Spoleto Party Blog

            You entered the after-party for Faustus, the Last Night through a field of candles in red glasses, a descent into a lively inferno.

            The sound of Prosecco popping and French being spoken, and then a cake for composer Pascal Dusapin, one of the better-sung renditions of “Happy Birthday” you’ll ever hear. Hosted by Lee Manigault and Nathalie Naylor at Naylor’s Legare Street home, the party’s Gen-X-aged guestlist included Alex and Kim Quattlebaum, Curtis Ravenel, Gus and Eleanor Smythe, and Lauren thought she saw author Charlie Geer. Let’s call this warm and laid-back circle (lots of bare feet) the Porter-Gaud class of ‘80-something.

            Former neighbor and ballerina Ann Bacot McGehee (it’s a double first name) reminisced about when her mother threw the first cocktail party for Gian Carlo Menotti, 35 years ago, at their since-sold-to-new-money house a few doors down.

            “You and me were like nine, getting drunk in the backyard,” she said to Patrick Hogan. 

            Is there a more perfect harbinger of Spoleto than one of Leigh Magar’s hats bobbing about like a little bird? With suave husband Johnny Tucker by her side, the milliner wore devilishly red lipstick to match her red chapeau. (She said a dancer for a Festival show recently came in her store and traded tickets for one.)

            Upon spotting sweet talkin’ hippie Crafton Dicus, tennis coach to Nathalie’s kids, I thought at first I was having a flashback to a vegan potluck on Arctic Avenue, back in my salad days. Along with Magar and Tucker, Crafton should be on the list for every Spoleto party.

As should John Paul Huguley, the founder of what is now the American College of the Building Arts, who knew he had to bring his A-game to roll with self-described “rich, available widow” Lynn Letson. Huguley wore his “utility kilt,” with hooks for hammers and other tools. “When you go out with Lynn,” John said, “it’s either this or go naked with gold glitter paint.”

Letson let me try on her twisted-metal gold Kenyan necklace (see photo).

            Faustus didn’t do it for Leslie Turner, but she did admit to enjoying the music, and the toned conducting-muscles of John Kennedy’s back. Opinions of the show seem to be either Divine or Damning, which I’m sure was fine with Kennedy, a man who’s built a career on risky new music.

            Turner called pal Lee Manigault from the Sottile and told her to start the bar, because people would be in early. This is a football state after all, one that knows how to throw in the towel at halftime.

Lee and co-host Nathalie were so ravishing I left them out of my crappy photos. The digital camera’s cheap flash wouldn’t do them justice in the South of Broad night.

They gave me a hard time about being from the Dark Side (Lee’s baby daddy and ex-husband Pierre owns a certain daily newspaper here in town). In the spirit of the Italian-Charleston reconciliation we worked out a press truce — but not before my notepad was flung into the liriope (impishly, by Lee).

Cheeses eaten: 0. Fear not, fromage-o-philes, I will prevail.

Spread: Shrimp and beef on skewers, two birthday cakes, and some killer little cupcake-things with raspberries on top.

Philip Glass mentions: 1 – actually by artist/filmmaker Kevin Harrison at an afternoon cookout. I’ll take it.

Highlight: The flying notepad. I felt like one of the old-timey paparazzi at the wedding in The Godfather, when Sonny smashes their cameras.