about their lives and businesses in increasingly popular Palermo. (The New York Times did a story about the city shortly after my piece appeared on A Shaded View on Fashion.)

 

 During the opening, I met Stefania Galegati Shines, who is wearing a clever Clash-goes-classical t-shirt designed by Palermo Studios. Stefania gifted me this fab t-shirt along with an "Out in Palermo" version. Among the city's top movers and shakers, Stefania and her husband Darrell recently opened the club Caffè Internazionale.

 Palermo is famous for its street eats and this grilled pork and peppers sandwich, consumed with a Negroni outside my favorite dive bar in Vucciria, was the food of the gods.

 Dinner at Bisso with Nicole and Rafaella.

In November I was back in Bermuda to spend Thanksgiving with my cousin Kathy and her family.

Chic Vespa, check. Chic Burberry trench, check. An incredible bargain on luxury fashion, check. A helmet for protection on the battlefields of Longchamp and Chanel? Priceless. Kathy returns from Black Friday shopping in downtown Hamilton.

 Move over palm trees, the Christmas tree has arrived in Bermuda!

Kathy and I went out for industrial-strength piña coladas at the Fairmont Hotel. We checked out this creepy-cute bunny by Tom Sachs.

 Dinah Shore, eat your heart out. A relaxing game of luxe miniature golf on the sea was a perfect way for me to unwind after a hectic year in aggressive New York.

Thank you for taking this trip with me.

Love,

Glenn Belverio

 

Welcome to the Temples of Abu Simbel (From My 2013 Trip to Egypt) Photos & text by Glenn Belverio

 

Dear Shaded Viewers,

I'm lying in the bed of my suite at the Sofitel Legend Old Cataract Aswan Hotel, listening to the Nubian Desert re-mix of the Muslim call to prayer drifting across the Nile which is right outside my terrace doors. I'm very relaxed, like one might feel after 5 xanaxes, after a 3-hour felucca cruise on the Nile today, but I'll try to describe my very surreal visit to Abu Simbel yesterday.

It took 3 hours of driving through the Nubian Desert to get to Abu Simbel. You have to go with a police convoy, not because it's dangerous, but because if you break down you are in the middle of nowhere and could die from exposure or just collapsing trying to walk to a rest stop. The zen infinity of the desert coupled with my driver's hypnotic Nubian dance music put me in a trance. We drove almost to the border of Sudan, where Abu Simbel is.

When my driver let me out I had to walk (run) down a long pathway behind the artificial hills where the temples now stand. (They were moved in the 1960s to escape destruction by flooding from the Aswan Dam. It was a huge UNESCO initiative.) When I came around the bend I was expecting to see at least a moderate-sized crowd of tourists. Instead, I found myself completely alone in front of the two temples. There was no one in sight, not even a guard. Only two skinny black dogs. I felt like a 19th-century archeologist discovering the temples for the very first time.

Alone at the feet of the colossi–the 4 statues of Ramesses II. The 2nd one collapsed during antiquity, his torso and head lie on the ground. All of this was meticulously positioned when the temple was moved so that is it (almost) exactly in the same position as where it was found in the 19th-century further down the Nile.

I wandered inside the temple and there was still not a soul in sight. Photos are not allowed inside the temple but because I would never use a flash (it damages the objects) I just started snapping away with my iPhone. Even when some guards appeared later, they had no problem with taking photos of me inside the temple. Eventually two Italian tourists showed up and we wanderered around the temple, astonished.

Me inside the Temple of Ramesses II

The colossi of Ramesses II view of the Nile.

Aswan is SAFE. Come visit now, the weather is perfect. Cairo is also safe, don't be manipulated by the fear-mongering Western media who are only focusing on and, in many cases, mis-reporting the political turmoil. If you want to know what's really going on politically, it's better to follow independent Egyptian journalists, bloggers and insiders on Twitter #Egypt. For the prudent traveler, Egypt is safe. Visit Egypt, you won't regret it.

Salam,

Glenn Belverio

My stay at the Sofitel Legend Old Cataract Hotel in Aswan, Egypt, February 2013. Photos & text by Glenn Belverio

 

Dear Shaded Viewers,

Because wintering in St. Bart's or South Beach is so two decades ago, I now winter in the south of Egypt, in Aswan, ensconsed in the Nubian Desert and on the most beautiful part of the Nile. Here, the culture of the Nubian tribes and the proximity to Sudan gives this part of Egypt a more African feel than the rest of the country. The days are hot and dry, the air is clean, the breezes from the Nile are refreshing and the desert nights are bracing. It is a divine place to pass the days away when much of the West is submerged in frozen February gloom.

