Siren's Social Week

Back and forth from LA to NYC twice in one week

They say rest is for the dead—and I fear I may have taken that a bit too literally.

In theory, I imagine myself as someone who relishes rest. Someone who could vanish off-grid with a book and no plans, no signal, no shoes. But one look at my social calendar—or my Delta SkyMiles statement—might tell a different story.

Last week was a blur.

I took the 7 a.m. flight from LAX to New York, a half-asleep version of myself hoping I could make all my carefully laid out plans on time. By some miracle (and a generous gift from Bilt), I skipped the FDR entirely thanks to a Blade helicopter ride—though the bliss of this shortcut was somewhat dulled by the fact that a chopper had crashed into the Hudson just days before. Those five minutes in the air felt like twenty.

In my silent panic, I neglected to speak a single word to the only other passenger onboard. When we landed, the Blade team rushed toward her like a scene from Succession, leaving me fumbling behind. As she was whisked off into a black SUV, flanked by staff, I waited awkwardly for my yellow cab.

As soon as she disappeared, the staff retreated, utterly unaware of me—something I was almost grateful for after a long morning of pretending I had it all together.

Somehow, I made it to a work drink uptown by 6 p.m., followed by the John Chamberlain x Assouline dinner at 7. Before the drink, I had given myself a firm internal monologue: “Sophia, under no circumstances will you order a Cosmo.” Naturally, I ordered one. Possibly two. But the dinner was lovely, and by some stroke of luck—or perhaps divine intervention—the Cosmos didn’t come back to haunt me the next morning.

The real reason I came to New York, though, was the launch of the Vanguard Council at the Met. As a former archaeologist, that museum has always held a sacred place in my heart—where millennia-old relics meet the ever-evolving present. I find Max, the director, inspired. The exhibitions always feel layered, considered, alive.

So when I was asked to chair this new group, it felt like fate. I was curious how my generation might engage with the institution in meaningful, tangible ways. And our first meeting filled me with hope. Whether the conversation turned to funding new exhibitions, restoring sarcophagi, or exploring cutting-edge technology, every member had a voice—and it felt like something real.

That night, we hosted dinner in the American Wing. I brought one of my dearest friends, Anna Weyant, as my date. There was something quietly poetic about the night—this new beginning coinciding with my impending move back home, like tectonic plates shifting under the surface of my life.

By Wednesday, I found myself at the Guggenheim for Rashid Johnson’s opening. Watching a friend command such a historic space was moving in itself, but it was his speech later that night that truly struck me. Rashid has this rare ability to be both regal and deeply human. His elegance, wit, and humility captivated the room. You could feel the love in the air. It was one of those rare New York nights where time bends and everyone felt ultra present.

By Thursday morning, I was back on a plane to LA—only to return again to New York by Saturday. No Blade this time. Just me and my madness.

Still, I managed to squeeze in time with an old friend on Saturday before heading to Larry Gagosian’s 80th birthday party. I won’t disclose details (not here, anyway), but it was everything I love about the art world: seductive, electric, filled with artists, collectors, and stories that deserve dim lighting and whispered retellings. It was, in short, a perfect Larry party.

Sometimes I have to pinch myself that this is the life I get to live. Maybe one day I’ll write a memoir filled with the stories I can’t yet share. But this post? This one’s just about my bizarre, semi-heroic ability to dodge hangovers, make red-eyes, and show up for the people—and moments—I care about.

BRB, napping for a week.

xx,

SC