A play-by-play of the MoMA March Party 2025, from the perspective of poet and model Emily Ming-An Wang, featuring run-ins with old flames and new friends, plus plenty of art and music.

The Japanese House and Young Patrons: Inside the MoMA March Party 2025 with Emily Ming-An Wang

Invitation to the MoMA March Party 2025, hosted by The Young Patrons Council of The Museum of Modern Art. Image: MoMA.

I felt like I was in a teenage rom-com movie.

“You should write about it,” suggested my editor.

Eh. I’m fairly new to the gala scene, but I consider myself a quick learner, and a learner enough to know not all galas are worth writing about. Do I need to write something very sterile and factual? Do I need to pretend it was the best thing ever, even if it wasn’t? On top of that, I know the co-host, so what if I don’t have anything to say and would rather not write anything at all?

I reason— with myself to myself and only myself— I won’t force a story if it’s not there.

Getting In: MoMA March Party 2025

My gala routine is consistent: coat check, pictures, bathroom, browse the exhibit, have a drink, and meet people.

A haircare brand offered to sponsor my hair, something I felt God had deemed upon me since it was offered, but I would need to go to the salon naked so as not to wrinkle my dress, and then Uber over from a much later time than I originally planned.

But those sort of offers don’t just happen, and I took it as a sign to take it… until it got cancelled last minute, which was a relief. Really, I just wanted a slick back bun to highlight the simple neckline of my baby pink Kiki De Montparnasse slip dress and Vesper Obscura saber tooth necklace layered with other crystal jewelry, and Junya Watanabe earrings paired with diamond hoops. With the extra time saved, I arrive on time to MoMA to what was a party already started.

While most events NYC tend to start an hour behind schedule, galas are always partying early, which makes sense due to a premium being paid (tickets to the MoMA March Party start at $200, with all proceeds benefiting the museum and The Young Patrons Council).

There’s coat check, open bar(s), photographers, art, and what I hope to find: the love of my life. That last part hasn’t happened, but one can repeatedly wish. My jaded heart went into this event quite neutral. Galas are just something to do in the name of a good cause. Art. Something that’s rather a bit of a luxury to attend, if not just fortunate.

I didn’t expect much outside of that, other than, I have no idea what I’m doing. Photos are covered at every social entry level. Every attendee can take the official MoMA Young Patrons photo with a QR code to match.

Very chic.

As far as the watermark photographers and media photographers, they are roaming in the wild, polite yet focused on a mission. From what I soberly remember, there were at least three bars on hand: entrance, center, and midway. Alcohol consumption was very well thought out, as if they have had galas before. As if they plan when art should be digested.

There were breadstick-potato chip-plantain chip center pieces. Plantains were my favorite, then the potato chips, then the breadsticks just because I would have to break a piece off and the crumbs would get stuck in my lipgloss.

I run into a friend I met while standing in line at the Brooklyn Museum, now standing in line at the MoMA Museum.

“Diptyque is sponsoring this event,” he explains as to why he is here: he works at Diptyque.

“Are there free candles?” I ask, since I am classy.

After Hours at MoMA

Despite living in New York, I only insist on seeing New York museums when I have to pay several hundred dollars at these galas, versus going on a normal day where I can spend several ten dollars. It makes my art experience better.

Tonight, there is one floor open, and I make my way through the large scale exhibits, paintings, and cinema. Otobong Nkanga’s Cadence, Christian Marclay’s The Clock— all good. By the time I return to the main event, my gala friends who gala regularly, arrive. As I re-meet a handsome male model at the bar, a socialite friend messages, asking if I’m here. Another friend is now hitting on hot blondes, and the guy of whom I was avoiding has now been un-avoided. “You must come,” as he sends an invite to next month’s featured gala, from friends I met though a mutual none of us have seen since forever.

“I’m here to see The Japanese House,” says a trendy female friend, “I’ve always wanted to see them in concert.” I remember seeing this live musical performance mentioned on the flyer, but brushed it off as some mandatory incident needed to fill up space.

The DJs Amrit and PrettySick were pretty good, but like, all galas need music, right? As I try to make rounds at the open bar to suffice paying for my ticket, my go-to drink is what reminds me of my hometown of Los Angeles: the Margarita.

“This,” the bartender shows me a cute bottle of Via Carota Margarita mix.

“Sure,” And it stays my go-to drink throughout the night. Free-for-all buckets contain smartwater and vitaminwater. I take visually, and forget to physically take.

“How did you hear about this event?” I ask. “I’m a Young Patron,” A Young Patron responds.

“You exist?!” I’m reminded why it’s called Young Patrons,

“You’re the whole reason we’re having this party.” Another Young Patron explains, “I’m meeting my friends later… but not here.” To which I respond,

“You need new friends.” Luckily, he has joined Young Patrons to make other Young Patron patron friends.

“I am being wooed,” says a non-Young Patron patron, as to how he got here, “MoMA wants me to join.”

The Japanese House Performs at MoMA

Suddenly, everyone gathers towards the dance floor. I attempt to go upstairs but the escalator that was once up is now down, and my heels don’t want to fight it. I go to the center of the dance floor, as a band starts playing a song I must Shazam.

It’s the sort of light-hearted pop folk that makes me feel like I’m in a young teenage prom rom-com movie, where the neon beam lights make the setting cool, the band is too cool for any real prom besides in the movies, and everyone has been accepted into their dream college despite graduating.

“I helped set this up,” says the cool guy next to me, “Do you know the band?” No, but I do now. As The Japanese House goes through their set list, my other friends find me on at the center, and we dance along to songs I’m hearing for the first time that they all know the words to.

I’m in MoMA, but I’m not in MoMA. I’m not in New York despite being in New York. MoMA has transfixed me into another world. And suddenly writing about this event doesn’t seem like work. It feels like art. I wasn’t expecting this. I didn’t know this was possible. My co-host friend is cool, so I shouldn’t be surprised this gala would be as cool as my friend.

Art is a reflection of the artist. If this gala is a reflection of company, wouldn’t you want to join this company?

“We’re going to the afters, do you want to come?” In the black Escalade, I meet my socialite friend’s new boyfriend, my friend’s friend who happens to be my neighbor and we’re already making plans to eat at the new restaurant on our block, and someone else who reminds me of London, all while reflecting on this gala, past galas, and future galas.

This is New York City.

I didn’t really understand the point of galas until tonight. What was something new to do suddenly had a purpose other than raising money. It reminded me the importance of art. Inspiration. In this simple span of three hours, this MoMA Young Patrons Gala introduced me to new artists, new friends, and— what I desperately needed— a new outlook.