The grandest, and most famous, place to stay in Aswan is the Victorian palace known as the Sofitel Legend Old Cataract Hotel–"old cataract" referring to the first waterfall one encounters as one travels up the Nile. The Sofitel brand is known for buying and revamping colonialist legacy hotels–like the Metropole in Hanoi, where I stayed in 2004. The Old Cataract was founded by Thomas Cook and built in 1899. Through the years, famous heads of state, dignitaries, authors, actors and jet-setters have stayed here, from King Farouk of Egypt to Francois Mitterrand, from Winston Churchill to Agatha Christie (both of whom have suites dedicated to them at the hotel–more on that later.)

The hotel had a facelift a few years ago with a chic makeover by French interior designer Sybille de Margerie (Moorish arches, Persian carpets, ruby red chandeliers, modern Italian lamps) which resulted in the original building being renamed the Palace Wing. I stayed in the new building, the Nile Wing, which has a more contemporary feel (and a spa) and overlooks the Victorian-era building. The Old Cataract is probably best known for being the place where Agatha Christie wrote part of "Death on the Nile" (the hotel is a backdrop in part of the story) and also where scenes for the film version (featuring Bette Davis and Maggie Smith in an S&M relationship, and the divoon Jane Birkin) were shot.

 One of my glorious views from my suite's long terrace. Here you can see the original hotel, now the Palace Wing.

 I took this photo as soon as I arrived. In lieu of a check-in desk, guests are escorted upon arrival to a tufted sofa in the plush salon near the bar and offered a choice of cold drink. I can't remember what I had, but it was something like Nectar of Isis.

 And voila, my Master Bedroom in the Prestige Suite where I stayed for 4 ultra-relaxing nights. I was mad for the pale-green and white color palette.

 While bathing in my freestanding tub by Villeroy & Boch (I love the colored tiles), I had a lovely view of Elephantine Island through the terrace doors of the bedroom. It was espeically enchanting at night when the Nubian tribes were playing their drums and when the Muslim Call to Prayer (which sounds more supernatural here than in Cairo) started up. I took to referring to the result as the "Nubian Desert remix of the Call to Prayer." Spellbinding.

 There was a living room and off to the right by the lamp, a study and library.

 My terrace

 This is what I woke up to every morning….the Nile, Elephantine Island (with the Ruins of Abu) and the golden Nubian Desert.

I zoomed into the Ruins of Abu from my terrace (and also strolled around them one morning before visiting the Nubian Villages). It is said that Khnum, the ram-headed god of the cataracts, lives here. I should have liked to meet him.

Engraving of Khnum

 View from the famous terrace of the Palace Wing.

 All hail the heroic Gin Fizz! I thought this was the proper British colonialist cocktail to sip while watching the hotel's famed view of the sunset

 Beyond Elphantine Island is the Mausoleum of Aga Khan.

 The sunset viewed from the terrace.

 I felt quite regal walking through the gilded entrance of the Nile Wing to my suite.

 The pool in the Nile Wing's spa. I never got around to using the spa, alas. I couldn't tear myself away from all the spectacular views around the hotel. And then of course there were expeditions, like my 8-hour trip to the Temples of Abu Simbel.

 View of the hotel at night, with Coptic church in the background.

 I dined at 1900, the hotel's exquisite French restaurant that was built in 1900 to commemorate the premier of the Old Aswan Dam.

Salmon appetizer

 Glazed duck breast with hibiscus and marmalade sauce served with a tarragon brioche and garnished with a stalk of lemongrass. Superb. It paired nicely with a glass of red Jardin du Nil, my favorite wine du moment.

 View inside 1900

 On another night, I dined in The Oriental, the hotel's Egyptian restaurant, and had pigeons stuffed with two kinds of rice, a traditional Egyptian dish.

 The hotel's general manager took me on a tour of the property, which included a requisite stop in the Winston Churchill Suite.

 The foyer of the Churchill Suite.

 A view of the suite's giant living room.

