Dispatch: A week in Miami

I arrived in Miami, my first time in the city and my first time working at Art Basel, when veteran goers of the fair were already saying “it’s over” and “it’s not the same as it used to be.” Still, I was “bright-eyed and bushy-tailed” as my 90-year-old boss described me.

I soon found out that there are really only two types of people when it comes to Miami: the lovers and the haters. I was an immediate lover, for some reason. Swooning over the neon hotel signs, the palm trees covered in Christmas lights, the warm salty air, the sound of the waves crashing on the sand.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t explore much. I was working all day at an air-conditioned convention center where the floors were concrete and I kept getting lost among the 280 gallery booths. I had told myself I’d go see the Scarface hotel and check out a Cuban restaurant my friend recommended, but never got a chance to. Luckily, I got one good swim in as the sun rose. The water was soft. I tried to collect shells and pieces of coral for my sister, but they were all broken up.

My week was a whirlwind of balancing taking care of myself and going with the flow of gallery dinners, followed by museum openings, followed by whatever party was happening next. My second night there, I followed my friend and his entourage of three other people we had collected on the way, to try and get into a 2Chainz concert. After first checking out a party for a magazine at a gay bar (which had its own Miami atmosphere), we Ubered to Soho House. The first bouncer let us in with only two of us on the guest list, but the rest of the night was a ridiculous series of being pushed away from bouncers and security guards only to finally realize we could sneak into the bushes. We arrived at a half-empty tent where 2Chainz was playing his famous “Birthday Song.” Soon after, a DJ took over, and all of our efforts seemed to be simply for the sake of being on the beach on Adirondack chairs. But it was fun and, as I continued to hear about other moments the rest of the week, it was “so Miami.” I somehow managed to work an 8-hour shift, standing at the booth, after about 4 hours of sleep, riding the wave of adrenaline.

That day I was working on little sleep, I distracted myself by going on many breaks, telling my coworkers I was going to the bathroom when instead I was going to check out the art around us. I went to see the LED panel that artists Holly Herndon and Mat Dryhurst had made, artists I’ve admired for their music first. A man next to me, who had also been reading the label on the floor, asked if I knew their work. I said, yes I do, but “what is ‘novelty search’?” I asked him - words written to describe the piece. He didn’t know, but told me he was part of the tech art section of the fair, which was also responsible for those robot dogs (the talk of the town, even in New York.) “They’re around, you know,” he said to me of Mat and Holly. After a few hours, I excitedly ran up to Holly when I saw her bright orange hair from far away. They were both nicer than I could have imagined, and I smiled all day from it.

The next day, the guy who told me about Mat and Holly ran past me, and when I waved hello, he told me to buy a Beeple NFT “they’re only $5000,” he said rushing to supposedly get one, “I highly recommend,” he continued and disappeared into the crowd as I thought to myself, we’re in very different worlds of what it is we choose to spend money on.

My coworkers and I met the director of Art Basel Miami as she was making her rounds. She said “nice to see you” to everyone, instead of “nice to meet you.” I wondered if that was the correct way to say it, at least in the art world.

I spent three days total standing around in the booth, fetching coffee and lunch for my coworkers, so I didn’t get to see everything else happening around me in Miami. There were countless other fairs happening all around the city, and countless events as well. There were sculptures on the beach, including a triangle library surrounded by a pool that I never got to see. But I did get to see people I hadn’t seen in a while, like a former teacher who had really inspired me when I was about twelve years old. I basked in her presence. We cherished and spoke of those good old days.

The days passed by both slowly and quickly. I developed a routine of waking up early enough to see the beach, get a coffee, and take a long walk to the art fair. I passed by strip clubs and stores with T-shirts that said things like “I’m gay” or “stay salty.” I seriously considered buying an “I <3 Miami” shirt but never did. I took a detour around the convention center to have a moment at the Botanic Garden. I appreciated having a few minutes to read the daily print of The Art Newspaper, and then prepared myself when the very European-sounding bell rang and a woman’s voice announced, as if we were in a train station, “Art Basel is now open.” The same announcement rang for the end of the day, “Art Basel is now closed.”

On my last night, I decided to walk alone to Mac’s Club Deuce, the bar that everyone told me about. I didn’t recognize anyone, yet ordered a beer and somehow had the courage to stand alone until I saw someone I knew. It was crowded enough that I could blend in, sip my beer, stand in the cloud of cigarette smoke and pink neon. Suddenly, I saw a gallery assistant I recognized. I gently placed my hand on her back to not startle her, still she was shocked by my cold hand that had been holding my beer, but warmed up to the recognition of me. We spoke for a bit, she introduced me to more people, and then around the corner in the back I spotted an editor I knew. I said, “excuse me I’m going to go say hi to my friend,” left the Gallerinas and pushed my way through the crowd to find the editor. The bar really felt like New York was transplanted in Miami. I was excited to reconnect with the editor that I had been pitching to for a while, but had never successfully placed an article. She’s really nice, just picky. She was only at the Deuce for a minute with her British friend because they were trying to go to a party. My plan had been to swing by the Deuce as well, but to go back to my hotel because I had to get up early for my flight and I wanted enough time to swim again. Yet, I tagged along in her Uber, something I’ve been doing all weekend, because “only in Miami.”

The line at this hotel party was easy, we breezed through the security guest list and were almost invisible to the security guards who were actually focused on kicking someone out who had been too drunk. We got into a crowded room where a DJ was playing boring beats. My editor friend said “We should go to that gay bar Twist instead,” but stayed. I moved around a bit pretending to like the music and then the strobe lights started to worsen my headache, so I left. I said my goodbyes. On my way out of the hotel, I saw the musician The Dare in the hotel lobby, taking selfies with fangirls, when I realized he was the DJ everyone was waiting for. Oh well.

I decided to walk the 20 minutes to my hotel, instead of waiting for yet another Uber. I reflected on the week as I passed by people still in their weeks, having later nights than me. It was 1 am. I started to think that, in contrast to Las Vegas, what happens in Miami actually doesn’t stay in Miami. It gets posted online, written about, shared with the world. I would have seen a lot on social media even if I hadn’t been there, but I’m glad I got the experience.