MEILA + FRANK
When I met my husband at my sister’s gallery 10 years ago, I thought he was a real character. We met again the next summer at an A.R.E. Weapons show, and there were sparks — he was nice and funny and really open, not like the other depressed downtown boys. We dated for a really long time. I was a junior at Harvard, and he would come visit me on the weekends and we’d walk around Cambridge. We dated for five years and started living together after I graduated.
One day he proposed on his old stoop on East 7th Street where we had our first date. We picked out an aquamarine ring together at this frumpy antique store in Gramercy. Zac Posen made my dress — I wanted it to be gold and shiny with a 1930s-style fit. It took us four months to design together. Every week I would go to Zac’s office.
Anyway, Frank and I got married upstate at an old house my parents were redoing. We set up all these orange, pink and blue Moroccan tents with a pathway of Moroccan Berber rugs leading up to an empty decaying pool where the ceremony was taking place. The chairs were pink and arranged in stadium seating in the deep end.
My sister and four of my friends were bridesmaids. They all wore different bright pink dresses and my male bridesmaid wore a pale blue flower crown of sweet peas. A friend of my parents performed the ceremony. We did really simple vows and my mom’s friend read a Frank O’Hara poem called “Having a Coke With You.”
Everyone threw rose petals instead of rice, and after the ceremony it started raining like crazy. We all ran inside the tent and ate lamb chops, red curry shrimp, couscous, Thai beef salad and other salads.
The Virgins played. Water was pouring everywhere, all over everyone’s heads, and we partied until three in the morning. The next day we were all hungover and tired and we ate frozen sausage for breakfast and hung around. It was great. I wasn’t worried about anything.