Last month has come and gone, and this month’s renters don’t seem to be too upset about it. Main Street is almost as quiet as my email inbox, and the line at the Golden Pear Cafe is short. But don’t be fooled! Our summer folk are still among us: They are here, reading this column, shopping at the farmers markets, and parking their towels an arm’s length away at the beach (when they have the entire beach to themselves).
Growing up out here, I always understood the summer season was supposed to end on Labor Day weekend. It ain’t over. But after a summer of nonstop pop-ups and brand “activations” out east, I suspect, New Yorkers and locals alike are drained, and want to spend every last moment poolside. Most of us can’t find the energy to drive the few miles down the road to the ocean. This weekend, the memo was “rest, relax, and ride” (considering it was the Hampton Classic). My friends and I had a house party, playing old records from the 1930s to the 2000s and eating fresh basil from the garden.
On the evening of Aug. 26, Amagansett was buzzing — women walking around in Schiaparelli dresses paired with Pandora bracelets and velvet headbands. I was parked with a friend on the bench in front of the Amagansett hardware store and, confused by the middle-of-the-week fashion parade, turned to my friend to ask her what was happening. She briefed me: SiriusXM was hosting its annual concert at the Stephen Talkhouse, and John Mayer was this year’s star performer. After an out-loud “aha!” moment, we noted a couple of concert-goers in matching outfits, both he and she in acid-washed blue jeans, white tees (the kind you’d buy from James Perse), and Golden Goose sneakers. Another group of a half-dozen girlfriends pulled up in a black SUV and jaywalked across the street in black sundresses and square-toe platform heels, their necks wearing the most coveted accessory of the evening: a V.I.P. lanyard.
Another friend is the studio manager for John Alexander, the Amagansett artist (originally from Beaumont, Tex., so I shot her a quick text, and the three of us walked through Alexander’s studio-barn and then behind the studio to the large farm field to peek through the bushes at what was going on at the Talkhouse. Reporting from the honeysuckle bushes, we shared smirks and plotted our ways of getting in. My first friend actually was in possession of a real lanyard, and the other had a “guy-friend” who had a lanyard, too, so she’d be able to get in (probably?), which left me as the lone party-crasher. I’d rather be caught dead than begging and pleading to be let in anywhere — certainly not among the crush at the front door at the Stephen Talkhouse on SiriusXM night, however — and felt I already had the best view in town. We watched Mayer warm up on stage only about 25 feet away.
Later, I had dinner at the house of the friend I have been calling “my P.R. manager” (and sometimes “my aunt”) in this column. Spoiler: She’s not really in public relations; I just call her that because she is so well-connected and always has my back. Upon arrival, Williams Cole and Rossa Cole brought me in with a hug. We’d all had long days . . . some of us working and some of us people-watching. I told the Cole brothers and my “aunt and uncle” about my sidewalk observations; my “uncle” shared what he’d caught fishing on shore that evening. Williams, meanwhile, had some interesting stories about the serious mischief local kids used to get up; you’d all be amazed about what we used to get away with. We chowed down on pasta, chicken, and heirloom tomatoes from Balsam Farms. After dinner and dancing to disco records, Rossa showed us a first edition of an art project he’s been working on and we compared notes on all the different parties we’d attended this summer. He’s not just an artist but an incredible photographer who has been covering the party circuit since the 1990s. He was even the party photographer for The Star way back when! Like me, he always takes notes on what you all are wearing. Dessert was a watermelon with birthday candles in it, in celebration of my birthday.
Friday night rolled around like a distant cousin’s destination wedding in Europe: You’re unsure of what to wear and how to prepare; once you get there, you’re unable to recognize most faces, and you leave sooner than planned.
As I set out on my journey to Shooster Arts and Literature in Sag Harbor — for the opening of “Kenny Schachter: Art Apocalypse (Again),” and hoping to catch up with the gallery’s director, Pamela Willoughby — I noticed the leaves on the trees around town are getting less vibrant, looking a bit moodier. The Shooster show includes work by Kenny Schachter and Jenny Holzer, as well as a few others, but it was hard to make out what was on the walls simply because the space was so packed. In fact, I literally couldn’t get past the front door! Peering in from outside, I spotted quite a few artists —including Maryam Eilser and Steve Miller — and Spencer Lewis, the Los Angeles-based painter, sitting to the right of the door. As I peeked in, hoping people might be coming out and making room, I noticed a group clustered by the door passing a flask and smiling conspiratorially to one another. (Okay! Well, after all, Sag Harbor is an old port town that supposedly used to have more bars per capita than any other town in the United States. And rum runners once were a dime a dozen, between Sag Harbor and Montauk. If you visit the archives, you can read extensive coverage in The East Hampton Star of all the illegal booze that flowed here during Prohibition — including a dramatic raid in Montauk in 1924, continual arrests, and even shootouts. So what’s a flask among friends?)
I never did manage to squeeze inside. I stood there for a while on the corner of Madison Street and Jermain Avenue, wondering if I should stay or if I should go . . . and perhaps call a certain guy I’ve been talking to . . . but I decided to stay, and watched through the plate glass as Schachter gave a gallery talk. It was giggles galore between myself and the handsome man on the other side of the window, an assistant who was filming the talk on Willoughby’s iPhone, held on a tripod. He thought my predicament was pretty funny. Finally, I decided to head home to Springs and have dinner with Dobby the house cat. Dobby chose Paté by Fancy Feast, and I chose broccolini, risotto, and a small piece of salmon.
Saturday night was my night off. No, seriously. I checked my spam folder. I checked my email. Main Street in Amagansett was almost quiet enough to hear a pin drop. I drove over to East Hampton to look around, and it was the same. I didn’t do anything on Saturday but help a friend get ready for a date with the guy she’s seeing. She’s trying to set me up with one of her friends, but I’m not sure.
Sunday rolled around, and it was Grand Prix Day at the Hampton’s Classic, one of the real highlights of the social season and always the occasion for top-tier fashion and people-watching. I woke up with a splitting migraine. I got in the car and drove out seeking a hot Americano coffee with a shot of espresso in it, which I was sure would fix me . . . but, alas, it did not. I couldn’t bear being in the daylight, and so, hiding behind my sunglasses, I drove back home to spend the morning with Dobby. He and I enjoyed our quiet Sunday together, just like the rest of you August renters. We’re all soaking in the last kisses of summer.
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Frankie Bademci grew up in East Hampton and holds master’s degrees in art history and visual art. He previously wrote art criticism and artist profiles for the Express News Group and is now writing dispatches for The Star and East magazine from all the best parties, art openings, haute hippy happenings, random bar run-ins, literary soirees, and society scenes.
