The 2025 Met Gala is Celebrating Black Dandyism

Once a year, on the first Monday in May, the Metropolitan Museum of Art transforms into something closer to a cathedral of celebrity—a sacred space where fame, fashion, and fortune intertwine. But if you’re imagining a bacchanal of sequins and champagne, you’re only half right. The Met Gala isn’t just a party; it’s an ultra-guarded rite of passage. And its rulebook is more cloistered than the Vatican’s.

As stars descend the iconic steps this year under the theme “Tailored for You”—a sartorial nod to the Costume Institute’s Superfine: Tailoring Black Style exhibition—most fashion-watchers will be glued to the spectacle of it all: Zendaya’s silhouettes, Rihanna’s inevitable showstopper, whoever dares to wear something weird and wins. But what few see is what happens once the camera flashes fade and the museum doors close. That’s by design.

Anna Wintour, Vogue’s iron-fisted high priestess of the event, has quietly engineered one of the most mystique-drenched nights in pop culture. While rumors that she personally approves every gown are overstated (though probably not far from the truth), Wintour has enforced a clutch of firm, sometimes bizarre rules that make the Met Gala feel more secret society than awards show afterparty.

Phones? Banned. Selfies? Forbidden. Social media? Unless you’re doing it in the bathroom like it’s 2017, you’re out of luck. The goal is not just exclusivity—it’s control. Control over image, over narrative, over who gets to be seen and when. It’s why the real guest list isn’t revealed until the night before, and why even the ultra-famous have to wait for Anna’s blessing.

And then there’s the cost. While the invite might slide into your inbox like a golden ticket, the actual price of entry is steep: a whopping $75,000 per ticket, with tables starting at $350,000. It’s easy to forget that this glitter-drenched gathering is, at its core, a fundraiser—for the Met’s fashion collection, which houses centuries of style. But the price also buys you access to a room where global visibility is guaranteed and reputations are made (or made over) with the flash of a shutter.

Even seating is a calculated move. Expert planner Eaddy Kiernan—basically the Met Gala’s own social Tetris master—works months ahead to plot where each guest will sit, ensuring both photogenic harmony and gossipy intrigue. No accidental exes across the table. No weak conversations. The chemistry is curated, not coincidental.

The night itself includes a cocktail hour, dinner, and a performance that’s as locked down as a Beyoncé setlist. Attendees are allowed to roam the exhibition—this year’s celebration of Black menswear tailoring should provide both cultural weight and avant-garde inspiration—but don’t expect candid TikToks of someone crying in front of a Basquiat. This isn’t that kind of party.

There’s also a hard age cutoff: no one under 18. While some chalked that up to past controversial themes, the real reason seems simpler—this isn’t an event for the naïve. It’s an adult fairytale, where grown-up power plays in couture.

So why do we care so much about the Met Gala? Why does it dominate headlines and social feeds for days? Because it’s the last bastion of curated glamour in a world drowning in overshare. In an age of total transparency, the Met Gala survives by keeping its curtain drawn—and by reminding us that sometimes, the allure is in what we’re not allowed to see.