Red Carpet Diary: SF Ballet Gala 2022

by Saul Sugarman  /  March 28, 2022

Is it possible to return to a pre-pandemic normal? I don’t think so. But if nothing else approaches that sentiment, a red-carpet gala with 3,000 attendees might just have been the ticket this past Thursday. 

I wanted to score some guest access to this year’s SF Ballet gala, so I pitched a story to editors about how the dance troupe is “finding its footing” (har har) as we hopefully enter an endemic stage of living. And while that may be true in some ways, their March 24th gala last week was the highest-grossing event in the SF Ballet’s 89-year history, making more than $3.3 million. For me, it was also my first formal evening red carpet event, sort of a bucket list action item I wanted to do in this life. Here’s a rundown of my evening:

Getting ready, 1:30 p.m. | I spent the previous night stitching final touches on about 80 yards of dress skirt, only to wake up realizing I have no bag to match my self-made couture evening ensemble. It is a shiny black gown, so I figure a matching jeweled clutch or bag will do fine. I pop over to Stonestown Galleria, forgetting the Nordstrom nearby is not actually part of the mall and wondering if my Betsey Johnson peacock bag that’s sitting at home will fit the bill for the night.

Then I remember playing poker with a twink in the mall food court—a tragic Grindr date while he was on lunch break from Sephora—and he recommended I check out a shop, “Windsor.” I now tell friends this store reminds me of a Forever21, but for prom dresses and some skanky looks. On my way out, I spot a glitzy Judith Leiber knockoff in a mannequin’s hand. The store clerk tells me it’s the last one and that it’s $38, sold.

2:00 p.m. | I quickly learn this bite-sized flapper globe will no way fit a jacket, my glasses, phone, notepad and pen. With pretty much no time left, I found a tripod bag at home and tack-stitched on leftover dress fabric, then threw on some grommets. I tied the whole thing onto the ribbon closure in the back of my skirt, literally no one noticed. For the rest of the night, when someone commented how small my sparkle purse was, I let them know I had sewn a secret bag into the butt of my outfit; An ass satchel. 

“Tim Gunn would be proud,” a friend told me.

Outside the gala, 5:15 p.m. | I step out of an Uber onto a sidewalk parade of colorful frocks and tuxedos, and it feels like everyone stops to stare at my dress. I quickly learn through some attendees that I’m maybe the only man they’ve seen at this event in a full evening gown, albeit there are many men here showing off dramatic flares or other touches that look flamboyant or feminine.

5:20 p.m. | A woman dressed in some skin tight navy blue dress or jumpsuit stops on the sidewalk and says, “Looks like you’re trying to upstage me.”

5:25 p.m. | The red carpet tonight is actually a canary yellow, which is reminiscent of maybe a 2000s Kathy Griffin “D List” nomenclature: the so-called “red carpet” is in name only, according to Griffin, because nowadays they come in all colors.

I’m here tonight with Paul Gallo, a local fashion designer and teacher I met at City College of San Francisco in his draping class.

After a quick photo with Paul on the yellow carpet, I spot Kate Tova—a local artist I invited—in a stunning fuschia, poofy tulle gown.

I often joke in social media posts that “I woke up like this” in my couture, but Kate legit always looks like she rolls out of bed ready to be photographed in a jeweled and hand painted nightgown that I imagine she owns. Two photographers instantly want our photo of us in the middle of saying hello, and seconds later she rushes off to find her plus-one in another poofy explosion that Kate loaned her.

5:35 p.m. | Paul and I have a quick sip of complimentary bubbles outside while playing a game of, “Ooooh gurl, did you just see that dress?”

5:45 p.m. | We find Kate again in the theater lobby with her friend, Lily Chan, a marketer and merchandiser. A photographer shows up, and soon a throng of people whip out their cell phones while we stand and pose. A woman from Haute Living magazine holds up a phone and starts interviewing all of us with very little warning. She asks me my experience in heels, and I tell her the first time was several years ago in Forever21 peeptoes, which made me bleed. I leave out that the injury happened while hooking up with a guy during one of Juanita More’s annual “Some Are Camp” events in Guerneville.

The writer tells me she covered this event for SF Chronicle for more than 20 years, and that she’s never seen a man in a dress at it. She then asks my inspiration for the gown, and notes I didn’t shave my legs.

Ballet starts, 6:00 p.m. | Yes, there was a ballet! “La Grande Fête,” a medley of some classics and world premieres, with some numbers featuring Ukranian artists. In addition to changes in leadership—it’s choreographer Helgi Tomasson’s final season leading the company—Ukraine is a big part of the pre-show speeches, and we stand for the Ukraine anthem. 

