Barbidoesmiami

How to Stay Sane in the City of No Shame


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Is it Me?

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I’ve been a bit blue.

And I haven’t been very nice.

The agent of our house texted me this – you aren’t being very nice – after I asked him whether he leaves his car running in his driveway overnight. He had just told me that the AC is like my car and if I don’t keep it running all the time it breaks. (The AC had broken.)

Then a friend asked in an e-mail if I was OK, because I wasn’t usually like this. This was after I got upset that a book launch party for the latest book I’d created had been planned when I’m elsewhere (she’d also described me to the party planner as “the … wife”).  I answered that, yes, I am usually like this – Barbara de Vries, the designer and producer, who would like to attend the book’s party. She wrote back that she didn’t need my resume. Then she asked me if I was OK.

There were two other friends in the last month who didn’t like my reaction to, what I perceived as, their unsupportive behavior.

When it adds up to four in four weeks, that’s one a week, maybe I need to take a look at myself. Maybe I’m really not usually like this. Maybe I’m usually like whatever. Like happy. Like smiling. Like loving. Maybe I’m becoming different from how I’m perceived or maybe I’m really not very nice. Maybe I have just been pretending that I’m nice. Maybe I just want to be liked, but in the end I’m not likable at all. And so it goes in my head. And thus I’m a bit blue.

 I think I’m blue because, by thinking all those thoughts, I’m not being supportive of myself. And then my Dutch Calvinist voice says, who gives a fuck what you think of yourself, stop being indulgent.

 I’m gonna ignore him for a minute. Because I’m on to something. As a mother and a wife and a partner in our studio, I expect from myself that I’m 100% supportive in all those roles. I support my daughters and my husband emotionally, physically and nutrionally. I support the company creatively and intellectually. I expect from myself that I can solve everyone’s problems as well as make the oceans free from plastic pollution.

But I’ve forgotten about leaving just a tiny bit of support for myself. And maybe thats where it all starts. But what does this support look like? There are women who go shopping, have their hair and nails done, have massages and meditate as part of their inner support system. I actually get irritable doing these things. Some take vacations or go running. I like swimming, but not really yoga, although I should do it. It would be very supportive if I could get into yoga and also self -hypnotizing. Like just an hour a day. I love being with a bestie girlfriend, talking women’s stuff, hanging in the knowledge that I’m not so unique in trying to do it all and getting pissy in the process. Sometimes we bitch about the women in our lives who are not supportive of other women. Even the press picked up on that concept after Hillary lost.

 “It’s all because white women do not support each other.”

 I can go there…

 But maybe I should support myself first.

 Maybe we should all support ourselves first.

 And we’d all be a bit nicer…

… to each other.

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Here is an excerpt from Stupid Model when at age 17, I first came across a misconception and the surprise of the unsupportive female:

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STUPID MODEL – Chapter 18

He led me to a softly lit room that smelled of baby powder, diapers, and milk. The windows were open and gauze curtains blew gently in the warm evening air. The drone of steady traffic drifted up from the boulevard below. Collin’s wife sat on a narrow bed next to a sleeping boy. She held out her hand and whispered, “I’m Heather, how do you do? Collin told me so much about you.”

She was not at all as I’d imagined. She was pale with small features and her dark, almost black hair was cut in a Vidal Sassoon bob that made her look a bit intimidating. She gave me a quick smile before she turned to Collin and asked if he could bring her a glass of that delicious-looking Champagne we were both drinking. Her eyes flashed brightly with something I couldn’t quite place. Was it defiance? Sarcasm? Or some inside joke she shared with her husband?

“I heard a lot about you too.” I reached to shake her hand.

I was a bit afraid of Heather and I didn’t say much over dinner. Instead I ate my chicken, mashers and green beans, drank Champagne and red wine, and listened to them chat about his work and her day with the kids. When she told him that she’d been approached by the Herald Tribune to produce a reportage piece with photographer Martine Franck, I took the opportunity to tell them that I’d been booked for my first couture show.

“It’s kinda why I brought the Champagne.”

“Well, cheers to us,” Heather said raising her empty glass at Collin, showing him that she needed another drink.

