Ten years ago, art was a three letter word in South Florida. Today every enclave worth its sassafras has something akin to culture night. Broward has FAT, Tampa has third friday and so forth. Like sporting events, a focus on the arts is mostly an innocuous distraction, but from what.
One year ago, Wynwood was a food-truck free-zone. Today multitudes of 305'ers munch merry nocturnal contemplating contemporary art once a month. I guess it beats wandering like consumer zombies in the retail malls . Such are the predictable stages of gentrification. I am all for the net plus, just don't expect the neighborhood residents to be as agreeable.
Today as ever, timing and Tiki are everything. On the surface, art relies on the well heeled who are attracted to emerging markets like flies to Chihuli glass. In their leap of faith, those with expendable income gobble up the meats of consensus and toss the spuds under the table, all with the optimism of gains, while the specter of dissolution casts a beguiling shadow shared by all interested parties. The routine is a roulette.
Modern is as modern does. This August has been seasonally over-ripe. What winters are to the north pole, summer is to the swamp. The record-braking heat index makes for some delirious antics. Best to find shade during day, nihilism by night.
Salvador Dali, for all his mustache waxing and mescaline adventures was perhaps the Walt Disney of dementia. In his fascinating world there were no second saturdays or food trucks, there were inner circles of brilliance just like today in Miami. But we are still waiting for a singular pivotal figure, our own gold-plated egg-laying Egret.