By Fabienne Sylvia Josaphat

My friend Chris lights a cigarette and drops the lighter in his pocket. The cool wind fuels the fire on the tip of the joint, as it turns bright red. I love the smell of tobacco, although I’m not a smoker. So I never mind to hang out with my smoking friends. Second hand smoke doesn’t seem to resonate with me yet.

The wind hits us in the face, carrying that fragrance with it. It’s the night before the hurricane, but none of us are worried. Wait, I lie. Maybe I worry a little bit. Every time the wind blows, it sends his window shutters slamming against the stucco wall. When he inhales, his blue eyes narrow behind his glasses. His hair reminds me of a wheat field in some faraway Italian city. But Chris is pure American. From St. Louis, where he was raised, and where he tells me one of his best friends has opened the best dessert bar in the country.

Chris and I, we always talk about food. We love good food and good restaurants, and we love good movies, and we also love art. We spend our time going to see the latest indie films, Cirque du Soleil shows, the latest exhibit, and we always wind up complementing our visual experiences with the best of dishes. And dessert---we always have dessert. We both fell in love with this brownie à la mode thing that they serve at our favorite trendy grill, Soyka. It sounds boring, but no dessert can beat the creamy bite of vanilla ice cream with a piece of warm fudge brownie. The combination is almost lethal.

I have a funny thing about combining foods and flavors. I’m a purist, while Chris enjoys crazy mixes of all sorts. When he makes me try funky new ice cream flavors, I cringe. But I’m a good sport. One bite won’t kill. He laughs when I shiver at the thought of mint and chocolate chips mixed with pecans. But when I tried the brownie à la mode, it was my first attempt at enjoying a mixture of texture and temperature and flavor all at once. He was so proud, I thought I saw a tear.

He takes his time with his cigarette. It’s his dessert. Chris enjoys a good smoke after the best of meals. I don’t see how that’s a delicacy, but watching him roll a cigarette and smoke it is interesting.

We lean against the railing, right behind his studio apartment. As fate decided, he lives a couple of blocks away from work, another couple of blocks away from where he graduated, and just a short drive away from the Design District. It’s every Miami artist’s dream.

His apartment is packed with paintings and sketches of his work, and his work is great. I don’t know many artists who have put together a comic book and are teaching cartooning classes. His main character is a tall, scrawny Elvis look-alike who lives in his own, humorous fantasy land. In his new adventures, he consults a counselor and fantasizes about a dozen different careers, including that of super-hero and Mafioso.

“It’s almost an alter-ego thing,” he says on the balcony, blowing puffs of smoke in the air.

He checks his watch. Tonight, we’re going to the Dorsch Gallery. Usually, he’s always there because he volunteers, and his friend owns the place. The same friend has put Chris in charge of opening and closing the gallery. 

“Mayra is on her way,” I say. “She’ll be here soon.”

Our friend Mayra is joining us, and when we get to Dorsch, Lola and her new French beau, Laurent, along with his friend Regis, will join us for a night of artistic adventure.

I look around, trying to keep the hair out of my face. The wind has become more forceful, but for some reason, we both enjoy it as we stand in the same spot. Him, smoking, and me, looking around as if seeing the city for the first time. Next door, an odd-looking building has just seen the light of day, a new accomplishment from a well-known Miami architect. Chris and I are still debating whether it’s an office or a house. I’ve decided it’s both, an interesting innovation in a neighborhood of charming, old Spanish-style homes. Chris lives right off Biscayne Boulevard, one of the few areas where remnants of old Miami architecture struggle to survive.

Biscayne Boulevard, which was once falling apart due to prostitution, ugly motels and tacky strip joints, is now rising from the ashes and is glowing in a halo of light. It’s where my friends and I drive, looking for a cozy lounge or a gem of a new restaurant. It’s the road we take to head to South Beach or Brickell, it’s where we all meet to car pool to the Pawn Shop Lounge, grab a hot dog at Dogma, stroll down at Bayside, and it’s close to all the hot galleries in the district. 

It is now aligned with soon-to-be-finished condominiums, all baptized with new-age-meets-the-western-world titles. Opera Place, Quantum, Cité, Paramount Bay, Soleil, Neo Vertika and all sorts of crazy, foreign names that are meant to humble us and make us feel inadequate. It is a haven for the nouveau-riche that calls himself a “young, urban professional.” They’re not fooling us.

There’s a certain air of arrogant nonchalance that seems to accompany every man and woman who strolls down the street with fake breasts and calf implants, an excess of makeup and a glow in every Ferrarri windshield that seems to have transformed Miami into the new and real Silicon Valley. It’s fake, and that’s why I love my friends. They keep it real. They remind me that there are still some human beings amongst us, able to appreciate the true and simple beauty in a piece of art, the comfort of macaroni and cheese and Yellow Tail wine, the amusement of watching the world go by on a tenth shot of Tequila, and willing to comfort you when everything else gets you down. Always with booze. 