It didn’t dawn on me till later that Heather’s job offer may have been a really big deal, and that maybe I’d stolen her thunder, especially when Collin reacted by bringing a second bottle of Champagne from the kitchen and I was left at the table with Heather. After an awkward silence she said, “So, do you enjoy this business of fashion?”

It was an odd question. I hadn’t expected her to be so, well, I’d hoped for another kind of conversation, like where are you from, oh, I love Amsterdam, what does your father do? Do you have brothers and sisters? Instead I felt that she’d put me on the spot and I’d better have the right answer.

“I like the travel,” I said, “and the freedom, and it pays good money when I finally get to work…”

“Sure, but that’s not what I meant.” She sounded annoyed. ”Do you feel that it’s a good industry to be part of?”

I didn’t get what she was driving at, and sensed that she was ready to be mad at me. Luckily, Collin returned with the Champagne and three bowls of chocolate mousse.

“Never mind her,” he said, “she’s into women’s lib nowadays, and gets quite passionate.”

I wished he hadn’t said this. It was nice of him to put her question in perspective, but I just knew that it would piss her off.

“Wow,” she said. “What a put down! I just want to find out if Bee is aware that she’s being exploited by a system that objectifies women into sex symbols.”

“I know what you mean,” I blurted out, as if I finally understood the right answer. “And I agree, modeling is shitty that way, like today we all had to strip for a creep. But I’m going to study design as soon as I’ve earned enough money for college… in London.”

Heather glared at me like I’d made things worse, which made my head swim, or maybe that was the entire glass of Champagne I’d nervously finished in one big gulp.

“I don’t mean that YOU are the victim!” she said, now fuming. “I mean that you’re responsible, in the same way that if men didn’t volunteer to be soldiers there’d be no war! Without models women could be happier with themselves—their looks, their bodies—gettit?!”

“I make women unhappy?” I was stunned. How could she accuse me like that? She didn’t even know me.

“Heather, STOP!” Collin said. ”Skinny girls have feelings too!”

“You shut up,” she shouted back. She filled her glass with the remaining Champagne and drank it all.

“You and your fucking ads that are designed to manipulate and make us insecure. This bra for sexier tits, that cream for younger skin, this diet margarine to get thin… you make me sick.”

Shit, she really was drunk! I knew what she was trying to say. My mother was becoming a feminist, and I totally wanted to be an independent woman, but Heather was so mad at Collin, the only person in all of Paris who’d been kind to me. I wanted to defend him, but Collin spoke first.

“My job pays for this nice apartment, and your principles don’t seem to stop you from living here.”

“If I could work, instead of being the unpaid nanny, I wouldn’t be living here.”

I got up and took our dishes to the kitchen. This wasn’t my fight and maybe if I left them alone they’d stop. But Heather wasn’t finished. Once I was out of the room, she ripped into Collin loud enough for me to hear.

“ What the fuck did you bring her here for? Do you fancy her? Are you screwing her?”

“Please,” he begged. ”Don’t you get it? I thought you two could be friends. You seem lonely and blame me. Bee is lonely too. You need some friends here, Heather.”

“With her?” she screamed, like I was Linda Lovelace herself. “That self-centered, dumb creature? Don’t you know me at all?”

What the fuck now? Ever since I’d left home, ever since I’d been here, women had become the enemy; no, I had become the enemy to other women, and I didn’t have to do a thing to deserve it. Just being a model and tall and skinny seemed to be all it took to receive blanket coverage for abuse. Had I missed some critical clues growing up? Like my mother’s best friend who had no problem screwing and stealing my mom’s husband? Had that been a warning sign? And was advertising really so different in Holland? I couldn’t remember ever feeling offended or unhappy with myself because of some ad. The popular girls in school were the only thing that made me miserable and I always thought that was my own fault, because I wasn’t cool enough. But now they hated me for seeming too cool. Or whatever it was. When did this change? I needed my mother. She’d help me out. She was so attractive herself and I’d never heard her bitch about any of her friends, she was even grateful to her friend for taking her difficult husband off her hands and getting her independence back. Perhaps Dutch women were just different.

