Tuesday, June 17, 2008

Wynwood Gallery Night June 14

We started the night at Chelsea Galleries, to pay a visit to my dear friend and gallery director Dorothy. Chelsea was exhibiting various artists, one marvelous photographer depicting the sad side of life and others showing persons under sheets that camouflaged and disappeared. But, that was nothing compared to when me and my friend Nicholas Spangler (Herald Writer) went into the little room on the left of the gallery only to find a big nude model woman posing for two artists who sketched her naked sweaty body.

I imagined that the poor undressed model did not last the whole gallery night posing for these two passionate artists, who were exhibiting that night. This was only a treat for those who arrive early to event, just as the champagne and the abundance of Heinekens without having to stand in line.

After experiencing a bit of embarrassment and excitement Nick and I started to do the regular circuit of galleries around 25th. We must thank Belvedere Vodka, which sponsored a large number of galleries that night keeping artists, art watchers, photographers and indie kids happy, very happy. They even gave us a delicious Belvedere drink that contained a piece of pepper and of ginger, which we happily ate.

Fredric Snitzer Gallery was happening more than ever, even though by the time we arrived all wine was gone (Belvedere, where were you?) the split exhibit among various Miami artists was an excellent choice. Anyone you went to see that night was there. Arch-famous artist Naomi Fisher was there looking lovely as always by her two big pictures of the same guy showing his penis. We also saw beautiful singer/dj/performer Oly, if you haven’t seen her playing in one of her Miami gigs, you are missing out. Her fabulous voice and wardrobe combined with the little Asian guy who plays the violin are a killer combination.

The locust Project Gallery, next door, which I did not get to go in because it was closed by that time, a gigantic ass on shinny purple undies was projected on the wall. The ass shook and trembled while we had great conversations among some other reporters and photographers.

“Well, I guess it is time for me to go,” said Herald reporter Trenton Daniel, who somehow is always running somewhere every time I encounter him in social situations of the kind.

I won’t blame you this time my dear Trenton, everything was closing down and people wandered around in the streets looking for a last Belvedere bar or one of the million after parties taking place that night.

We went to have a delicious Andiamo pizza, ten minutes before it closed down. From our table we could hear The Cure coming from somewhere else as we lamented not having gone to the concert that was taking place that same day. It was a little bit on the pricey side, even for The Cure.

Then we finally discovered where those great tunes were coming from. Something new, something fresh, something beautiful. A new Bar/Segafredo located right in front of Andiamo, apparently owned by the same guy, which has swings hanging from tress, tall tables outside and sleek ones inside, and it all came with beautiful people.

We went straight to the swing, where else? We ordered two espressos because the night was young. While we swung up and down and talked about the direct relationship between high school and drugs, our gorgeous French waitress served us good coffee and we left with the satisfaction of having discovered a new secret (not for long) place.

We had to drive to Coconut Grove, I still don’t know why, the poor grove is so dead: Buried under rowdy out-of-state college students and even more annoying tourists. But, it was a friend’s birthday, another Herald reporter Laura Figueroa.

It was a bit tough to accustom our ears and bodies to the terrible dj, who insisted on playing only terribly old hip-hop on the third floor of the ever so beautifully tacky

“When I have millions of dollars from drug trafficking, I will decorate my house just like this,” said Nick as we left the party quietly without saying goodbye to all those drunk reporters.

Time to go to bed. Tomorrow is father’s day.


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