At the Dorsch Gallery, there’s a piece of art that mocks all of us. We are puzzled as we strut around it and try to define it. What is it? It’s  a net that ties the wall to the floor, and along it run all sorts of electric devices that humankind has ever invented. An old fan, a computer hard drive, a cell phone… We are puzzled.

I’m dumbstruck before a television set that plays the image of a plastic dinosaur moving its mouth. The set sits on green wood chips where the artist has randomly dropped white plastic forks.

I love my friends because they all can laugh at craziness, too. That right there, the dinosaur and the plastic forks… Crazy.

The rest has a purpose. Friends of Chris’s have displayed photography, canvases, collages, things I had no idea people could do with a bit of imagination. I fall in love with a baboon with dynamite tied around his waist, a work of art adequately titled “Employee of the Month.” Don’t we all know how that feels?

I hear Mayra’s heels click on the terrazzo floor in the gallery. She’s wearing her favorite “stripper” shoes, with clear Lucite heels, and is holding a cup of soda as she contemplates every piece of work on the wall. I know, however, that she’s putting on a show. She is really thinking about that man standing next to her. He’s totally her type.

Later, we sit on a bench in the center of the gallery and we take a break. We try to interpret the canvases. Before us, a deer is drinking water from a river behind shades of rainbow colors, unaware that it is the target of a merciless hunter. Next to it, pairs of eyes are popping out of a moss-like background, peering into our souls. What does it all mean? We’re not sure, but we try to understand.

On a table, one artist has recreated a view of New York City with nothing but staples. The same genius has used toothbrush bristles to set up a fleet of ships on water. I like this guy. One needs brains to think of that.

Outside, a pair of musicians are interpreting their latest composition: garbage. They are literally mixing the most horrendous sounds by beating on garbage can tops and aggravating car engines while the lead singer sings “Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh” non stop. I think they’re mocking us, and I don’t like it.

“Hey! Like what you see?”

Chris joins Mayra and me on the bench. He has been held up all night, talking with wrinkled middle-aged white women with dreadlocks and striped knee-high socks, girls with buzz cuts and short skirts, and men with a retired George Michael look. I even watched as he chatted with a tall, slender women in a baby doll as black as her hair and abject Dutch mules driving a silver-gray Porsche.

“Yeah. I think the Employee of the Month is my favorite,” I say.

“Yeah, it’s awesome… Hey, Denise, Amanda and Azizi are showing in this little gallery down the street. We should check it out.”

Lola and Laurent are joined at the hip. They don’t breathe without each other. They met in the workplace. He’s an engineer from Bordeaux, she’s a technical writer from the Philippines. They complete each other. And with them, there’s always the “French entourage,” friends of Laurent who intern at his job with him. Regis is one of them, and they all meet us at the unnamed gallery where our friends are showing.

There’s a lot of photography and painting, and then sculptures made with the most unexpected materials. At the entrance, on the floor, there’s a penis made with that nylon pipe smokers use for cleaning purposes. Except that this penis is bright orange and it’s big enough to catch the eye. I mean, we all see that it’s a penis, but perhaps it’s something else. Perhaps the artist wants us to ponder our own perversity. 

Denise, Amanda and Azizi paint beautiful images of their loved ones. Amanda, a pretty, petite Colombian girl has a huge canvas of her Jamaican boyfriend, a gorgeous God with dread locks that radiates the whole room. Denise has a self-portrait, catching all the details of her unique jewelry and her creative clothing. Azizi has painted portraits of his three-year old son, curly-haired and dreamy-eyed. This exhibit has made the most sense so far, but pales in comparison to the senseless works of art that adorn the room. I mistakenly kick a set of ugly animal teeth that lies on the floor in a puddle of sticky brown goo. By the restrooms, a projector plays over and over again images of the worlds’ most horrible dancer, leg warmers and all, rolling on a Persian rug and performing awkward plié movements. And in an isolated little room, a skull is mounted on a pole, dripping with white paint.

Regis finds me staring at another TV set (they’re popular these days) of a young woman eating a tomato under a shower and enjoying every dripping, and whispers and my ear:

“C’est quoi, ça?”

I shake my head. No idea, buddy. But at least, we’re out of the house.

Saul shows his work at the Bakehouse quite frequently because he was granted a studio there, and it isn’t surprising. An artist of his talent should expect nothing less.

He hugs us with warmth and sincerity. His girlfriend, MariAnna, does the same as she serves wine and soda to gallery hoppers outside his studio. His parents have just left the studio when we walk in. He has a lot of unfinished work in the back, stuff in progress, stuff that’s in his head but not yet on canvas. But the rest is amazing. He has used charcoal on canvas to make portraits of Samuel L. Jackson, Billy Bob Thornton and himself as an Arab sheik. And then, there’s the cage in the middle of the room, with images of himself as a baby sipping on “grown juice,” already sporting the piercings and the buzz cut. The portraits are hung inside the cage with a hanger, and are removable.