I finished cleaning the dishes and left them by the sink to dry. It was quiet and I wondered if Collin had split and Heather had gone to bed. The door to the dining room was ajar and I peeked inside. It was empty, one of the chairs had fallen over and our napkins were scattered on the floor. As I withdrew I heard muffled giggling and I pushed the door open just a bit further. I wasn’t exactly planning to say goodbye and thank you for a lovely evening, but maybe I expected a friendly word from them, like thanks for bringing Champagne and doing the dishes, or sorry for being such assholes.

What I hadn’t expected was seeing the two of them on the floor, screwing. Collin was on top with his pants halfway down his legs, his dimply ass staring me right in the face like a final farewell.

On my way out I noticed the bunch of lavender and my two prettily wrapped presents, still lying where Collin had left them on the hallway counter. I scooped them up and carefully placed them on the antique chair by the door, where the kids were bound to see them in the morning. The dried flowers I kept for myself as a souvenir of Heather and her belief that girls like me made her unhappy. Whenever I got a whiff of lavender after that memorable night, I felt grateful that, soon after, my time in Paris had come to an abrupt end.

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Beyond Miami Beach…

As Advised by Great White Dog

I find myself annoyed. Am I annoyed with Miami? After eight years of living here?

Much has happened in that time. We lived here during Obama’s his entire presidency. When we arrived there were many unspoken agreements that had shaped the local culture over the twenty preceding years, from the wild-west eighties until the crash of 2009. “As long as we are having fun” was one of them. Being serious was boring. I was called a Debbie Downer at a dinner party, when I talked about water in the streets as a result of climate change (that BTW, had made every guest late for the party). Don’t get me wrong, I like having fun, but my idea of fun is  different from dressing in skimpy but expensive designer clothes, drinking outrageous cocktails, clamoring around celebs and music so intense that the only possible interaction is taking selfies with your “friends” (while hoping for one with that star).

Yes guilty, my initial blogs were all about those parties. As an outlet for my culture shock. And, after years of working in NYC and living in Milford, PA with small children, these parties were so alien, so different and took me so far outside myself, that it felt like something I needed, in the way that getting really drunk sometimes feels like a healthy dose of vitamin C. It wore off fast, the so-called glamorous lifestyle, one that I had always walked away from, in Amsterdam, Paris, London and New York. It just isn’t me. I like to drive myself hard and if I don’t accomplish stuff I set out to do, I get depressed. I do not dream of retiring, shopping and sitting by the pool for the rest of my life. I need to be heard and seen and not for gossip and what I wear. So when the party dust settled I got to work on being relevant in Miami, no matter what it took.

It took a lot… I gave it my best… I feel depleted… I can’t say I have exactly conquered and I’m kind of over trying (… plus I’m getting shit done in other parts of the world).

And yes, I realize it’s not all about me and I’m not alone. Three months into 2017 and this worn-out feeling is a national depression. Up and down the East and West Coast we aspired to be part of a wave of hope that Obama brought with him. One that I saw as a way to change and save Miami, with talks of rising sea-levels, an ocean full of plastic, recycling and up-cycling, the right for all kids to an inspired public education such as DASH, affordable housing instead of 20% occupancy in condos and private homes worth billions on Miami Beach, air-conditioned year-around.

But if it felt like I was swimming against the stream over the past eight years,  I am now swimming into a Tsunami. Will the already lavish parties get even bigger and crazier as the 1% feels empowered, emboldened in their greed and need to flaunt it, with Miami Beach as the perfect stage for competitive one-percenting? Living less than a mile from Sunny Isles, with its six Trump Towers, and the highest concentration of Russian investments in recent years, Russia’s unabashed imperialism is palpable. And after the cuts to environmental protection, the NEA, healthcare, public transportation, education, housing and human and women’s rights, what will happen to the other group, the full-time residents and working class whose statistics show that Miami’s income disparity is one of the largest in the country?

Yet it is all about me. Also. About what I can give and do and how I will spend the next twenty years of my life optimizing who I am, what I have learned and how I can reflect this back on generations to come. In another year the twins will leave for college. I will be free from the school calendar, driving and feeding and other hands-on mothering. I look at them, and how they act and feel, and I remember being seventeen and practically jumping out of my own skin with impatience, anger even at being told what to do by teachers, parents, the system. The nervous restlessness that I now recognize for what it is in my girls – their booster engines filled with ambition for their future and need for autonomy, propelling them forward. As I see this in my daughters I recognize it in myself, four decades older than they are, but the impulse is the same, I am getting ready for another shift.

