By Victor Reznik
There’s no better way to re-create than to destroy, and there’s no better way to figure out what’s right than by doing something wrong.
The indigenous culture of young artists in Miami maintains a strong front, but when push comes to shove, the infrastructure to produce projects year round, or to fund an industry at all, is completely lacking. The artistic brain drain decimates the community of local talent here. The invasion of Art Basel, the convention itself, the fairs, tents, and the on-going circus caravan that accompanied it made all the locals a bit jittery—like if the contestants on Flavor of Love were told to eat each other. When Basel first came to Miami it was a buying frenzy. Artists and gallery owners made skyrocketing profits from compulsory sales fueled by booze and “beautiful people.” This year was slow; the economy was bad. The disillusion of hope without change was sinking in among the young artists, and the realities of double digit unemployment rates still lingered.
When I came back to New York everyone wanted to know about the “indie stuff”. I don’t know what that means anymore.
Luke popped the Tacoma over a curb and rode into an abandoned lot that had been appropriated by young entrepreneurs.
“Ten to park,” the man with denim shorts and timberland boots barked at Luke.
“I’ll give you five man, ain’t nobody own this land!”
The hustle began, “Boy it’s not about me, if the boss comes and the count wrong, I get in trouble, feel me?”
This might have been true, and I was tired.
I gave the young “employee” the ten dollars and Luke gave me the type of sideways glance a little brother gets when he’s about to stumble into advice.
“Man everything here is a hustle. I become addicted to it, especially after launching Borscht. Nobody will give you anything here, they’ll try and get as much as possible though.”
On the way into the club a man on a bike came up to us with two lime green wrist bands in his hand, “they’re selling at the door for $30 I’ll give you two for $10.”
There was no cover at the door.
Miami’s skyline is low to the ground to protect against hurricanes. The landscape is like a pastiche of flat rectangular warehouses. I saw a young woman at a bar, wearing heels riding on a skateboard. That didn’t last long. I watched as she fell flat on her face. This didn’t compromise her standing with dudes wearing fedoras and tweed jackets as I spotted her making out with a guy that fit that description.
Everywhere we went Luke would run into someone he knew, every bar or fair he would find someone he recognized or had worked with. On this night Luke introduced me to a Bolivian friend of his who was part owner of a gallery in the design district. The tallest Bolivian I had ever seen, mind you (and I have been to Bolivia). The Bolivian was standing with an Aussie and an American both sporty and charming. The Bolivian’s friends worked for the Knight Foundation, an influential non-profit that signs big checks for community projects. The Aussie had his shit together, he was the kind of guy who could steal your girlfriend and you’d have to forgive him. The Knight Foundation is the chief donor of funds to the Miami Cinema Center. Neither of these organizations produces any art, but they act as gatekeepers to funds that produce independent cinema in Miami.
The Aussie knew the Borscht festival and seemed proud of it, even, down-right-giddy at times, asking questions that revealed his appreciation for what he had attended. I imagine this would be the type of reaction a De Medici would give before bestowing patronage on some young swordsman who could wield a paintbrush too. What was lost on the Australian, is the fact that two weeks after that conversation took place nearly every member of the collective that brought that festival night to fruition would be in self imposed exile working in a market that couldn’t offer to pay them enough to move out of their parents house. I began to wonder how Luke felt about all of this?
I lost my sensitivity to what I was seeing after the second day, it seemed like the whole city was experiencing a collective hangover. Excess in every sense, the shock of too many people, too many vehicles, too many egos, too many hustles, too many drugs, too many artists, too many stories, too many ways to get robbed, too many ways to get rich, too many ways to get laid, too many judgments, too many Benz’s and too many Beanies for eighty five degree weather!
We stopped to get burritos before I flew out. I don’t remember the name of the place, but it was in a freshly hardscaped strip mall, the rows of cooks hurriedly assembled fish tacos. The spot was in an identity crisis, Luke said, “This place wishes it was the mexican P.F. Changs”. An independently operated business supporting the local community that consciously tried to model itself after corporate restaurants. As we waited in line that stretched to the street the skies opened up, and a dark inky rain drowned us without any protection. I didn’t know if my flight would take off. I asked Luke if he could ever be a successful film maker without being rich, he told me, “not selling out is ridiculous, that money is there, if I’m not going to take it someone else would be happy to.”
