The butterfly affections

Man about Town

By: Wilson Hardcastle

Published On: June 21, 2010

I have seen some Swan Ball patrons clutch their pearls at things overheard during the cocktail hour. However, there were no flies on the wall at this year’s Swan Ball, rather, thousands and thousands of butterflies suspended disbelief. I always have an ear out for some bons mots at the Swan Ball; however, my reputation for sharing such mots in Nfocus preceded me and even the gregarious became a bit tight-lipped. I enjoy asking veteran bartenders, who have the benefit of being keen-eyed and invisible, what is the craziest thing they’ve seen at Swan Ball. This year’s kindly servers were hip to my game and opted for discretion. They know who signs their checks and gets them work (hint: not me). The only answer I could egg out of one bartender was, “It involved nudity. Well, lots of nudity, but that’s all I’m saying.”

That’s not to say that there isn’t plenty to say about this year’s Swan Ball. From beneath the butterfly wings, much was seen and heard. Some ladies (with primary credit going to Ginger Hale and Barry Caldwell) suggested that I interview women regarding their interior structures—the magical world of straps and girders that hold a woman’s shape in shape within a ball gown. It should also be noted that all of the women who thought this was a good idea for a story were also women who decided to take a pass on this year’s Ball. Read into that what you will.

My investigation into the world of women’s support garments was short lived. First of all, my sample was limited to ladies I already knew well. Asking the wrong woman about her undergarments could quickly result in my having to register every time I changed address and being unable to take up residence within 500 feet of a school. Secondly, whale bone, underwires and corset stays have all been replaced by an array of spandex marvels under a single brand name: Spanx. The query regarding flattering figures was also met with speculation or confusion. When my good friend (and now Nashville fan) Shilpa Patel and I were new acquaintances, she was notably perplexed when I first complimented her lovely figure. I’ll say this again: Just because I have no interest in the plumbing does not mean I cannot appreciate the architecture.

And while the interior girders were nothing to write about, there were plenty of dresses of architectural marvel at the 2010 Swan Ball—from the wired open front and netted back of one young lady, to the impressive lace and piping design worn by Mary Lynn Ellis to this—her first Swan Ball. Paulann Howard Herndon needed dramatic support for neither her figure nor the graceful gown she wore, framed as she was by the casually architectural grace of her blond locks, whose sheen was matched by her pearls and silk alike.

Good architecture needs a strong foundation, and Sarah Hardison Reisner stepped lively in her steep-heeled Jimmy Choo’s, a design appropriately called “The Lance.” Sarah said, “Jennifer Aniston loves these so much she bought one in every color. If they’re good enough for her, they’re good enough for me.” With all this talk of the architecture of women’s fashion, I am tempted to say something about flying buttresses. But I am a gentleman.

Tony Rose, Jr., Nelson Byrd and Anderson Jarman were among the young gentleman of the Dance Committee welcoming patrons to the Ball. And while Sarah Reisner stood tall on her golden Lances, Anderson Jarman was more devil-may-care in his black velvet slippers emblazoned with red devils. Handsome handbags and clever clutches proved to be their own attractions, from Fran Hardcastle’s beautiful bitty beaded box (found in Healdsburg, California) to Tooty Bradford’s magic silver shell. The busy volunteer Carter Murray Dawson wore her clutch well, too—only Carter can make a clipboard look hot. Expect everyone to be carrying one next season.

And speaking of hot accessories, let’s talk Late Party. Drake Jarman (no devils on his shoes) introduced me to his lovely fiancée Christina Alvarez of Naples, Florida. While the Jarman boys are sufficiently grown up to make me feel ancient, Miss Alvarez is charming enough to make anyone feel young again. And to her credit, Miss Alvarez recognizes the marvelousness inherent in third-born sons (ahem).