So I am annoyed at Miami. Or I am just annoyed. I am practically jumping out of my skin with irritation at the status quo, and like a very old teenager I’m going to use this urge to amp it up some and get more shit done…

(But maybe not in Miami).

 

Links to projects elsewhere:

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WOMAN – OCTOBER – 2016

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I am different this month. And if I am different then millions of women are different this month. I am one of many and I am never alone. I am woman and I am different this month.

I am different because two weeks ago the Milford Readers and Writers festival happened. It happened in the town I love and I was one of the organizers. I am different because I listened to Gloria Steinem, up on the stage and in front of the logo I had designed. I am different because my long-in-the-works book, Stupid Model, was published and I sold fifty copies over three days. I am different because I was doing it with all with my friends. I am different because for those few days I felt centered and within myself.

I read a passage from my book to a room full of women and they laughed and applauded. They heard me and we connected. This changed me. Then it was over, my old and new friends went home, I tidied up the house and I too went home, leaving my home behind.

I am different now from who I was then. And I am different from who I was in September.

Together with millions of others I am restless. I am anxious. I am provoked. I am angry and I want the world to be different.

Is it true that change brings up everything unlike itself?

Together with an entire generation (or two) of women I have been forced to remember things that I had forgotten. Or had marginalized. Things that became threads woven into the fabric that made me into who I am today. Those small things that grab us and make us a little less proud. A little less confident. A little less…

I always fought when they happened. After being a scared, weepy child I stood up for myself when I walked away from my youth at age seventeen. To Paris where I fought the men who groped me on the Metro, followed me in the street clucking and whistling, took me to dinner stroking my thigh under the table while talking business with colleagues above the white linen, silver, china and crystal. I fought the photographers who demeaned me over and over and, on my last day, I physically attacked the ultimate misogynist, a famous couturier who had me thrown out of Paris.

Illustration from Stupid Model in Paris and Down Under

from Stupid Model in Paris and Down Under

Perhaps I fought because my mother fought. Fought her own demons. From the German soldiers who had controlled her town and her family when she was a teenager, the ghost of my father who drove his car into a tree and left her alone with me, a two-year-old babe, to my stepfather who was controlling and abusive and after fifteen years absconded with one of her younger friends.

I fought because those were the days that we “fought back”. A clinched fist was our symbol. Don’t fuck with us. But who were we kidding? When you could not be anywhere alone without at least one man grabbing you wherever he liked, metaphorically and physically.

I fought my way to success. I was ambitious they said, like a dirty word, dirtier than pussy and grab. Subconsciously, I learned to use sexism in a game of exchange that couldn’t be won. Like fake promises it never delivered that moment of pure achievement, because in the shadows there was always a baritone boasting – you’d be nothing if it wasn’t for me, and I can undo you.

October 2016. Women. What the fuck?

Did we really think it would come easy?

Just as it seems within reach we have to conquer our past and slay our ultimate dragon and not just metaphorically. He’s real and he looms, lies, interrupts, gropes, intimidates, demeans and threatens. Bitch is only one letter away from Witch, the she-devil, burn her at the stake, whipped into a frenzy the fearful-of-change masses promise to end her, cheering…

Change brings up everything unlike itself.

(I wonder if my daughters look at my rage the same way I look at my husband when he loses his shit in the car at the guy who just cut him off.)

It may not seem like it to the next generation, and it may not feel like it to us right now, but we have come a long way. And when Hillary is president our daughters will soon take it for granted and move on. That’s what change does: it sets the stage for more change, and they have plenty to do.

And we will have some laurels to rest on. Hopefully we can finally forget what we are feeling now, in October 2016, the fear that he can undo us. But remembering and standing together and visualizing holding hands with all women everywhere, yes, also the ones who wear T-shirts that say He Can Grab This >, we will undo him and finally allow ourselves to feel that sense of pure achievement.

LINK to STUPID MODEL:

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Waiting for Obama

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EARTH DAY IN THE EVERGLADES

“The miracle of light pours over the green and brown expanse of saw grass and of water, shining and slowly moving, the grass and water that is the meaning and the central fact of the Everglades. It is a river of grass.” – Marjorie Stoneman Douglas

President Obama spent Earth Day in the Florida Everglades, flying in the face of global warming denier Governor Rick Scott (R) and his mandate that bans the word “climate change” from the Tallahassee government dictionary.

