This is a city known as a tropical paradise, and the weather is frigid. I feel my socks thrown on in an attempt to warm up my beachy outfit absorb the liquid and I look down to see the puddle is actually a stream of raw sewage, oozing from the entrails of a super lux hotel.
Guess it makes sense. The disillusionment I felt at Art Basel is surely my fault. I was enchanted by Art Basel before I ever even arrived. Art world glitterati by day, swanky soirees by night, champagne with painters, yacht parties with sheiks, discussing contemporary art with Important People who live Important Lives.
Instead, my Art Basel was pretty blah-sel β a gilded spring break for vainglorious millennials and hashtag-y PR people. Instead, I was trapped in the bourgeoisie apocalypse. This is a story of high expectations being the death of authentic experience.
Even re-reading how I come across in the opening paragraph of this piece makes me cringe. My big problem in life is not getting into a famous party and wearing the wrong thing? Whatever the angle, the truth is, other than boasting pre-Basel that I was going to Basel back when I thought it would be glamorous and exciting , stepping in the puddle of shit was the most compelling thing that happened to me all weekend. I flag one down and within minutes am on my way.
We make a plan to meet at the 1 Hotel for a rooftop party. I arrive first and the line is of Six Flags proportions, so I use my usual cut-the-line trick:. I know, I know, this technique is insufferable. And I go to these parties and am shocked by the plastic surgery. The wind has died down and I meander in the ocean froth, soothed by nature, as always. The stars shine like fresh diamonds or cubic zirconias, depending on your investment portfolio. Ian makes for great company.