Chip Hoover thanked me for Nfocus’ previous advice on black tie, white tie and tails attire. He himself was dashing in the only hand-tied white tie I noticed at the Late Party. I suspect we will be seeing a lot more of Chip in the future—a man of manners and story-telling, Chip Hoover is very much the Southern Gentleman in the making. Chip is friends with Davis Murphree, as in Murfreesboro, and I would love to have introduced Mr. Murphree to Mrs. Elizabeth Dingess. At the Ball, Biz shared with me a story that, during college, her mother suggested that when it came to gentleman callers, “a man’s last name should match his hometown,” and then promptly introduced me to Ed Frito of Frito, Mississippi. While it might have been fun to introduce Mr. Murphree to Mrs. Dingess, introducing Mr. Frito to Chip may have been more fitting. Absent any Mr. Lay wandering about.

Final toasts of the night go to the spectacular Jessica Gutow Viner, who brings a light into every room, and her rocking husband Dr. Dan, who has perfected the drive-by greeting combination hand-shake/cocktail-clink. I have duly stolen his maneuver and claimed it as my own. And a toast also to Dance Committee member Cole Barfield, who carries on the tradition set by his father as the genial gentleman you just want to have around.

And lastly, I try to find at least one good story at every Swan Ball. Usually, it is the antics at the end of the night that tend to be of note, but this year it was before the Ball even began. While I was too late to witness it myself, front door greeters Tony Rose, Jr. and Nelson Byrd reported that in the line of elegant autos carrying guests to the ball, a black Mercedes pulled up with a crumpled hood and smoking engine. These unfortunate guests suffered a collision with a deer on their way to the Ball, but made it to the mansion relatively unperturbed. It wasn’t clear who came out worse for wear, the deer or the Mercedes. Now had it been deer versus Jaguar, that might have been another story.

Church clothes

Riding high on his coattails

When I was first asked to write about men’s fashion at the Swan Ball several years ago, it was almost as a joke. After all, don’t men all wear the same thing to the Ball? Not even close. I’ve gotten to where I can spot a custom tailcoat at two bar lengths (yes, we’re using that as a unit of measurement now) and can almost distinguish a New York tailor from a European one. All tailcoats are not the same. And the gentlemen who wear them can be even more distinctive.

Now I have never been a celebrity hound. It’s a Nashville thing I think. No one bothers Garth at the next table at the Pancake Pantry, and Amy Grant was a babysitter for my generation. In Nashville, intrusion into a celebrity’s daily life is just considered tacky. (Although I do know a certain trio of young Belle Meade mothers who trailed Nicole Kidman perhaps a little too closely on the 5.8 in Warner Park.)

So with this casual attitude toward celebrity why do I positively gush at the Doctors Churchwell (that’s Andre, Kevin and Ken)? Because they are made of the awesome.

The front steps of Cheekwood Mansion become a fashion runway on Swan Ball night. Photographers flash and it’s all “fabulous gown” this and “stunning dress” that. But when Andre Churchwell stepped through the doorway heads turned to his sartorial splendor. Someone touched my arm and said to me, “Now that is a man who can wear a tailcoat.”

It should be no surprise. The Churchwell brothers are always dapper to say the least, and never a negative word can be said—trending possible positive terms such as kempt, sheveled and combobulated.

What was striking about Andre’s suit was that it was, well, striking. His body is a fine, tall line to begin with, but the lines to his tailoring were distinctive: a long, sharp angle to the lapels, a little higher in the waist and leaner in the leg. There was a sharpness to the tailoring that could slice a hard cheese and gave an elongating illusion to his already formidable frame. He looked liable to leap into action at any moment. And there is a reason for that.

Dr. Churchwell took a dozen or so archival photographs of Fred Astaire in his prime to Ben Lonsdale (voted Best Tailor on Savile Row about 15 years ago), and together they took Astaire’s tailsuit and scaled it up from 5’9” to 6’3”. That’s just superlatively cool. I only wish I had gotten a photograph of him dancing with his wife. Fred and Ginger, I am sure.

While I won’t be eagerly looking for Nicole around the next turn on my walks through the Warner Parks, I may have to stalk Dr. Churchwell on his next shopping trip. When it comes to style, the doctor is most certainly in.