The art world regressed back to childhood last Wednesday night with a sleepover-themed fundraiser for public art organization Creative Time at The Ace Hotel New York. In case anyone forgot they were in fact grown-ups, designer pajamas by Will Cotton, milk-based cocktails and a resplendent spread of gourmet sweets took things far beyond your average trundle beds and flashlights affair.

“It doesn’t look like anybody’s sleeping! Everyone’s wild and bubbly,” said guest Ken Wyse, surveying the scene. But isn’t that what sleepovers are all about? “Absolutely! Then you call your mom to get you because you ate too much cake and you have a tummy ache.” When I asked what his favorite part of a sleepover was, his male companion piped in to answer, “When the lights go out.”

Over by the open bar, burlesque artist Peekaboo Pointe modeled the pajamas... the top half, anyway. “They feel great,” she enthused, “like you’re wearing nothing.” She would know. Atop her head sat a “cupcake tiara,” also made by Cotton, which looked to have about 6-inches-worth of white plastic frosting on it. Nearby, some silk-clad ladies watched plates of brownies being carried from the kitchen to the long, candle-lit table. “The calories are coming in through my nose,” one said as she inhaled the pernicious chocolate fumes. “This is too orgasmic for a slumber party,” she giggled, gesturing towards Peekaboo. “Where else can you see people in PJs with cream on their heads?” I thought of a few places, but she and I probably run in different circles.  

Downstairs, Lauren Flax and Casey Spooner were spinning pop jams for the sugar-addled guests to get their ya-ya’s out. “I’ve always wanted to take over the ballroom of a nice hotel and have people sleep there,” mused Spooner, “and then roll in breakfast in the morning.” His favorite part of a sleepover is “staying up all night” (what DJ’s isn’t?), so it would likely be a good time, if not very restful. “I’m an adult now and I get to do whatever I want,” he grinned. “My whole life is a sleepover.”

Back towards the exit, a gaggle of photographers waited impatiently for the anticipated celebrity guest. “Do you know when Agyness Deyn is supposed to show up?” one asked. I did not. “Who the fuck is Agyness Deyn?” asked another. As no one can ever really “know” who another person is, I did not attempt to illuminate the issue. I did know, however, that my own pajamas were waiting, so I grabbed a gift bag of milk and cookies and split.