I was present at the Bal Oriental.

How does one prepare for the party of the century? Perhaps one doesn’t prepare at all, as the experience of Pier Luigi Pizzi seems to suggest: over seventy years ago, he actually attended the Bal d’Orient – almost by chance – with the carefree attitude of a twenty-year-old. This really does seem to be the best way to mingle with the international jet set: with the detachment of someone who did nothing to be there and with the usual dose of irony that this extraordinary man of the theatre has kept intact, along with a prodigious memory that still allows us to relive every detail of that night. But let’s take it one step at a time. On 3 September 1951, Venice, in the midst of the Venice Film Festival, already seemed to be teeming with celebrities: from Vivien Leigh and Marlon Brando, the neurotic and intensely sensual leads of "A Streetcar Named Desire", to Kirk Douglas as an unscrupulous journalist in Billy Wilder’s "The Seven Year Itch", not to mention other giants of the screen such as Cukor, Renoir and Kurosawa, who that year won the Golden Lion for Rashomon. Nothing foreshadowed that yet another host of billionaires, aristocrats and artists was poised to pour through the narrow streets and small squares on their way to Palazzo Labia. Charles de Beistegui, a leading figure in Parisian society of Basque origin, whose family had made their fortune in Mexico from silver mines, had, a few years earlier, acquired and restored the grand residence on the Grand Canal featuring Tiepolo’s frescoes, including the famous ‘Meeting of Antony and Cleopatra’. The intention was to transform the venue into the ideal setting for the ‘last European ball’, as Paul Morand put it. In the preceding months, over a thousand invitations had been sent out, reading: ‘18th-century costume ball. Masks and dominoes’. Aristocracy and high society from across Europe had answered the call, vying to impress with their costumes and commissioning the greatest couturiers of the era – from Christian Dior to Jacques Fath – to design them, all called upon to rival the figures painted by Tiepolo. In the days leading up to the ball, the guests began arriving in Venice, all more or less busy putting the finishing touches to their outfits. Meanwhile, Pizzi was there for an entirely different reason. He had only just begun his career as a set and costume designer and, during those weeks, was working with Cesco Baseggio on Carlo Goldoni’s "L'Avaro", to be presented at the Theatre Biennale. While he was in the La Fenice costume workshop supervising the creation of the production’s costumes—inspired by Fra Galgario—a Roman princess suddenly appeared; she too had been invited to the ball but, evidently ill-prepared, had turned to the theatre in search of outfits for herself and other members of her family.

The head of the costume department explained to her that the theatre could not hire out its repertoire costumes. “At that point, rather cheekily,” says Pizzi, “I piped up and said I could help her. I was standing there with my sketches in my hand, in front of a mannequin, and the princess was clearly intrigued. ‘Can you help me?’ she asked me hopefully. ‘I’d be delighted to,’ I replied, partly because the idea amused me, but also because I saw an opportunity to earn some money, given how penniless I was at the time.” It turned out there were seven people who needed to be dressed, and Pizzi took a few hours to come up with a special entrance. In the afternoon, they all met up again: “Fortunately, they were all beautiful, elegant and, how shall I put it, refined. In the meantime, I’d decided to draw inspiration from the palace’s frescoes, looking to Tiepolo’s costumes but filtering them through a more contemporary sensibility: there were certainly the silhouettes of Tiepolo’s ladies, knights and pages, but rendered in a more stylised manner, less concerned with the pedantry of historical details.” A method that would go on to become the hallmark of Pier Luigi Pizzi’s theatrical work to this day. “In the tailor’s workshop, I had samples of fabrics at my disposal. We had to work quickly, as there were only a few days left before the ball. As it happened, I’d already chosen some of these fabrics for my production: taffeta and silks in beautiful shades of red, ranging from vermilion to ruby, verging on purple. There was therefore a wide variety of shades, all in harmony with one another – a sort of chromatic alchemy that could work.” Two days later, he arranged a meeting with them for the first fitting: everything went smoothly, and only the finishing touches remained to be completed. On the eve of the ball, they returned for the final dress rehearsal, this time accompanied by a hairdresser and a make-up artist from the theatre, summoned by Pizzi to take care of hairstyles and make-up as well, ensuring everything would be perfect. “They were all happy and excited, and they were absolutely delighted with themselves: it was all a great flurry of bows and pirouettes in front of the mirror. The princess did not know how to express her gratitude any more. She took me aside to give me my fee, which was truly very generous, and which made me breathe a huge sigh of relief. ‘There’s something else too,’ she said, handing me an envelope. Inside was an invitation to the ball which, I don’t know how, she’d managed to get for me. With less than a day to go before the ball, the question of what to wear remained. There was nothing at the theatre that would suffice: he did not want to arrive in a dusty repertoire costume, and he certainly could not wear one of the costumes from The Miser. Then an idea struck: he asked Baseggio if the company had any old costumes in storage. Cesco, renowned for his generosity, replied in the Venetian dialect: ‘But of course, bocia! We’ve got a storeroom full of trunks: go and see if you can find something.’ He therefore had me taken to a warehouse near Marghera where sets and props were stored. Opening one of the trunks, I found an eighteenth-century Harlequin costume. I slipped it on and it fit perfectly; it even included the traditional black leather mask. I hurried out to purchase black Friulian shoes and red stockings, and I was ready for the ball.” And so the twenty-one-year-old who, just a few days earlier, had no reason whatsoever to imagine himself at Palazzo Labia, was now able to cross its threshold: “I was like Alice stepping through the looking-glass.” And what lay on the other side of the looking-glass? The tales of the ball belong to that uncertain realm where society chronicles begin to resemble mythology. At eleven o’clock in the evening, gondolas filed past the palace, illuminated by hundreds of candles; dozens upon dozens of footmen in livery welcomed the guests. Beistegui received them wearing a wig, in the sumptuous robes of the Procurator of the Most Serene Republic and perched on high stilts – a detail that Pizzi remembers very well.

