Cocktail Party in the Trustees Room
Up the marble stairs, a man played bass. He tapped his foot and moved his left hand up and down the arm with a staccato movement. Sliced cured meats and crudités were arranged on platters under a large many-lighted chandelier. Noah Baumbach and Wes Anderson were each surrounded by many people who were talking to them in an unpremeditated way. It seemed like a strange position to put yourself in willingly because of the nature of the set-up, the expected unidirectional flow of interest. The approach presupposed subordination. Probably it was possible to have a mutually interested conversation, I thought. But not with so many people waiting.
By the entrance, Noah Baumbach and Wes Anderson nodded their heads, smiled and talked. The bartender looked at me. I was glad to have someone to talk to. “White,” I said. I was under-dressed in gray jeans. A crowd had formed at the other end of the room. Women wore dresses and work suits. I walked over and looked in. It was another table of drinks. My glass was five-sixths full. I looked at my phone. No one had called.
Talking to Wes Anderson was a young woman, pale and serious. Neither the woman nor Wes Anderson was smiling or laughing. I could have a conversation with Wes Anderson that is at least no less dull, I thought. Covered in red cloth was a nearby table. I drank my wine by the table until it was half-full and looked at the Persian rug. Two men in tweed jackets leaned against the table. They stopped talking. I tilted my plastic cup. My wine went down at once.
The elevator door closed. We stood still for six seconds. Two couples talked to themselves. No one had pushed any buttons, I realized. I pushed a button and it lit up. Everyone stopped talking. The elevator moved.
“Ha,” said one man.
“Heh,” I said.
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Following is a featurette showing Wes Anderson making expressions he wanted the puppets to make, sometimes in his pajamas:
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Original illustrations © André da Loba
