Rose Party

 

By Christina Oxengberg

 

A week ago in Key West, on a blustery afternoon, the legendary David Wolkowsky and I were driving past Smathers Beach. Pointing at a writhing palm tree, he said, “The tree is dancing,” and then he added meditatively, “Feels like hurricane weather.”

 

But no matter as we were off to New York City for David’s party for his great friend, author Phyllis Rose and her new book The Shelf, a charming and philosophical book about the myriad treats of reading. The party was slated for Tuesday, and unfortunately so was a rainstorm.

 

Unsurprisingly, David’s domicile in Manhattan is glorious. An Upper East Side penthouse palace of glass and light and witty art, like a Degas with Cubans on horseback, and all surrounded by an extensive roof garden, like being in a summerhouse in the country, except atop a New York City building.

 

One hundred lucky guests filed in and milled around with notables including artist Susan Sugar and author Alison Lurie and crime writer Michael Misha and Babar illustrator (and husband of Phyllis) Laurent de Brunhoff, and, of course, the eternally glamorous Jean Vanderbilt, the renowned movie critic David Denby (who recommended “Belle” — not quite a scoop since he already said so in the New Yorker), fabled feminist Molly Haskell and the amiable crew representing Farrar, Straus and Giroux.

 

I forgot about the rain which seemed to have forgotten about us and never came to spoil what was easily the book party of all times. The party, which started at 6 p.m., was a sensation and at 10 p.m. when I took my leave, a core throng of guests rocked on.

 

I took no photos as David’s nephew, the talented Timothy Greenfield-Sanders, was on hand. To see his excellent shots please follow the link below:
https://www.dropbox.com/sh/u5bzm3chy2tvjky/AAD_OlzncH2CLDdPijkXvy58a#lh:null-DSC01253.JPG

 

David Wolkowsky knows how to throw a party. He also knows a thing or two about the weather, and while fortune winked his way for travel purposes, and more crucially, party purposes, the deluge let out its metaphoric belt and exploded all over the Eastern seaboard.

 

But I didn’t care as I still had a chapter or two left of Phyllis Rose’s The Shelf, which is as delightful an experience as a visit for tea with her wonderful self. I loved it, I highly recommend the read.

 

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