Quick: What’s black, white and arty all over? Me in Kore at Perez Art Museum Miami. I spent the afternoon at the museum yesterday enjoying a lovely lunch with Vacheron Constantin, the new luxury watch brand in the Design District. I’ve never been a watch-wearer, but the brand set up an exhibit of timepieces that dated back to the 1800s, and I actually found one that struck a chord with me. It was, of course, dripping in diamonds and had an Art Deco vibe. And instead of a traditional band, it was on satin. What I loved most about it was how it looked and felt more like a beautiful piece of jewelry than a watch. It, and the rest of the display, were amazing. Add in Miami’s perfect February weather, the third-floor balcony and my favorite media mavens and it was a Tuesday for the books.
Afterward, I hit PAMM’s giant bubble for a few shots. If ever Miami had a perfect backdrop for bloggers, this is it. I’ve had an ongoing love affair with PAMM now for years. I’ve been on the steering committee for some time and a member of the contemporaries, too. And I was absolutely honored to host the after party for the gala a few weeks back. I believe in what the museum is doing. It’s a spectacular space and the art is inspiring, to say the least. I try to hit up the museum at least once a month to see the latest.
The last afternoon I spent there was the polar opposite of yesterday. In fact, it was a dark and stormy Sunday—the perfect afternoon to spend art-ing. I went with my partner in crime, our first outing to a museum together. Turns out, we’re both “touchers,” meaning we have to resist the urge to reach out and touch the art. Clearly, the security staff knows how to spot our kind from miles away, as he loomed in our shadows, making sure we kept our hands to ourselves. (Note, I would never intentionally touch art, but man, the struggle is real.)
We spent a great deal of time at Geoffrey Farmer’s Let’s Make the Water Turn Black, which we were lured into by a quirky security guard who coaxed us into the space. He couldn’t wait to show us a disappearing penguin (just go with it) and we were convinced he was as much a part of the exhibit as the exhibit itself, which, by the way, is unlike anything I’d seen before.
The real reason for our trip, however, was to take in Beatriz Milhazes‘ work, which was stunning. Color, shape, size—it’s all there. A visual carnival of imagination thrown onto canvas to inspire those who stand before it. If this were the only art hanging on the museum’s walls, it was well worth the trip. Turns out, however, the rest is an epic bonus.
And then it happened. The story that sent us running through the museum both horrified and hysterical. As we entered the portion of the museum where the beautiful neon sun glows, we came upon a stand stacked with newspapers. We reached for a paper, opened it and BAM. It occurred to both of us in that same moment that what we had mistaken for a newspaper was in fact a piece of art. OH MY GOD, WE HAD JUST TOUCHED ART. Upon the terrifying realization, we placed the paper back on the stand and took off through the museum, mortified, laughing and snorting, tears of hysterics rolling down our faces. The touchers had touched art—unintentionally, of course. Realizing our foible, we made a quick exit and ducked back into the rainy Sunday from which we came, our hands dirty with the sin of art touching and fearful we’d just been added to a “kill list” for those who had made this same grave mistake. It happens, I suppose. I’m sure the art world would turn in its grave knowing I just admitted this. It’s not something you want to own up to. Culturally embarrassing, shall we say? But I’ve learned a valuable lesson to keep my hands in my pockets from now on at the museum, or any museum for that matter, because art’s gravitational pull toward my fingertips is something I apparently cannot resist—consciously or subconsciously. So now to answer the question: Was it worth it to touch the art? No. In fact, I now refuse to touch anything in a museum for the sheer and utter fear that it, too, may be art.