Art Basel Miami Beach Virgin — Val Lyle

The magic was in the air-I could feel it all the way up to East Ten­nessee where I was mak­ing last minute prepa­ra­tions to go to the “Emer­ald (Art) City” of Mecca, of Baby­lon, of Fable.

I was going to Art Basel Miami Beach.

“That will be the high­est con­cen­tra­tion of ille­gal money in the United States that week­end” my friend in Eng­land states. “Maybe it is most week­ends any­way! You think ille­gal money likes art?” I ask. “It is the tra­di­tional laun­dry of large amounts of funds, my dear” he assures me.

The antic­i­pa­tion grows.

“Is that South Beach-The South Beach?” my male stu­dent work­ers all drop their jaws.

“Pic­tures, please?” they whimper.

Images of deca­dence and scant­ily clad hard bod­ies dance about my brain no mat­ter how I try to focus.
I drove past Miami once on my way to Key West on one of those 18 year-old rites of pas­sage kind of jour­neys, but we didn’t stop. That was 27 years ago in the com­pany of peo­ple I really shouldn’t have been with. I got my first art degree, a BFA at Rin­gling School of Art and Design in Sara­sota, Florida, but that was another life­time as well, 20 years ago.
The weather chan­nel chanted its mantras in the next room while I sorted piles of sum­mer day­wear clothes and evening party attire at 2 am. The ther­mome­ter reads 18 degrees out­side and drop­ping. Is it really 84 degrees there, I mean really-really? Does that feel bet­ter with or with­out sleeves-I can’t remem­ber any­more! Now what were the restric­tions on liq­uids in luggage-Oh for­get it! Just check all that stuff and be done with it.

The real chal­lenge was the party clothes. Would they be wear­ing clas­sic black or softer browns? I was acutely aware that I was going into uncharted ter­ri­tory. There would be unimag­in­ably wealthy peo­ple next to peo­ple who would like to impress them as being knowl­edge­able and trust­wor­thy enough to spend all their money for them. And I would be some­where in between. “I’m going in!” like a James Bond movie. I had scoured the inter­net for pic­tures of last year’s par­ties to see what they were wear­ing; sheers and sheer lay­ers and designer purses dis­played like prized war­rior chee­tah skins draped across their arms. The night before was spent pol­ish­ing both my brown and my black Ghurka purses that had been poached on EBay and match­ing shoes. Not exactly Prada, but pos­si­bly barely pass­able and they were big enough to hold the 5 x 7 photo album of my recent sculptures.

You see, I was leav­ing all my options open for what oppor­tu­ni­ties and adven­tures might arise.