Art Basel is that thing where people go to Miami to look at art, but really to get wrecked at a bunch of parties, pass out on the beach, and then blow their deadlines during the weeklong hangover that ensues. Despite having spent my entire quarter-century existence in the sunshine state, I had managed to avoid the allure of trendiness that Basel offers until this year.
After wandering around aimlessly for a bit, I stopped paying any attention to the art in the convention center labyrinth. Everything was arranged like this: nude, something political, something original, Warhol-ripoff, something that resembles a vagina, etc. The zoo of people spending money was much more interesting to look at. Especially the kind who would scoff, “How much? $30,000? Do you accept cash?” as they gave a sip of champagne to their Dolce & Gabbana dressed ankle biter.
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