After two hours of waiting in the heat, humidity, bugged by flies and the stench of porta-potties, the program announcer must’ve been as dopey as I was and his nonchalant introduction came after Obama had already stepped onto the freshly-cut grass. Mentally unprepared for the skinny man who casually crossed the lawn as if he was on his way to a neighbor’s picnic, I was almost disappointed, but as soon as he got behind the Presidential insignia Obama appeared to expand into his presidential stature and gave a strong speech that was full of sound bytes designed to create ripples (but not storms) in tea party cups. When the president said: “climate change can no longer be denied. It can’t be edited out. It can’t be omitted from the conversation,” it was clear who he was targeting, and he continued to speak specifically to Florida: “because in places like this, folks don’t have time, we don’t have time — you do not have time to deny the effects of climate change. Folks are already busy dealing with it. And nowhere is it going to have a bigger impact than here in south Florida. No place else.”

Day flight on Air Force One tomorrow with the President. We’re going to # ActOnClimate.” He was instantly torn apart by retweets that called his plans “more like a way to pollute in style.” But what could he do? Nye was Obama’s personal scientist and warm-up act, providing that selfie-with-star moment for the hardworking officials, to which Nye submitted himself with all the blasé enthusiasm of a modern-day celebrity.  read the rest of the article here

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Biebered

Everything happens in Miami. Just as I’m not looking. Like last night Justin Bieber drag raced below my bedroom window (relatively speaking on the scale and probability of the entire universe, so don’t start outing me with comments that it was several blocks south).

He was nabbed by the Miami Beach police and resisted arrest. They say. But thats what they always say. If you’re not falling into their arms yodeling that you’re sorry, they write on your arrest form that you “resisted arrest.” Hey Bieber was lucky that they didn’t tase him with their favorite gotcha toy ( used on young males of any color, tourists included).

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This happened at 4.13 am (note the 13 and not 10 or 15, that’s one sober cop) and by the time America brushed its teeth and poured its milk into its cereal a mega media story had been launched.

Baby Bieber’s mugshot was on every TV channel, every tweet, FB post looking like someone had told him it was a shoot for Teen.com, or better still a casting call for a cute new lesbian on Orange is the New Black. Smile! And hysterical news casters (inc. the likes of Anderson Cooper) came in their panties analyzing what could possibly have led to the downfall of the young role model to millions. Psychiatrists, lawyers, political analysts and weeping fans were interviewed and their conclusion was, with much head shaking: Bieber suffered from “Impostor Syndrome” and it was merely a cry for help! And where were the Bieber parents? Really, and how could they let this happen?

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Meanwhile Bieber sat in his cell (surrounded by Miami clubbers arrested at LIV for trying to enter the VIP zone) and wondered where his friend God was. After all the credit he’d given to God for his success, tagging him in every tweet, had God really forsaken him in his hour of need? His much needed need to act his age and gender and be invisible while racing a rented Lamborghini on Miami Beach, while just a tiny teensy bit intoxicated?

God? God!

I bet God didn’t even notice. I mean as soon as God focusses his attention on Miami Beach, like sits on a cloud somewhere over South Florida, he sees nothing but yellow (or red) Lamborghinis driving @ 60mph. And when he bothers to zoom in (think Google Earth or Godle Earth),  he sees young testosterone pumped up with performance enhancers like alcohol, codeine and pot (he calls it marijuana, and planted it as an afterthought late on day six, and only for medicinal value) and too much time and money, everywhere.  Like Everywhere. Especially at 4.13 am.

So I imagine God shrugged, made a mental note to send the Devil a text later, asking him to go easy on the young Bieb, and turned his attention back to Chris Christie.

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Meanwhile, we, those who live in Miami Beach, smile and shrug the shrug of knowledge. Like man eats man’s face off? Like tasing a teen artist to death for tagging graffiti? Like a celebrity arrested for acting out? Of course! What do you expect? This is Miami!

