Addison walks away from the National Design Awards empty-handed and empty-headed.

Addison DeWitt -- Interior Design, 12/1/2000

It was the best of galas, it was the worst of galas. Specifically, we refer to the festivities surrounding the bestowal of the first annual National Design Awards at the Cooper-Hewitt in New York. It was a chilly November night, but under the big top erected in the museum's garden of good and evil, it was nothing but hot, hot, hot. We immediately knew that this would be an affair to remember when a flummoxed Cooper-Hewette approached us at the door asking our aid in providing positive identification for a man claiming to be Philippe Starck (even though Monsieur Starck was decidedly not on the uber-exclusive guest list). The gentleman was indeed the portly provocateur himself: we could tell by l'odeur and the blowsy Bayou Belle on his arm. Having performed that ghastly party mitzvah, we joined the fray.

There was Frank, there was Richard, there was Maya, there was Karim clad in notice-me whites. (This being "the design world," Addison knew better than to expect others to follow our sartorial lead in sporting top hat and tails. Wither style? Wither grace?) At length the assembled celebutantes were weaned from the open bar and herded unceremoniously into the aforementioned tent. What we encountered there was a topography of terror. To our left was a pocket of putative potentates including Richard Meier, Michael Graves, Paul Goldberger, and the dashing Larry Gagosian. To our right, a klatsch of kvetchy kveens distinguished by that guru of Greene Street, Murray Moss, and his flunky aide-de-camp, Mayer Rus. (In the interest of full disclosure, we must note that we serve at the merciless pleasure of Mr. Rus, the indefatigable editor of this esteemed journal.)

Given the august nature of the proceedings, it was only fitting that the master of ceremonies should be Charlie Rose, another Bayou Belle who apparently wasn't weaned from the open bar soon enough. Despite his reputation for silver-tonguing his way through New York society, the estimable Mr. Rose saw fit to mangle the superb script with which he was provided. Now, we realize that "phenomenologist" is a six-syllable word, but really. Charlie's Dubya-worthy malapropisms were thrown into high relief by the eloquence of the winners he introduced.

In particular, the aged Morris Lapidus, who was wheeled about by a fetching young West Pointer (someone who rather appealed to Addison's, shall we say, "tastes"), proved that age does in fact breed wisdom as he harangued the slack-jawed worthies for ignoring the only critics that matter: hotel guests. With similar aplomb, Frank Gehry graciously acknowledged his deep and abiding debt to nearly everyone in the room-with the possible exception of Morris Lapidus.

And what a room it was! From the flat-screen video monitors that bedizened every tent pole to the vrai Noguchi lamps on the tables (no Pier 1 for this crowd!), this was truly a special space for special memories. Pity that poor Philippe only managed to crash the cocktail hour and not the dinner. There was enough questionable taste on display to make even that resident alien feel at home.