Churchill master bedroom

 The private terrace of the Churchill suite is very spacious.

 Onward to the Agatha Christie Suite….

I much preferred Ms. Christie's living room….the throw pillows are dreamy.

 The French version, naturallement.

 I adored the view from Agatha Christie's desk. But of course those divine Italian lamps were not there during her stay back in the 1930s.

 Another view of the Agatha Christie Suite's living room. I was positively over the moon for the gold-leafed cabinet in the background, which served as Ms. Christie's personal mini bar….

 As the Suite has a kitchen, if you're in the mood to whip up some French delicacies, Ms. Christie thoughtfullfy left behind her cookbook.

The price per night in the Churchill or Christie Suite? $8,000 USD. A mere bag of shells, doll…

 Feluccas on the Nile. I took a felucca ride one idyllic afternoon…..Aswan really transports one back to the past….

And if you're still nervous about visiting Egypt….you couldn't be in a safer place than Aswan. If you're worried about the political tumult in cities like Cairo (which is also safe) and Port Said, fear not–there is nothing going on in the southern part of Egypt. It's the most peaceful place on Earth.

Sunset at the Aswan airport.

Thanks for reading.

Salam,

Glenn Belverio

Down South: A Week in Palermo, Sicily. Text & photos by Glenn Belverio

 

I have a strong suspicion that Palermo, the city I chose for my yearly end-of-summer holiday, is not a physical destination but really just a hallucination. It’s said to be part of Italy but it’s more Tangier than Turin, more Ramallah than Rome. A walk around the city starting from, say, the splendid Palazzo Lanza Tomasi (the last home of the author of The Leopard, Giuseppe di Lampedusa) begins as a simple stroll before transforming into a phantasmagoric experience. Grand Arab-Norman fortresses (recently anointed as UNESCO sites) abut dilapidated buildings where only one inhabited apartment is surrounded by a burnt-out hollow shell, gauzy white curtains swaying defiantly in the breeze over a crumbling terrace precariously held up with wooden stilts. At times, the city makes Centro Habana look like Beverly Hills.

 

 

One minute you’ll be walking down a tidy alleyway bursting with jasmine bushes, the air thick with the flowers’ delightful perfume, like that of the bewitched poppies that sent Dorothy and friends into a heroin nod. (It is indeed an addictive alley.) A few minutes later you’ll be confronted with mountains of garbage spilling from armies of dumpsters, and you’ll stand and stare and exclaim “Oh my gaaahd,” just like Sandy Dennis encountering the New York City garbage strike in The Out-of-Towners.

 

Now turn back toward the sea—Sicily’s capital lies on the north-west coast of the island—and then try to find the sea. It’s there, somewhere, beyond piles of scrap metal and foreboding corrugated aluminum fences that seem cut-and-pasted from the Mexico-Arizona border. Finally, an oasis of verdant lawns appears and the lonely seaside promenade greets you, its desertion and odd decorative elements making a de Chirico look like a Norman Rockwell. The Mediterranean is a deep, satisfying blue; the rustling palm trees tease with the promise of tropical fiestas that never manifest.

 

But forget about the sea. You’re not in Miami and Mondello, the chic beach town, is only a 20-minute (which, I’m told, is more like two hours because of the traffic) bus ride away, should you need that. Head southwards instead, down the old city’s main artery, the Corso Vittorio Emanuele, an intoxicating riot of honking horns, narrow sidewalks, compelling architecture, retro storefronts and street scenes full of drama and mystery. By the time you arrive at the Quattro Canti, the city’s iconic intersection comprised of four impressive 17^th-century Baroque palazzi, your head will be full of questions and your stomach will be ready for lunch—I suggest some delightfully inexpensive bucatini with pistachio sauce and stuffed swordfish rolls at Bisso, the former art-nouveau-era bookshop Libreria Dante.

 

Liberty legacy at Bisso

If you’re feeling flush, 14 euros will get you a plate of Palermo’s most famous dish, bucatini con sarde, at (my recommendation) Casa del Brodo. A fine example of the centuries-old Arabic influence on Sicilian cuisine, the dish is like nothing I’ve tasted elsewhere in Italy. It is a perfect composition of wild fennel, sardines, currants, pistachios, fennel seeds, pine nuts, pepper flakes and breadcrumbs. I suspect there was a pinch of saffron in there, too. (For breakfast on most days, I skipped the gelato-stuffed brioches and went straight for outsized arancini—rice balls stuffed with, in my case, sausage ragu, a recipe invented by the Arabs and brought to Sicily in the 9^th century.)

