They let me transform the place back then, and I hung paintings on the rafters, and huge linen backdrops like boat sails along the stage. Tony and I choreographed the models and Richie gave them some cash. Stevie made a cassette tape of runway music. The first song was The Cure’s “Push”. It was 1987, after all.

In the vestibule, when the Limelight’s own models were twisting and pouting for the crowd trickling in, my old neighborhood friends repelled with confusion – or was it fright? In its first years, the club used to house the posers in glass boxes. The transparent cells fell prey to ridicule, but the over the top makeup and suggestive body language endured. Alarming stuff for some who rarely ventured into the city.

Before the show got started I had one more run through with the girls, on walking; one foot directly in front of the other; shoulders back; sway the hips. I checked each one of the outfits I had designed, for the second time. I had gone through them before the girls slipped them on but they always needed tinkering when worn. I reviewed the order of appearance once more, and changed a bit here and there, and then lined them up and waited. a few minutes later I popped my head from behind one of the painted sails and nodded up to the D.J. booth. He announced the name of the line, and me, and then they were off down the shiny white runway, skinny reindeer gliding over Christmas snow, complete with oversized eyes, thanks to our ambitious makeup artist.

Most of the shows proceeded just like this, excepting minor changes and occasional minor tragedies. Sometimes a model would show up too high to perform. Sometimes a model would faint during rehearsals. Making them eat was a battle. So dedicated they were to their wire hanger figures that stumbling off the runway in a daze was an acceptable risk. We coaxed them into eating a little something, we had Italian food standing by, and they confessed that they mostly got by on stimulants and cigarettes.

We all got by on a lot less back then. The lean hungry look was not a pose for us. We were in a moment, and then another, and then many more, fully engrossed, not thinking of eating, or sleeping, or anything but the creative orgy we’d engaged ourselves in.

The lights would come up and we’d go out for a bow. Throwing logo tees out to the cheering crowd, I’d reach down here and there and be handed flowers. As confetti fell about, I backed down the runway slowly, so I could take it all in. I’d learned in my neighborhood; in my house, that these moments are fleeting. Still, it was all very glorious. As close to being a rock star as I could get back then. At the curtain, I clicked my heel on the stage and pirouetted backstage. Some tees that were not tossed to the crowd were piled up on a chair. Everyone was rushing down the stairs and into the crowd where the dancing was starting. If anything the room was getting louder after the show, but back here around that chair, there was a capsule of quiet, for just a moment.

Someone slapped me on the back, another hugged me, and a third joined in to lead me out into the burgeoning party. A girl pulled a piece of pink confetti from my hair. She held it up to show me, and I took it from her a souvenir, and tucked it into my pocket. It was no longer there the next morning when I went through my pockets.

–Danny Grosso

Instagram @artispolitics

Buy Books! My Amazon author’s page: amazon.com/author/dannygrosso