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Tom Wolfe sees Art Basel Miami Beach through the eyes of Magdalena, a young Cuban-American exile, as she watches a local tycoon and a Russian oligarch lock horns over erotic conceptual art—price tag be damned. The Convention Center took up an entire city block on Miami Beach. Once, when she was six or seven, Magdalena had come upon a little dead dog, a mutt, on a sidewalk in Hialeah. They look like shoppers mobbed outside Macy’s at midnight for the 40-percent-off After Christmas Sale. Just look——not just sneakers but real basketball shoes. They probably think all these teen togs make them look younger. They just make their slumping backs and sloping shoulders and fat-sloppy bellies … a perfectly plain, sensible, businesslike sleeveless black dress … ended a foot and a half above her knees and showed plenty of her fine fair thighs … The maggots were rooting amongst one another more anxiously. She remembered him from the Bes Jet dinner two nights ago. It was as if one of those storybook fairies children love so much had waved her wand over Miami … The spell lasted no more than one week, one magical week every December … making him look like one of those big plastic gym balls … It was December, which in Miami Beach had only the most boring meteorological significance. An ordinary person could walk past Entrance D every day for years and never be conscious of its existence. A regular hive of bugs was burrowing into a big gash in the dog’s haunch—only these weren’t exactly bugs. and scoliotic spines and slanted-forward necks and low-slung jowls and stringy wattles … was pretty and young and, it almost went without saying, blonde. made it seem like you were looking at all of her fine fair body. Somewhere very nearby a man with a high voice was saying, “O. And some woman was saying, “Koons’d at auction right now! He’s high as a dead fish after 15 minutes in the sun.”“—what you just said? when the Miami Basel “art fair” went up in the Miami Beach Convention Center, and swells from all over the United States, England, Europe, Japan, even Malaysia, even China, Hong Kong, and Taiwan, even South Africa, —every trace of sophistication and worldliness was gone. An ordinary white T-shirt, the kind that’s meant to be underwear. it’s hanging outside his jeans, a really gross pair of Relaxed Fit jeans.“Hey, A. Imagine a picture book with the same photograph on every page … high noon beneath a flawless cloudless bright-blue sky … a tropical sun that turns those rare old birds, pedestrians, into stumpy abstract black shadows on the sidewalk … unending views of the Atlantic Ocean, “unending” meaning that every couple of blocks, if you squint at a certain angle between the gleaming pinkish butter-colored condominium towers that wall off the shining sea from clueless gawkers who come to Miami Beach thinking they can just drive down to the shore and see the beaches and the indolent recliner & umbrella people and the lapping waves and the ocean sparkling and glistening and stretching out to the horizon in a perfect 180-degree arc … M., to be exact, on this particular December day Magdalena and Norman were indoors … They looked more like worms, little, short, soft, deathly-pale worms; and they were not in anything so orderly as a hive. Oh, Magdalena didn’t doubt for a second that she was sexier than this girl, had better breasts, better lips, better hair … was saying, “So I ask her—I ask her what she’s interested in, and she says to me, ‘I’m looking for something cutting-edge … ’ Cy Twombly was cutting-edge in the nineteen- at her. She didn’t know what “cutting-edge” meant, either, although she could sort of guess from the way A. K., maybe it isn’t Giacometti all the same, but no-o-o-o—” Magdalena recognized that voice. Prince is the one who’s tanked.”“—the fish that’s up there at Stevie’s, rotting its million guts out? At this very moment, however, all these creatures remained under the fairy’s spell. Norman cackled when he felt insecure, especially in the presence of people who made him feel defensive or inferior—Fleischmann, for one. a stack of tires—of fat—forming on the back of his neck every time his chin bobs up. A.,” said Fleischmann, “come over here.” She went over, and he said, “Isn’t that Flebetnikov? He knows I’m interested in the Doggses—and look at him.
With dignity, insofar as that was possible, the four of them sought to keep their place in a line, more or less, less a line, in fact, and more like a scrimmage at an Iranian airline counter.
She learned later that they were decephalized larvae. She just wished she had worn a minidress, too, to show off her bare legs … She was Advising rich people, like Fleischmann, about what very expensive art to buy was her business, and she knew all about this “fair,” officially called Art Basel Miami Beach, but to those in the know, as A. would quickly let you know, it was known as Miami Basel. but to those Miami Art Basel had already been a riot of cocktail receptions, dinner parties, after-parties, stupid cocaine huddles, inflamed catting around for going on three days. For two hours these maggots, and these alone, would have the exclusive run of the whole place … Anybody, even a real swell like Fleischmann, had to have a heart of stone not to manufacture a smile and a few chuckles and play along with a big-hearted guy who’s being swept away, convulsed, paralyzed by laughter over … Don’t you think—”“He’s got billions of dollars, and he’s a Putin thug, and ‘Therefore, I’m gonna grab anything you want, just to show you don’t have a chance against me.’ ”“Who is he? Fleischmann clearly resented Norman’s interrupting a confidential conversation. The guard was in a dark-blue-gray uniform with all sorts of cop look-alike insignia on it, including a shiny badge. Not just any security guard, but a classic Florida redneck … In one hand he held an official-looking document up before Flebetnikov’s face. Attacking, assaulting her attention at a crucial moment like this? Norman follows them into the booth and stands beside them … says, “You must know Harry Goshen, don’t you, Maurice? He turns to the man with the eerie eyes and gives him a chilly little smile, and they shake hands. the only man in a coat and tie Magdalena had seen all day … Rich collectors, she had just seen, dressed in rags and sneakers. This man Harry Goshen opened the lid of a big one … and you could “see everything,” as the saying goes, and “everything” was flooded with translucent light.
as opposed to these slim white pants that mainly showed off the deep cleft of her perfect little bottom. Almost anywhere they were likely to enjoy a nice little status boost from the presence of celebrities—movie, music, TV, fashion, even sports celebrities—who knew nothing about art and didn’t have time to care. In five minutes, a pair of doors in the glass wall would open, and these old men, these old maggots, would have first crack at the treasures that lay on the other side … whatever in the name of God “the whole place” was …“—fuck off? “Perhaps you’ve heard of Russian oligarchs.” Then he turned back to A. and was saying, “Now, the only thing—”It was the “perhaps” that got Norman. Flebetnikov swatted it aside and stuck his face directly into the redneck’s and roared in his deepest voice, spraying spittle, “Now you gon’ ged ouda my vay! ” With that, he placed the heel of his hand against the redneck’s chest, as if to say, “—and I mean it! A., Miss Carr, are all business, about to head into a booth. looks at him for a split second with a wary look that asks not who but what is this … them, and a tall man with gray hair, although he doesn’t look all that old, and eerie pale-gray eyes like the slanted eyes of a husky or whatever those dogs that pull sleds through the snow up near the Arctic Circle are called. black shoes so highly polished, the crease between the toes and the arch of the foot shimmered. completely lined, lid and all, with chocolate-colored suede … Norman was so excited, a foolish grin spread over his face, and he leaned way over to get the closest possible look at “everything.” Fleischmann looked totally baffled. Pale-gray-eyed Goshen takes a round slab from another lacquered box …
Die Prostituierten htten aber mehrmals nachgefragt, ob er volljhrig sei.
Sie erzhlte mir dann ebenfalls, dass immer mehr junge Leute zu ihr kommen wrden und sie das nicht verstehen knne. schreibt, er sei mit 16 Jahren zum ersten Mal an der Langstrasse in einem Bordell gewesen.
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