Uptown & Down: Over The Top

SHERIDAN SANSEGUNDO

If there's one thing that's a safe Hamptons bet, it's that the annual party for Robert Wilson's Watermill Center won't be one of those affairs where you stand around on an endless lawn with a glass of warm chardonnay in your hand, bored cross-eyed.

The first pleasurable thrill, if a slightly sadistic one, was the sight of a woman of a certain age in a tight white miniskirt, hobbling up the long, wood-chipped driveway in Manolo Blahnik stilettos, all the while talking on a cell phone. (She resurfaced an hour later, still with the phone glued to her ear.)

But her amusement value paled beside that of the white-robed acolytes scattered among the trees and underbrush on either side of the driveway, making strange, keening noises. One chanted an Eastern melody, another struck a small gong, still others made rhythmical movements with odd, possibly symbolic objects, played flutes, or lay stretched out, as if dead, on stone slabs.

Sound And Light

The sight brought a cry of sheer delight from one guest - he hadn't seen such wonderful preciosity since the 1960s, he was overheard to say.

The center was founded by Mr. Wilson in 1992 in a three-story building that used to be a Western Union laboratory, as a think tank for new work in the arts.

This summer, for instance, some 80 paying or scholarship interns have visited the center, working on such projects as a performance of Wagner's "Ring" cycle, to be given in Zurich in 2002, a performance installation slated for Lincoln Center, and a millennial light, sound, and performance event to be presented in France.

The party raised approximately $250,000 for the building, which is still unfinished.

Artists And Uptown

This setting - huge spaces with naked girders, exposed cables, and raw walls - contributed enormously to the surreal atmosphere of the evening. Guests wandered from room to room admiring collections of African pottery, exquisite Russian Constructivist plates, and examples from Mr. Wilson's famous chair collection, or perhaps stumbled upon a room empty except for pebbles, a vase of lilies, and a faint smell of fresh-mown grass.

Paul Simon and Isabella Rossellini were among the instantly recognizable faces, and, mainly in black, were artists such as Marisol, Chuck Close, Dennis Oppenheim, Dakota Jackson, Brian Hunt, and Donald Lipski.

But Uptown was there as well - Christophe de Menil in floor-length scarlet, Judy Auchincloss, Bill and Kathy Rayner, Svetlana Stone, the director of human rights at the New York Academy of Science, and, introducing the evening's performances, the indefatigable Kitty Carlisle Hart.

The Auction

Once the filet mignon and strawberry shortcake had been packed away, it was time for a live auction. Perhaps predictably, a Jeff Koons ceramic dog caused a buzz and rapid arm-waving, while the auctioneer had to cajole the crowd into bidding at all on a Brassai photograph.

Someone got a bargain on a small Alex Katz, a Warhol watercolor of a hammer and sickle went for $28,000, and one of Mr. Wilson's own chair designs - two curved pieces of metal with a small rock in the middle - caused a flurry of bids and soared to $16,000.

Minutes after a large Chuck Close Polaroid of Philip Glass was sold, the composer himself appeared on stage. He played a melodic piece while Mr. Wilson knelt and then slowly stood, reciting some of the words from "Einstein on the Beach," the opera which he and Mr. Glass created together.

Every now and again, Mr. Wilson interrupted the flow of words to give an eldritch screech. It was definitely part of the performance.

The dancer and choreographer Bill T. Jones followed with a more easily accessible, and enthusiastically received, performance.

Meanwhile, in a remote part of the main building, in a two-story room with rough-framed walls, empty except for a dozen exquisite chairs and a skein of blue geese suspended from the ceiling, a chamber music trio played Haydn.

Through the window the throngs, having paid their $350 apiece, milled about under huge tents, stealing sidelong glances at each other and teetering on the cutting edge of the avant garde. But inside there was still room for Haydn.