Turning Purple

Not that long ago in New York City, it was hot. Melting-asphalt, beer-and-ice-cream-diet, go-see-any-crappy-movie-for-relief hot. Old men sat outside shirtless, complaining. Construction guys couldn't even muster catcalls as sticky, scantily clad girls walked by—because they were too busy wiping the sweat out of their eyes. It was a magical time.

'I'm freezing!' exclaimed Chloë Sevigny. It was a refrain heard often last night at the Purple magazine party at Le Bain, the Standard Hotel's rooftop bar. Aurel Schmidt, Rachel Chandler, Terry Richardson, and numerous other members of the Purple posse mingled, shivering, occasionally disappearing below decks to warm up in Le Bain's hot tub room. Frankie Rayder and other refugees from the madness at Alexander Wang's after-party arrived, chattered their teeth for a while, and then hotfooted it to Don Hill's, to catch Courtney Love. Purple editor Olivier Zahm seemed to approve of that idea: Circa 1 a.m., he and Lou Doillon disappeared from the fête for good, presumably heading for the Don Hill's hothouse. The party went on without them—eventually the crowd got so thick, in fact, that you could almost scare up some body heat.

—Maya Singer