15 Dec Miami and the Futura Falcon
Miami blew by on a dusty warm wind, with scarcely any time to reflect. Some freestyle impressions of the sights and sounds from my five days spent seeing the art fairs…
gas smell from the ’64 Futura Falcon convertible that took us from Fort Lauderdale to Miami. wind in my hair, sun beating down on the top of my head, palm trees on both sides of the highway, the landscape passing in a blur of sex shops, Murphy bed retailers, car dealerships, and swamp grass.
wynwood art district in Miami an untidy sprawl of pastel-coloured, one-storey concrete bunkers, fortified with wrought iron and razor wire. warmth and poverty, visions of Cuba. BBQs on wheels, blackened barrels belching their smokey, meaty wondrous stink out into the warm December air.
impromptu graffiti parties everywhere, murals and tags going up by the dozens (hundreds?) day and night. artistic, odd, macabre, Shepard Fairey, no-names, the reek of marijuana and spray paint. every wall a canvass, every person an artist.
everyone out on the streets, wandering into galleries established and makeshift, looking at art talking about art breathing art. clutching various pamphlets from the fairs big and small, eyes saucer-like from so much art, so many ideas all crowding in through the eyes, nesting, infesting the brain.