“In the large central hall, he stood majestically leaning against a fireplace, for maintaining his balance on those dizzying stilts was no easy feat. Over the course of the night, he would disappear and reappear several times, each time in a different costume. It had all been conceived as a magnificent spectacle. The guests handed their invitations to the doorman, who announced them, and went to greet the host. Boris Kochno (poet, screenwriter, and also for the Ballets Russes, ed.), who had learnt from Diaghilev that a party can be a total work of art, had organised the arrivals. Lady Diana Cooper appeared as Cleopatra, as did Daisy Fellowes, another Cleopatra in Dior, immortalised by Cecil Beaton beneath Tiepolo’s ‘Cleopatra’; the Duke of Verdura personified Time, surrounded by the four Seasons; Leonor Fini appeared as a black angel; Princess Chavchavadze was Catherine II; Arturo Lopez made a spectacular entrance as the Emperor of China, accompanied by a lavish retinue. Pizzi had arrived well in advance: ‘I didn’t want to miss a thing’. Leaning out from the balconies, he watched the guests disembark from the gondolas and motorboats. In the courtyard, he recalled the ballets of the Marquis de Cuevas: one featuring enormous masked figures, the other more Rococo and eighteenth-century in style. The courtyard itself had become a stage set: draped in tapestries, its floor featured a trompe-l’œil painted canvas reproducing the Savonnerie carpet from Louis XV’s chamber at Versailles, whilst a gigantic chandelier designed by Emilio Terry hung from above. “From the façade overlooking Campo San Geremia, one could see a crowd of onlookers thronging behind the barrier of hoardings. Beistegui had thought of them too, treating them to the feats of fire-eaters, human pyramids and fireworks. There was even a coin-throwing spectacle.” And so, for a few hours, the line between private party and public spectacle blurred. Seventy-five years on, it is easy to see all this merely as the final roar of an international aristocracy that could afford to re-enact the 18th century whilst Europe was emerging from the war. The French press recalls that Beistegui even turned down eight million dollars offered by an American television channel to film the evening: he preferred to entrust its memory to the photographs of Cecil Beaton, Robert Doisneau, Frank Horvat and the drawings of Alexandre Serebriakoff. It is here that one appreciates all the more the unique perspective of Pizzi’s account. He had not arrived at Palazzo Labia pretending to belong to that world. “I had no desire whatsoever for high society. Nor have I ever had one. I didn’t have the yearning look of Cinderella watching her stepsisters go to the Prince’s ball, and I certainly wouldn’t have sold my soul to the devil for an invitation. I walked in by chance, as a curious onlooker, a spectator.” In other words, he was already a man of the theatre. At five in the morning, Pizzi returned to his hotel, took off his Harlequin costume, had a shower and went to rehearsals. Yet something of that night remained. Not so much high society as the realisation of what theatre can achieve. “Walking into Palazzo Labia, lit by thousands of candles, with cascades of flowers and lavishly laid tables everywhere, and so many different, perfectly conceived performances… for someone who was just starting out in the theatre, it was truly an unimaginable experience.”

Perhaps the lesson lay in realising the effort required to produce something that was destined to last just one night and then disappear. There were those who had been preparing their costumes for a year, those who had crossed the Atlantic to be there, those who had mobilised design studios, artists, architects, dancers, gondoliers, chefs and valets. Then dawn broke and it was all over. “That magical night taught me that the ephemeral takes everything away. What remains are memories, photographs, drawings and stories. And what remains are images upon which life lays many more.” Over the years, Pizzi would go on to spend time with many of the figures who had taken part in the ball back then, from Kochno to Cocteau, but always “with the same curiosity I had at twenty, just as when I’d walk into a museum or a cathedral”. It all served the same purpose: “To gather experiences and ideas. To accumulate images that would nourish my creativity”.

Cristiana Brandolini, who that evening was wearing a dress designed by Lila De Nobili, remained friends with Pizzi until his death a few weeks ago. “I remember seeing Lila’s sketches of the dresses that Cristiana and Brando had worn that night in his Venetian palace.”

Memories are now fading, witnesses are disappearing, but perhaps this fate suits the Bal d’Orient. Beistegui had spent a fortune creating a night outside the flow of time, and today all that remains are photographs, sketches, dresses and fragments of conversations. And a twenty-one-year-old Harlequin who arrived by chance, watched it all until five in the morning and then, whilst the ball of the century was becoming a legend, quietly returned to the theatre to carry on working.