Turn to the west and you’ll be on your way to Il Capo, Palermo’s oldest and most picturesque street market. Travel east and you’ll find yourself in the markets of Ballarò, denser and wilder than Capo, and redolent of North African souks. Continue south till you’re just beyond the city limits (you’ll need to walk off all that heavy food, right?) for what is arguably the world’s greatest vintage fashion show. Eight-thousand looks, from the 17^th through 19^th centuries, are modeled by the mummies of the Capuchin Catacombs. Elegant gowns, the handsome uniforms of the Garibaldini, haute-couture clerical vestments and baby-wear creepy chic adorn the corpses who are lined up against the walls or sprawled out elegantly in dusty coffins.

Checking out the 1864 menswear collections in the Capuchin crypts.

Capuchin cemetery

When the increasingly oppressive feeling of dread becomes too much for you, flee the airless tombs and hail a taxi to “aperitivo street” (Via Chiavettieri, if my memory serves me)—it’s time for a Negroni and all-you-can-eat snacks. And then you’ll be ready to wander the streets after dark, when the city’s phantasmagoria levels rise significantly.

 

On one surreal evening, I wandered down a dimly lit thoroughfare and was seduced by the smell of burning frankincense and liturgical singing. When I arrived at the entrance of a massive cathedral, I realized that the entire congregation was south Asian—and the decidedly Catholic sermon and hymns were in Hindi, complete with a Bollywood backbeat. I stood there hypnotized for several long moments before continuing my journey down several curving, cobblestoned streets, arriving at a piazza that looked like someone had recently dropped a bomb on it.

 

Well, yes, someone had—the Americans—but not so recently. More like 1943. While a good portion of Palermo’s historic center has been repaired and restored after suffering the ravages of WWII, it is rather astonishing to see how much of the city still bears its massive wounds from that war. Reasons range from mafia corruption to lack of funds doled-out by the Italian government. (“Northern funds sometimes are not even planned to go to the south. Yes, a lot is stolen by the mafia, but also there was a plan in Italy to keep the south poor,” my new friend Stefania, whom I had met at an opening at Francesco Pantaleone’s gallery, told me.) I had wandered into Vucciria, once Palermo’s most vibrant and famous outdoor market, now somewhat of a low-key, tired affair, at least during the day. But at night, this is the place to be, and most of the action is centered around Palermo’s most celebrated dive bar. Situated at the foot of a dark street littered with mountains of busted-up wooden carts and rotting vegetables, Taverna Azzurra is so perfect in its divey-ness and crowd mix, it should join those Norman palaces in UNESCO-protected status.

 

“Uh-oh, look out, doll!” I warned my friend Nicole during a subsequent visit there. “That old guy is super-drunk and splashing his marsala at those hipsters standing by the door.” Sploosh, and the one-euro-per-cup wine almost doused one of the many large dogs running around the place. One of the dog owners, who was just as soused as the other guy, “explained” to me what was happening, over and over in slurred Sicilian. “This is really my kind of place!” I enthused as I sipped from my plastic flute of one-euro prosecco, which was surprisingly not as rot-gutty as one would expect. (Nothing will ever be as bad as the free midnight “champagne” served at CBGBs on New Year’s Eve when the Lunachicks played.)

 Nicole tipped our charming lazy-eyed bartender, Nino, a euro and he rewarded us with a flight of sweet wines, served from upturned jugs that were lined up like wonky water coolers behind the bar. And then it was time for dinner, served al fresco across the street from the bar: the most divine pork-loin sandwich, with sautéed onions, peppers and hot sauce, cooked up fresh in a cart. This supreme example of Palermo street food was heartily recommended by a handsome Sicilian psychotherapist named Salvadore, a regular at Taverna Azzura. “I have to leave in 30 minutes,” he told us. “I have several appointments with patients, some via Skype.” That must be the Palmeritan therapy schedule: Princess Licy, a psychologist who was an acolyte of Sigmund Freud and the wife of Giuseppe di Lampedusa, was also in the habit of seeing her patients in the evening.  

Nicole brings some Pucci realness to the dive-bar proceedings.

