Morningside’s New Drawing-Room Comedy

A summer social where you can play yourself.

By Selma White-Pascual

Illustration by Ines Alto

I had first seen the signs after I walked up the steps by Low Library. There, right by Maison Française, was a vertical banner with the letters MSM printed in blue, and below, a small QR code. I found the banner again, pinned up on the bulletin boards of Hamilton Hall. I was surprised at first—I thought public health outreach was getting very direct in its search for Men who have Sex with Men (MSM). 

But, upon further investigation, I discovered it stood for Morningside Summer Mixers. The QR code had opened an RSVP page for a series of evening events the organization was hosting for students in the city. I dutifully filled out the form, which asked about my hometown, how many languages I spoke, and even required my LinkedIn. Despite this peculiar vetting, a note at the bottom promised “Attendees selected by lottery.” On Friday, I received the lucky news that I had been selected.

As I approached the location listed on my invitation, a figure, dressed in a billowing white blouse, came into view. Spotting me, he waved and introduced himself as The Usher. “Go to the seventh floor. You’ll know which door it is,” he said, gesturing toward the lobby with a flourish.

With these cryptic instructions, I went up the elevator and down the corridor to a door already slightly ajar. 

Looking around the apartment, I could not help but marvel. It was spacious, extending backwards to large windows overlooking a park. The ceiling was high and the walls were decorated with paintings, photographs, and masks. Every few meters, a new carpet began, each with an intricate pattern of dark colors. To the left, a small office I would later discover, held rows upon rows of books from Avedon to Zuboff.

Already, a small group had gathered in the living room, characters strewn across the couch and Moroccan poufs, framed by an extensive record collection and arching lamps that gave the scene a yellow glow. I tried to find the host, but, to my dismay, no one could identify them. The art history major beside me whispered that she had asked The Usher: “He keeps saying ‘I plead the fifth’ and then talking about how long the waitlist is.” 

As the party went on, I noticed that The Usher possessed the curious ability of appearing whenever he was needed. When someone’s glass emptied, he was there to refill it. When the conversation stalled, he dropped a detail from a guest’s life he could not possibly have known.

The night felt strange, like a carefully planned-out play charading as something natural. We indulged in the anonymity of our host because it supported the romantic idea that we, a mixture of Ivy League and international students, had stumbled upon each other by accident. But we had all received a script—the dim lighting, layered rugs, and restrained jazz had shifted the social register upward and reorganized the terms of self-presentation. In this bohemian setting, our speech was at once more grounded and, because of that reflexivity, more self-important. Each remark carried an awareness of itself as a remark worth making in a collegiate salon, a remark both true and self-fashioning. An architecture student laughingly noted how “In the field, we call him Corbu.” He bought in. We were caught in an odd entanglement between the intimacy of authenticity and its performance. 

Finally, the party dispersed on the street below. Turning to leave, I noticed The Usher lurking behind, and so I stopped to thank him. 

“Of course.” He paused, looking exceedingly pleased with himself. “I was worried I invited too many economics students.”

Ah—so, this was our host! I steadied myself, attempting to appear unperturbed. I examined the night, what he had said or hadn’t—did he compliment the records, his own collection? But I suppose that, even before this reveal, I’d got a strong impression that he was picking his words with care.

He pivoted to tell me how he chose each guest, how one must be careful with ratios, but how, ultimately, it was in service of raw human connection. His understanding of “by lottery” seemed to be quite imaginative. I had spent my evening acting in a piece of theater he had cast, staged, and directed. 

Which, I suppose, is one way of meeting people organically.