And when I drove home last night, yes along Pinetree Drive enjoying its 15 minutes of fame (paparazzi are still hanging out – you know, for when time goes backwards and they’re the first on the scene), I looked over at the trophy wife in a black SUV right next on me. As per habit we stepped on it, raced for the orange light at 41st Street, speedometers hitting the 56mph mark, and made it, perfectly timed, just through red.

What?

What do you expect? This is Miami!

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Stupid Model in Paris is now available on Amazon :

http://www.amazon.com/STUPID-MODEL-Paris-Barbara-Vries-ebook/dp/B00HZ1GH8Q/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1390686886&sr=1-1&keywords=stupid+model+in+paris

 


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Don’t Tase the Messenger

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photo: Heather Bozzone

If Channing Tatum is the poster child for Abercrombie then Israel Hernandez is the poster child for Miami Beach.

Israel was handsome, young, beachy (see above far left), worked in the fashion/model biz, a boarder, an artist and an entrepreneur who was launching a line of skate boards. He was only 18 years old when he was tased and killed by Miami Beach police. He still wore braces.

photo: Heather Bozzone

photo: Heather Bozzone

Miami has been working hard on re-branding its image over the past few years.

It introduced Art Basel Miami and Design Miami to give the city a hipper, cooler, younger image and get away from its drug violence, retiree, Cage aux Folles party image of the nineties. Starchitects have been brought in to build international press-worthy public buildings like the New World Symphony by Frank Gehry, 1111 Lincoln and the PAMM ( Art Museum Miami) by Herzog deMeuron, and  several more headline grabbing buildings  by Zaha Hadid, Rem Koolhaas and Richard Meyers are in various stages of construction.

Part of this revamp has been the creation of two different creative districts; the Design District and Wynwood. During Art Basel Miami these are the two “new” areas of Miami where millions are spent on international publicity. Wynwood is the  area that is brought to the international travel market for its “world class galleries that represent young local artists.”  To illustrate this the city and property owners, inspired by the success of Keith Haring in eighties Soho, “give” abandoned and other buildings over to graffiti artists to use as large and free canvasses to express themselves fully and freely. These buildings look like abandoned warehouses somewhere near Detroit airport before, and a lot more interesting after they have been made over with multicolored spray cans in the hands of aspiring Banksys.

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Wynwood as a celebration of local graffiti talent is a must see destination  headlines scream all over the world in their travel copy on Miami.

Even in the luxury branded Design District the main investor and developer of the area, Louis Vuitton, brought in graffiti artist Retna to express his art on their facade, which opened with all the champagne and red carpet A-listers that are expected from Miami and this French luxury brand.

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Shepard Fairey, he of Obama poster fame, did many walls at Wynwood’s Central block – The Wynwood Walls. When a Banksy mural  was stolen from a London neighborhood it predictably showed up, all thousands of pounds of concrete, at a Miami art auction house.

Are you getting my drift?

Miami is touting its graffitied walls  like they are the fucking Eiffel Tower of the American south!

So.

Where does that leave young, ambitious Miami artists?

Guess what platform, canvas, form of expression, medium, they use….

Guess who encourages them to do so by GIVING them walls, by rewarding them with money and fame, by honoring art school students with Awards of Excellence and Most Promising?

The City of Miami and its developer buddies!

And guess who did not get the memo….

Their own pumped-up police department!

So.

Lets get back to Israel Hernandez. Beautiful, talented, ambitious, kind, young and a bit naive,  willing to please in order to succeed Israel Hernandez. He was trying to be everything we, parents, expect our kids to be. Everything the creative culture tells our kids to be. Including just a little bit reckless. A little bit on the edge. A little bit challenging.

Israel Hernandez tagged an abandoned Mc Donalds on the corner of 71st and Collins. I know it well. Its next to my local ATM machine. It has been graffitied and tagged and vandalized over the past year. He left a small R for his street name Reefa.

The Miami Beach Police caught up with him and tased him. He died soon after.

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Our culture needs kids like Israel Hernandez. We need them to remind us what it is to be young. To make a difference. To be noticed. Did we not all at some point stand up to authority and held the mirror in its face?