Palermo street food par excellence. Skip the city's ubiquitous spleen sandwiches and go for this pork loin instead. Let's hope Anthony Bourdain doesn't shanghai this guy into working at his street-food market in New York—the dive bar needs him!

By now, the scene outside our favorite dive bar was at its celebratory peak: tattooed young ‘uns swayed to the Talking Heads and Queen, Tunisian stoners were lighting up and getting high, the oldsters were getting more blotto, and the (well-behaved) dogs were roaming the crowd or napping under benches. Street vendors with oysters the size of Frisbees, piled high on precarious ice hills, set up shop in dark corners surrounded by mounds of bomb-blasted rubble. It was an exquisite tableau of lawlessness, and you couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

Some days later, or maybe before—a week in Palermo becomes a halcyon blur—the Duchess of Palma was holding forth in her ballroom at the Palazzo Lanza Tomasi. “When I moved here in the early ‘80s, I thought this area was a movie set. It looked like Beirut,” she explained. “The other side of the street was in ruins.” She then somberly related the tale of General Patton’s aerial raids on Palermo, and the departing planes whose pilots dropped excess shells at random to save gas on the flight back to their base. Palazzo Lampedusa, located outside of the city, lay in ruins. Giuseppe Lampedusa, forced from his beloved home, moved to the Palazzo Lanzi Tomasi in 1948. When the Duke of Palma moved in decades later, the property had 40 or so different owners and was in varying states of disrepair. Over time, he bought out the owners (including a witch who lived in the garage with a fleet of enchanted toads) and today the Palazzo is beautifully restored, with apartments for rent (I stayed in #6) and a cooking class conducted by the Duchess (more on that in my next report.)

The Duchess of Palma, Nicoletta Polo Lanza Tomasi

After listening to the Duchess’ stories, it was time for another stroll down that jasmine-saturated alley—and onwards to whatever mysteries awaited in the dark, gritty streets. There are plenty of pristine, predictable cities in Europe. One comes to Palermo to be surprised, mystified, occasionally repulsed—but never bored.

Love,

Glenn Belverio

 

The view from Bar Bruno, home of the world's best coffee.

 Entrance to Butera28 Apartments in the Palazzo Lanza Tomasi.

 Neighborhood bike shop.

 The cathedral in nearby Monreale.

 

 

Rome and AltaRoma, July 2015.

 Above: Enrico Palazzo, Diane Pernet and I arriving at the Zoolander 2 wrap party at the Villa Brasini.

 

Dear mambo Italianos,

After missing the winter edition of AltaRoma (I was busy touring modernism and sampling tiki drinks in Palm Springs) it was a thrill to be back in one of my favorite world cities, Rome. Diane and I were invited to cover the summer edition of AltaRoma for A Shaded View on Fashion. Following is a roundup of links to my reports:

1. The stunning Azzedine Alaïa retrospective at the Galleria Borghese

2. Who Is On Next? Italian Vogue competition

3. A.I. Artisanal Intelligence "Fashion Crimes" exhibit

4. 5+5 established designers collaborate with emerging talents

5. Luigi Borbone orientalist fantasy couture show

6. Renato Balestra jet-set couture presented in the maestro's salon

7. Our stay at the Romes Times Hotel in Monti

8. Sandro Ferrone's not-so-fast fashion at Fendi's Villa Laetitia

9. Visiting the charming Costume and Fashion Academy of Rome to view new student work

10. Haute cocktails and my interview with the Locarno Bar's head bartender

 

Azzedine Alaïa: the teacup Tunisian with titanic talent

 Costume drama at the Accademia Costume e Moda

The money shot: Ben Stiller and Diane Pernet at the Zoolander 2  wrap party. Diane has a cameo in the film.

Cooling off with some stiff tiki drinks in the Locarno Bar's lush courtyard with fashion designers Alessandra Carta and Paola Balzano.
 

Rome, sweet Rome: On the evening of our entrance into the Eternal City, journalist Rebecca Voight and I were invited to a dinner party on the voluptuous roof terrace of the home of my friend Rinaldo Rocco. His pesto was invincible and the anecdotes from the various guests were compelling.

A Linda Blair-like moment on Via Giulia after a decadent dinner at Assunta Madre with Paola.

Baci, baci,

Glenn Belverio