MAM to PAMM, From Humble Beginnings to 100% Ego

This past weekend, I was invited to be present for the Friends and Family preview of the newly erected Perez Art Museum Miami (PAMM) and the museum park mud pit. I visit this museum with much trepidation, of course because I feel that no complete collection of worldly acclaim should have some real estate guy's name on it. That's just me.

The walk into the museum was indeed a muddy one, as the scaffolding still surrounds the entire building and no concrete has been poured yet for walkways from the street, despite the fact that their scheduled opening date is just 2 weeks away. Frankly, I do not think they are anywhere near ready to open to the critical public or any person who does not enjoy a walk in the mud.

For Those in Peril on the Sea, Hew Locke (2011)

Upon entering the building, my friend Pam and I had to traverse an obstacle course of construction materials, winding wooden ramps and waft through skunk-y plumes of pot smoke, with water dripping from the dozens of dirt filled tubes that will no doubt become the hanging gardens. It was seemingly a dangerous trek, so I was very happy to be wearing flats and not heels.

Once we finally entered what I think is the front, heavy wooden doors greeted us and we were invited in by the smell of fresh and new wood, as the wooden floors were not even finished, (and I hope they consider not varnishing them, as they were beautiful as is). A hanging garden-like art installation of boats welcomes us in, drizzling the space with wonderful color and flora and fauna dangling from the boats. I was glad to know this pivotal installation was from Britain/Scotland Artist, Hew Locke, and that it symbolizes the diaspora of people to Miami in boats. Major props to you, Hew!

The Galleries were well cooled, and I was happy to have brought a sweater, being so wet and cold the whole time. The A/C ran through the wooden slatted floor vents placed in front of the art, (inviting a Marilyn-style pose with a skirt eventually), the scent of moisture was throughout the halls and the roof leaked in tiny drops all throughout. It even dripped on us in the little alcove facing the sunset through the scaffolding, which despite the water, was indeed a beautiful sight. 

The space was really, really unfinished and I write this critique with that in mind, and with anxiety for the ones responsible for such a tight deadline. I did enjoy the galleries though. I  especially enjoyed the fiber art and text art spaces, which show a wide representation of the last two centuries, but seem ahead of their time, as if the work was done yesterday. It lent to the newness and freshness that is this museum. 

The museum is being touted as a premiere event space, and that shows in the ego of the design. No bad to Herzog & de Meuron, but this space screams "ego" and "real estate". The hanging gardens, the wide expanses of grey open patio and the sterility of straight lines says "event space". This is no surprise to Miami, whose Art Scene is nothing but a big party anyway. I haven't been to an opening yet that doesn't have people placing wine glasses on pedestals next the art, and that scares me a bit about this collection and the future reputation of Miami Art.

I am looking forward to attending seminars, workshops and lectures, as their lecture hall and its wide expansion is inviting and leads you upward into the buena vista of the bay and the cruise ships entering the port. Beyond this is Weiwei's bicycle installation, which is temporary, but seems as if it was designed for the space and permanently part of it, drawing art into the beautiful view and making it the reason why we are here.

My review is mixed, as I don't think they should open so soon and I fear for the proper preservation of a $40+ million collection.  I am happy to see that some of the museum staff has stuck around from the humble days of MAM, and they seem optimistic, even after describing their work conditions as "prison-like" for the past year.

I also think that with the Miami Voters contributing $100 million in public funds, and Mr. Perez only $40 million, that the name should respectfully reflect that and due to that, I will not contribute any further in membership or donations and have heard that from others.  Its just tacky, and if this museum does not want to be reputed as such on an international level of esteem, they should bring a more sophisticated name to it. I think the names of the galleries should be displayed in sight and not 20 feet high, there shouldn't be drips in the ceiling, and there should be a clear and visible driveway before they even consider bringing in Art Collectors and the like. I see some criticism in the future, but I will be back for more to see how, and if they pull this off.

One in Eight Americans

Eighteen months have passed; a hiatus from writing or feeling the need to share my thoughts in any tangible form; No blogging, no journals, not even letters to friends that never get mailed. I had felt my words grow uninteresting for a while and abstained for the sake of boring others. Today, I finally came to my point of breaking that silence. I feel I have had enough notable WTF moments of late to retroactively chronicle a series of posts that will keep us all laughing, crying, shitting our pants and crying again from sheer shame. This sudden need to burst began earlier this week over a bowl of oatmeal. This was no ordinary bowl of oats. This oatmeal was life-altering!

To begin, I must share that for 9 months prior to this breakfast encounter, my partner and I had been working on a City project without pay and hadn't sold any art for over a year, so skint doesn't begin to describe our situation. Grapes of Wrath is more like it. Our wallets growing thin, us growing thinner, certain bills not paid, things shutting off, no phone, foreclosure of home imminent, and still not a positive word from the City, I began that day driving my car aimlessly; the whole drive with tears staining my face and soaking my chest. With no gas to spare really, my initial intent was to drive into the ocean off of a bridge or find a parking garage tucked away somewhere and put a hose from my tailpipe into the car, to my detriment. Luckily for the possible poor sap that would eventually find my body, that didn't happen and I instead ended up driving to my art studio at the Bakehouse.

At this point, I had not eaten in almost 36 hours. I had entered my studio to a family of tabby cats, glaring hungrily at me with their orange and white faces and little pink noses. I savagely searched the crevices of my cabinets for something to feed them, my own hunger taking a back seat to theirs. What I found was a packet of instant oats, but it was the whole kind with whole flax seeds in it, and the cats really didn't want anything to do with that. So, I decided I should really feed myself and took this bowl of oats into the kitchen of the Bakehouse. I set it on the counter for a moment, as I got distracted and spoke with a friend, then came back to enjoy my humble meal.

My gratitude for this simple food was immeasurable. What was really profound to me though was the realization that occurred when I looked into the bowl and saw that I was eating dozens of boiled ants as a nice little additive to my oats and flax. They likely attacked the bowl when it was on the counter. 

It really did not phase me. In a normal state of mind, I would have felt ill and thrown the bowl immediately into the sink. However, at that moment I kept eating until the last crunchy spoonful. It wasn't during my gracious (and protein-packed) meal that I had felt my epiphany. 

There is a switch that goes off in each of us, if we are ever fortunate enough to know real hunger and real lack. When basic human needs are unmet, the appreciation of things gets redefined. I felt at that moment that the universe was seeing my need for the protein (as I had later spent my evening physically exerting myself in the act of making art). Nothing else mattered and nothing still does. I am breathing, aren't I? I have my hands and feet and they move and do things for me, don't they? I was more in the moment than I ever had been before, and felt wholly enlightened.

When my body and mind grow weary from many challenges, and ants are what I have to eat, even in this land of plenty amidst a venue of prosperous people eating gourmet cheeses and drinking fine wine, I knew at that moment, that I appreciated that bowl of ant oatmeal far more than they do their 16.99/ lb. slice of Gouda. 

In that moment, I was truly free.