South Beach, measuring about 20 blocks by 15 in the prettiest, newest spit-and-polish section of Miami Beach—as opposed toMiami—manifests a surge of building going on that rivals and bests anything seen currently in the Big Apple. Of course, the weather, even in sudden cold snaps such as February 2006, is better for construction all year long, and the projects assigned for the North have to take the freeze and rain or snow into consideration. Hard to work when there’s ice and crystallized gray snow on your girders.
There’s a real estate boom going on in South Beach Miami that is evidenced by the busyness of the port, with container derricks dotting the river shores up and down its sparkly, azure length. Beyond the tourists and the high-ticket branded stores along Lincoln and Collins and the mall upon mall upon mall that have ID’ed South Florida since Hurricane Andrew, gnarly grandpappy of Katrina a tad more than a decade ago, there is a ferment of gentrification –more like evolving pre-gentrification– going on that has furniture stores and lighting shops and high-end prestige imported flooring and the like at the same approximate level ticket as you’d see in Stamford or Great Neck.
Considered “south” of downtown, South Beach, aka ‘America’s Riviera,’ is a whimsical collection of more than 800 architecturally protected buildings from the 1930s and ‘40s that has been given the renovational nod and transformed into a super-chic destination of celebrities and an urban neighborhood of more-eccentric-than-usual residents. Celebs Shaquille O’Neill, Julio Iglesias and Gloria Estefan call nearby Star Island home. (They are, after all, stahs.)
In the early ‘90s South Beach’s tony lifestyle and near-infamous nightlife put it on the map as the destination for late-night soirees attracting fashionistas and scenesters from around the globe. While the party pack cranks ever higher as the area develops, today the locale is also moving into a daylight paradise destination. Boosted by the almost-24/7 balmy climate (time-outs for the occasional cold front or mini-squall reflective of the rough-and-tumble to the North), the rounds of outdoor activities like blading, boarding, shopping, grazing and gallery-hopping make the sunshine hours as entertaining as those after the sun has gone to sleep. As a friend remarked, “On a scale of 1 to 10, I’d say the weather here is about a 12.”
Most interestingly, there’s a perceptible mushrooming of fairly homely condos and renovated industrial 2- to 4-floor squat factory-like structures that fetch in the neighborhood of the cheekier high-rises along the river, about $300K and skyward. And these new places, not by any stretch attractive from the outside, are plonk down in the area called Wynward, a marginal depressed zone where walking slowly as you hunt for the latest SoHo-like art stop is ill-advised. When I ambled without the necessary consciousness once de rigeuer in NYC, but now largely absent since the advent of first Guiliani and now Bloomberg, I was reminded by the circling figures that I was no longer in the embrace of NY’s finest, and if there would be trouble, there would be no local constabulary, no public phones, from which to punch in rescue code 911. As they do up north, gallery denizens observe the tacit law inside, and stand puffing away outside the plain open doorways of virtually every gallery.
A perky Segway or two can be seen in Miami Beach proper, but in this bleak blasted landscape of potential peril, only cars can be seen. Parking is easy, as nothing residential per se scarfs up the spaces and meters—in keeping with the ease of access of most of the amenities in the tip of Florida. Everything seems faster and easier than up north, except the mindset, which produces a bit of frustration one has to work to overcome. A few minutes from anywhere, the traffic does not pose as much of a problem as it does in any of the larger metropoli.
Still, the gallery forest available in the huge flat zone, several miles across, is ideal for biking if one knew where one was going. There are in the past two or so years almost 40 galleries, showing everything from neoclassic Impressionist canvases to contemporary color field and naturalistic works in numerous media, with a healthy selection of strong representative work from South and Central America, worked by many of the artists imported from Mexico. Boutiques that would not be alien to Chelsea are opening, offering up funky marabou feathers on shrugs and stretchy Norma Kamali-type weird elongated shapes on night-dressings; structured, seamed things proliferate like SoHo was the name of the place rather than Miami Beach’s gritty answer to the hip NoHo. The canvases go from a few thou all the way, at the Castillo Gallery of really reputable paintings, close to a million per.
Once a month, all the several dozen galleries throw open their doors, the second Saturday, and connoisseurs can saunter cautiously from space to space, drinking the requisite ghastly red in plastic, nibbling a taco and salsa here, or a surprisingly unexpected sushi chopstick hors d’oeuvres and gordito, delectable chocolate-dipped strawberries there. The company is divertingly attractive. The prices not fearsome, and if a century-mark storm system doesn’t hover, the air until midnight can be sultry and better. Perfect for a spritzer in a plastic cup.
Not too far away, in their own several square blocks, innovative architecture, bling design and lighting emporia dazzle, also staying open for the eye-hungry or furniture-challenged. Most time is spent going from bare gallery boxes to other such boxes, though. Even closing at midnight isn’t enough time to catch the late shows. And during the day, the doors are boarded over with the corrugated iron under-assuming safety coverage you’d expect in after-hours Bangkok honky-tonks. The activity, especially when you are inured to mall-city, is exciting and nourishing. The people are a fresh breeze from the beachside visitors to the ocean-front comestible cafes some miles away. Fact, one noted more exciting and interesting work than in the equivalent galleries up in the oiled art hollows of NYC.
Those prospecting for the up-coming’est trends in art, dimensional or flat, piquenos or muy grandes, sculptural eloquents or Styrofoam embarrassments, even at a shade less pricey than up North, would likely find the scene promising and, if wanted, quickly rewarding.
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