They go back. He touched it. That afternoon, Lady Gaga rehearsed in a tent, which had been erected for the gala on the street in front of the museumβit was draped in red satin and velvet and displayed a movie-palace marquee out front. It might have been her shoes: spike-heel black patent-leather lace-up dominatrix boots, paired with ripped fishnets, a studded leather vest, a black leotard slit to the navel, and sunglasses that never came off.
Her hair was a tangle of white-blond cotton candy streaked with pink. It matched the pianoβpink, with cobalt butterflies painted on itβcustomized by Damien Hirst. The Hirst piano was reminiscent of the bubble-filled piano she played on her last tour, which was based on a Hussein Chalayan dress. Gaga gazed at the instrument. Is it a Steinway?
The butterflies are so pretty. When the song was over, she peered out into the darkened tent, tilting her head down so she could see over her shades.
Inside, Gaga, who is twenty-three and speaks with a prim grandeur that might have come from watching old movies, sank into a nubby upholstered seat. Night fell, and the guests began to arrive: artists, politicians, actresses, the old, rich, concerned citizens of Los Angeles, and Wladimir Klitschko, the Ukrainian heavyweight champion. Tavi Gevinson, a thirteen-year-old fashion blogger with a small, pale face and Mia Farrow hair, had flown in from Chicago and was dressed in Rodarte.
(mh=TE303Mc6TPz4Qr81)13.jpg "Woman in Goodyear")
The Rodarte sisters were her babysitters for the night. Roman Abramovich, another art-loving oligarch, is her partner and soon to be the father of her child. This is acting! The spectacle went by in a flash. Gaga wore the Gehry hat all folded in on itself, a millinery version of Walt Disney Hall. The gross receipts for the night were four million dollars.
