All worth the trouble, Prabal Gurung

I clicked the link a friend sent and slowly saw the First Lady’s face appear and as the rest of her image downloaded, I caught a glimpse of the “Prabal red” at her neckline, and then my dress filled the screen. Michelle Obama was walking into the White House Correspondents’ Dinner, holding President Obama’s hand, wearing my dress. I was blinking back tears as I thought, “Of all the racks of clothes to choose from, she selected this dress, which I had, once again, specifically draped to resemble my mother’s sari.”

Michelle was the epitome of style and substance, and she was married to a man who was beginning to redefine patriarchy. His slogan during his presidential campaign about the audacity of hope epitomised why I wanted to come to America. And the Obama White House was so much closer to my own idea of what it meant to be American than anything I’d ever seen. By choosing this dress, she was choosing me.

That same day, I got an email from someone at Vogue inviting me to the Met Gala pre-party cocktail hour. Going to the Met Gala was another item on my vision board. The event started in 1948 as a fundraiser for the Costume Institute at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and has since grown to become one of the most famous and glamorous fundraisers in the world — thanks to Anna Wintour, who has been the host since the mid-nineties. It always takes place on the first Monday in May, and Vogue controls the coveted guest list.

Every year there’s a theme, and in 2010, it was “American Woman: Fashioning a National Identity.” Joining Anna Wintour as cohosts that year were Patrick Robinson and Oprah Winfrey.

What most people don’t know is that there are several tiers of invitations to the Met Gala. This invitation was exclusively for the pre-party cocktail hour. It meant I could walk the red carpet, but I couldn’t attend the dinner and after-party. Hilary Rhoda’s stylist had selected a black-and-red minidress from my third collection for the young model to wear, so this invitation meant that I could walk Hilary up the famed red carpet to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. This was the next step in realising my dream: not only to get invited to the dinner but also to host my own table.

The red dress that then US First Lady Michelle Obama wore to the 2010 White House Correspondents’ Association Dinner, bringing global recognition to the designer, Prabal Gurung; (right) Actress Zoe Saldana was among Gurung’s earliest celebrity supporters, often seen wearing his creations at events, such as at the 2012 CFDA Fashion Awards, as seen above 

And I had been manifesting it since my time at Bill Blass, where I had always advocated that the brand should be represented at the Met Gala, but Michael loathed the idea. After he left, I reached out to Lauren Santo Domingo, who was hosting the after-party that year, and asked if I could bring Zoe Saldana to that as my date.

Zoe and I had become close by then — she had done only two small films, but I knew in my gut that she was going to be a superstar. She was a wildly elegant, gorgeous, and funny Dominican girl from the Bronx who was determined to make it in Hollywood, where there were so few Latinx roles. From the moment I met her, I adored her. She reminded me of myself.

Lauren said yes, and I dressed Zoe in a beautiful Bill Blass ball gown and myself in a tuxedo. We had dinner at a chic restaurant —  a Dominican girl and a Nepali  boy —  on the Upper East Side, where we stood out among the crowd of Upper East Siders. There, everyone commented, “You look so beautiful! Where are you going?”

“The Met Gala,” we said, smiling.

It was all very magical.

That evening, over dinner, we talked about our dreams —  and heart aches. She was filming Star Trek and had been cast in Avatar, but neither had come out yet. I told her I wanted to leave Bill Blass and launch my own namesake line one day. That was the night we made our pact: I would dress her for her first red carpet appearance, and she would come to my first show. And then we headed to the Metropolitan Museum of Art for the after- party, where I saw all the usual suspects — socialites, editors, models,  celebrities — whom I always ran into at all the galas. Some of them had become good friends over the years and some remained acquaintances. All polite, nice, sweet, but once again, every person except for Zoe, the actress Joy Bryant, very few others, and me were white. I wasn’t disheartened or dejected. Though I do remember coming back home that night and thinking to myself, “Is this ever going to change? Is white America the only America to be represented in this haute couture high fashion space?”

Being invited to any portion of the Met Gala gives you access to the most exclusive curation of creative people — designers, movie stars, artists, and musicians. I was still in the early stages of building my brand, so having a moment on the red carpet with Hilary Rhoda wearing my black, white, and red sculpted minidress that was a hybrid of old-school couture meets the new modern world was huge. In a sea filled with gowns and trains, she looked young and hip and totally glamorous.

When we arrived at the Met that evening, I took a deep breath. The stairs leading up to the museum were lined with photographers. I took Hilary’s arm and we began to ascend, surrounded by the sounds of clicking cameras and different names being shouted interlaced with the syncopated pops of flashes. I focused on each step, one foot in front of the other, thinking how far I had come from playing with paper dolls to sketching in notebooks to getting on that plane to Parsons . . . and now making my way toward the pinnacle of the fashion world. I was halfway up the stairs when I heard a photographer shout, “Prabal!”
I was shocked, as I did not expect anyone to know who I was. And yet, as I turned and posed, it also felt totally natural, like I was meant to be there.
Once inside the museum, I began weaving through the glamorous  crowd and recognised so many faces, from Taylor Swift to Sarah Jessica Parker. I was mesmerised, just soaking it all in when I heard someone else shout my name:

“Prabal!”

This time, it was Oprah Winfrey, standing with Anna Wintour. I walked over to her to say hello.

“He was in my closet a couple of weeks ago,” Oprah said with a big smile. “And Michelle! She looked amazing! Congratulations, you must be so thrilled.”
I was! Particularly because she was saying all of this in front of Anna.

“I’m so proud of you, Prabal!” Oprah added. “You’re doing it! You’re really doing it!”

And then she gave me a tight hug. It was the most generous and loving moment. We chatted a bit more, and then I started to wander through the crowd saying hello to the people I knew, including magazine editors and a few famous designers. I felt like Cinderella at the ball, caught up in the magic of it all. When people started to move toward the dining room, I realised that the clock had struck midnight for my fairytale story. As much as I wished that I could follow everyone in, my invitation limited me to the cocktail party, not the dinner. I did not want to face the red carpet again. People were still arriving, and I thought it would be best to slip out unnoticed. I pulled a waiter aside and asked discreetly, “Is there a back exit?”

He looked at me, confused, and I explained. “I’m not going to the dinner.” He nodded and said, “Follow me.” I did, and as he pushed open a back door he said, “It’s going to happen for you.”

I was so touched by his vote of confidence, this total stranger. His kind words felt like the hug I needed at that moment. I thanked him, and as I walked into the spring evening air, I could hear the paparazzi behind me. I turned to see the red carpet, the cameras snapping, the stars still arriving, fashionably late.

Excerpted with permission from Walk Like A Girl by Prabal Gurung, HarperCollins Publishers India