Norisol Ferrari’s Long Night’s Journey into Light

This Sunday, an old assistant of mine, Norisol Ferrari (like the car), will present her line of bespoke creations at a fashion show at Safe Harbor NY, that 5000-squre-foot loft space at 446 Broadway just north of Howard. I went to a few great events there this past summer, and this figures to be fab. I'll give Norisol a plug here because she has traveled real far to get to this moment, and her story is entwined in the fabric of New York nightlife. Her biological parents gave her up at 11 -- first her mom, then her dad -- and she was a guest of various unsavory New York State facilities for girls like that. "That set the tone for the rest of my life," she says without a visible tear or even a whimper. The state facilities were like prison -- "I couldn't live there, so I ran away to New York. Another runaway took me to a club because they were warm and safe and rarely closed back then. The drag queens took care of me."

Robbie Martin, transvestite and all around nice person who had her 14-and-a-half minutes of fame in the flick Last Exit to Brooklyn, “was a savior. She and Cynthia Fuentes kept me alive. Dmitry and Kier from Deee-Lite fed me. I lived most of the time in [675 honcho] Adam Cooper’s apartment with his brother [Miami scenester Michael Tronn]. Going out at night was fun after I found out what couch I could crash on. Back in those days, people sewed and shopped all day and created their own persona for that night ... everybody dressed, and I spent a lot of time just helping out. I wasn’t sexually active but was constantly chased by boys. Lady Bunny would say yea or nay, stay or stay away from different guys ... she was like a mother to me, and you were like a dad.”

I had seen Norisol around for a couple of years. I first noticed her at the World in 1988 or so. She was milling with the drag queens and club kids but traveled well in the older circles—the fashionistas, the trendies, and the players. She was beautiful and street-tough with a stylish edge. She could shine in a white t-shirt, jeans, and boots one evening, and the next feature Christian Lacroix. When I opened the Palace de Beauté with Larry Tee, Michael Alig, Maurice Brahms, and some other old pros, I asked her to be my assistant. Unbeknownst to me, she was 15 years old. She told me she was 19, and at that time the drinking age was 18, and it was very common for younger types to be around. No excuses ... back then no one checked ID. It’s hard to understand now in a world with restrictions on smoking and deep regulation, but back then there were no hours, as there were clubs which blasted their way till noon. There was no age restrictions—it was kids and ancient players. Everything was different. It was a drastically different sexual world ... a dark and grungy time of late-night orgies and drugs and frenzy where clubs seemed safer than the streets but were not really safe at all. Gangsters and distractions were everywhere. Dark corners were filled with spider-like men and women with endless traps and pitfalls. It was common to loose a few friends to a bad batch of heroin over some lost weekend.