Come on Miami, look in this mirror now, and take responsibility for the life of this young and promising young man. Miami YOU set the bar. You held up the carrot. You cast the die by glorifying graffiti and its artists. So why keep quiet now, when your own police tases and kills your messenger? The messenger you recruited and sent out there… the messenger you need to send your new cool brand identity out into the world.

Come on Craig Robins,  Matti Herrera Bower, Robert Wennet, Goldman Properties, Carlos Gimenez, Jorge Perez, etc. Do the right thing. Speak up, speak out. Get the memo of your plans for Miami’s global marketing out to everyone, including the MBPD. Start an art endowment in Israel’s name…

Do what it takes to recognize Israel as a child of your own….

Link to video with interviews with two eyewitnesses

art for Slap by Jane Simmons

art for Slap by Jane Simmons

‪#‎ripreefa‬   #‎justiceforisraelhernandez‬ 

Footage of protest/rally on Saturday August 10th from 1-5 at 71st & Collins.


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Miami Beach Stands its Ground

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This week Florida is the new Texas. The state Americans love to hate. But what does that make Miami?

Two pieces of Miami Beach news came across my ticker this morning. First the announcement that architect Rem Koolhaas has won the competition for the redesign of the Miami Beach convention center and the other from the City Commissioner, apologizing for the fact that Miami is indeed becoming part of the Atlantic Ocean.

This from the mayor’s office:

I want to let you know that I am working side by side with City Departments to resolve the serious flooding issues that Miami Beach is experiencing … flooded areas, stalled vehicles, flooding at private residences, flooding in construction areas…  the Public Works Department has been troubleshooting pump station operations, clearing of inlets and outfalls, efficient operation of the stormwater systems including  two vacuum trucks working to address stormwater and sewer backups… a Taskforce will see how we can respond better to these flooding situations. ..Do we need more vacuum trucks? This is the type of question that we need to examine… I believe that working together as a community and a collaborative effort we can be better prepared.  

How heartening that the City pledges to Stand its Ground with a neighborhood-watch task force against rising water levels.

“Get out of our hood or I’ll suck and shoot you right back to where yo came from with the super spout of my shiny big vacuum truck.”

COOL!

Bring it on!

And bring on the new 600 million convention center a mere two blocks from the big blue intruder.

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Did they pick Rem Koolhaas because he’s Dutch? After all the  Dutch have been defying water for centuries, building above ground cities below sea level on 30% of their country. Or did they pick him for his celebrity status, this starchitect of all architects?

It was Miami Beach developer Robert Wennett who introduced  OMA (The name of Koolhaas’ firm) to the Beach Convention Center project.

Wennet, a Miami native, is no stranger to complete make-overs. Local lore has it that he, pudgy and ordinary looking, disappeared from the Miami scene for “several years” only to reappear one Halloween night in the guise of an impeccable Marilyn Monroe and anonymously claimed the first prize at Tui Prakech’s famous bi-annual Halloween party.

Next he gave Lincoln Road a make-over by hiring architects Herzog deMeuron to create the 1111 plaza, stores and parking garage that give Lincoln Road renewed urban gravitas. Wennet himself perches in his uber nest atop the garage and swoops down into the plaza with all the flamboyant superiority of a Batman nemesis.

While Wennet may be in it for the prize, Koolhaas is never accused of anything other than pragmatic idealism. During a recent presentation at the Colony Theater he left his Miami audience wondering if he even wanted the job. He did not pitch, he did not try to endear himself, he did not flatter, he simply stated the fact that Miami Beach is an “interesting hybrid” as a beach resort and real city. When questioned he was critical of American culture, and showed little faith whether the IQ of the local population could match his proposed plan.

However…

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“Miami, as we know it today, is doomed,” says Harold Wanless, the chairman of the department of geological sciences at the University of Miami. “It’s not a question of if. It’s a question of when.”

Miami’s bid to separate itself from mother state Florida’s identity as the bigot, racist, dumb motherfucker state, boycotted by Stevie Wonder and liberal tourists, and reinvent itself as the cutting edge, Euro-style metropolis of art and design while slowly disappearing into the Atlantic Ocean certainly makes an “interesting hybrid.”

The best piece of advice for the identity challenged city of Miami and the much maligned state of Florida, where thinking (if at all) evolves from the gift of hindsight, is found in OMA’s mandate itself:

“We think before we do…”

AWDGK1