I admit I’m not a ballet veteran, having seen only an Oakland performance of “The Nutcracker” some years ago, and watching film classics like “Black Swan,” “Center Stage,” and “Save the Last Dance.” Everything is beautiful though, my favorite pieces being the solos and partnered numbers. Seeing a part of Swan Lake was a real treat, but I likewise agree with several attendees that “the one with the red tutu” (a pas de deux from Act III of Don Quixote) was a stand-out favorite. A very athletic and graceful number at the same time.

Ballet ends, 7:30 p.m. | After a tight 90-minute set, we begin loitering around the War Memorial Opera House. Many more photos are taken, and I’m enjoying it so much that I forget there’s a whole other party happening across the street at City Hall.

We rush outside to walk to our next shift, and I refuse Paul’s suggestion to put on the shawl that’s stored in my ass bag. “I came to work a look,” I tell him defiantly. He still offers his while a clump of people rush around the City Hall doors. The whole scene reminds me of that moment when Miranda Priestly exits the limo in Paris after proudly declaring: “Don’t be ridiculous, Andrea. Everybody wants this. Everybody wants to be us.”

My feet hurt in my silver pointy pumps I bought from Goodwill Boutique in West Portal, and I’m freaking freezing, but I can’t disagree with Meryl Streep.

7:50 p.m. | We’re all being marched through metal detectors even though the whole crowd is wearing the most alarm-inducing platinum, silver, and gold bling. I also have a bottle of face foundation in my butt satchel and think that TSA wouldn’t approve. But no matter, the security guy just motions to keep it moving.

Party time, 8:15 p.m. | The first room we happen on is the main foyer of City Hall, decked out in floral arrangements and bathed in Vegas lighting, and a huge staircase for Carol Channing or Barbra Streisand to make an entrance.

I note to Paul these beautiful tables represent the dinner tickets we couldn’t snag, so we wander the party looking for canapes, but come up with nothing except bread rolls that are obviously meant for meals. Meanwhile a lot of rich ladies admire my dress, and I make Paul take photos of me next to banisters and on the staircase.

8:45 p.m. | Kate mentioned earlier making dinner reservations for us, so I text her saying we’re going to go get a burger since there’s no food. As we’re leaving, we notice a whole other party happening (the “ENCORE!” reception our press passes granted us) with lots of hors d’oeuvres and very Millennial-appropriate throwback prom music.

It is real dark in this room, and I hear a couple women complain they’re only getting wine glasses half filled. Bubbly has also run out a few times that I accompany Paul to the open bar.

I park myself next to the dessert table and make my way to the buffet after downing some chocolate things. I’m told the risotto is also gone, but really, I’ll eat anything at this point, and I have some wonderfully cooked mushrooms, salmon, potatoes, and whatever else fits on my plate.

9:30 p.m. | Paul and I meet a venture capitalist in a purple velvet suit, and he’s telling us how lovely it is to be back at the ballet, even though he says this party is “a little quieter than previous years.” This is something I hear a few times tonight, with someone commenting the dinner usually happens separately from the reception and before the performance. A few people lament a lack of dancing.

I’m dying in my heels and seating is limited. But sitting on ottomans encourages more conversation. I meet a Berkeley mom who was “raised by gays”—her dad is in a throuple now, she insists that I know—and she wants me to make a gender-fluid outfit for her little one when he marches in Toronto Pride later this year.

Another woman in a sash with “Ukraine” written on it tells us an incoherent story about why the issue is important to her, and I try to listen emphatically even though I can’t understand a lot of it over the music.

Winding down, 10 p.m. | We meet a man I’ve heard about all evening because of his light pink tailored suit with fringe detailing and antique binoculars. Very old-world and appropriately-timed for the Bridgerton premiere tonight. I tell him many people said my dress competed with his for top billing, and he says, “It’s not about competition, but the beautiful art we all can appreciate.”

It occurs to me then that I haven’t had a magical night like this one in actual years.

A pair of drunk ladies come by later–one is wearing what looks like a New Years silver sequin jumpsuit–aggressively ask us, “Dude, where is the dancing?” The other chimes in, “Did you see Nancy Pelosi?”

10:30 P.M. | On our way out, an older lady stops me to admire my dress a second time. I politely thank her but need to get out of these heels, so I quickly hurry away, and I’m promptly told, “That’s Dede Wilsey. She’s a big deal in this town, she seems to like you, and you have brushed her off twice tonight.”

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Also, via photos later, I learned that while Dede Wilsey did attend, I did not meet her– that I remember, anyway.