The night went on and on for hours, from one club to the next to the next. At one point, someone yelled from a crowd in front of the Shore Club, “There goes Ryan McGinley, the famous artist. He gets more famous every day!” McGinley ran into one of his mentors, Jack Pierson, at a party in a penthouse staffed by topless men and women. He got a call from the Canadian filmmaker Bruce LaBruce, who wanted to meet up at a gay club. But McGinley was leaving for Japan in the morning, and at a certain point he’d had enough and wanted to get food.

McGinley sat in a red-leather booth drinking lemon tea, the 5 a.m. light on his pale cheeks. “So what do you think went down with Dash’s mother anyway?” he asks me. “He’s never told me. Who knows, maybe someday he’ll pull a My Own Private Idaho and go after the money. I doubt it, but you never know. Dash, you know … Dash Snow is a man of mystery.”

Related:

• Archive: “Art Features”
• Articles by Ariel Levy
• Table of Contents: Jan 15, 2007 issue of New York | Subscribe!