He makes it all with his heart. One can tell just by hearing him express his opinions and describe his heart to all those who enter his abode. He gesticulates to emphasize, like a savvy president does to win over a crowd. Except he’s not winning people over. He’s just talking.

He’s talking about the beautiful charcoal portrait of his then-best friend, Amanda, out in the hallway, the same Amanda who is also showing at the unnamed gallery. They used to be like Siamese twins, until---well, there are so many theories. But the portrait is beautiful.

Also amazing are the images of the two Sauls, pictures of his new self strangling his old self, watching his old self hang from a tree, watching his new self bust a wall down and step out, triumphant. Then, he drew a collection of pistols, all with the barrel facing the shooter. Really creative, ingenious, remarkable.

We leave after half an hour, trying to catch the guacamole and chips at the entrance, and maybe another brownie. We hug, we kiss, we exchange numbers, sign the guest list.

Lavalas, by Etienne Chavannes

Mayra has to go to the restroom, and Lola and Laurent must leave to drop Regis home on South Beach, where they all live. Mayra, Chris and I are having dinner at Andiamo’s, an amazing little car wash and pizza place where they use a brick oven to blow our minds away. I wait for Mayra while munching on chips and guacamole, or whatever is left of it. Then, I look up and I see the sign.

“I am Haitian, a Haitian art exhibit.”

The big arrow guides us to the studio where it is showing. I am all excited when Mayra comes out of the bathroom.

“Hey, I know you’re hungry and all,” I say. “But can you spare on more minute? I want to see that.”

I show her the sign. My heart is pounding. I’ m so excited to see something new and fresh from home. Finally, a chance to show my friends what my people do, what their art is, what our lives are like.

They follow me down the hall and seem more excited than I am. We look all over for it, brush against other gallery goers, stop to greet friends of our friends, wink and wave at those we don’t really want to talk to, cut in front of the musicians who bellow at the microphone. I run away from a conversation with a guy who used to call me eight times a day and page me in the evening to ask me out on a date. He still scares me. 

I look around the photos hanging on the wall, the pictures drawn by less fortunate kids, and I feel nothing. The artist has taken photographs of little homeless kids in the streets, wearing shirts with no bottoms, with snot running down their noses, and grime all over their bodies. The buildings are run down, the doors are falling apart, the gutters full of trash. I don’t know why, but I was expecting something that spoke to me, something that showed who we were.

“This must make you feel so sad,” Mayra mutters. “Does it remind of you home?”

I shake my head.

“No. I’m not at all impressed nor touched.”

I look for the artist’s name, and it’s no familiar Haitian name. Of course. Only a stranger could capture the ugliness of Haiti like that. If it were someone from home, the photos would have spoken of happiness amidst the trouble, the simplicity of our lifestyles, the acceptance of our fate. This says nothing to me. This is coming from a foreigner with a camera, a foreigner to the camera. A true photographer always finds the essence of a shot. These pictures have no essence.

From the ceiling, someone has hung a doll from a chain with no head and a red dress. I bet it was a statement against or for Vaudou. Is there nothing else for us to express? Is there no more art left for Haiti? Have we been broken that badly?

The only interesting piece of art is the one that shows Haiti and the Dominican Republic made with brown sugar, and a boatload of refugees sinking on the shore. We could smell the sweetness of the sugar as it filled up the room, and we all felt it speak to us. We stared at it for a long time, speechless, until I admitted: 

“I like that one.”

“Yeah, me too,” they said.

We walk out of the studio. My mouth still tastes the salt of chips and the creaminess of the guacamole. But I’m ready for food, and I’m mostly pissed off at this exhibit. What a waste of my time. 

“I’m hungry,” Mayra says.

“Yeah. Me too...” says Chris, rubbing his stomach.

I don’t say a word, at first. Then, I turn to see all the people swelling up into the room to catch a glimpse of Haitian art. I want to tell them to leave, to run, to save the effort. There’s nothing here, folks. Nothing but bullshit on walls. If you came to see photography of true Haitian soul, if you want to know what we have to say, if you want to see L’art Naif as well all know it, with lush tropical settings, provincial life, breathtaking portraits, if you came to see the evolution of Haitian art, you have come to the wrong place.

But I look at my friends and force a smile.

“Where’s the exit?”

Author’s Bio
Fabienne Sylvia Josaphat was born in Port-au-Prince, Haiti, in March 1979, and perhaps she will move back one day. After one year of law school, she moved to Miami, Florida, where she graduated with a B.A. in English, Professional Writing. She is a freelance writer and reporter whose credits include the Miami Herald and the Associated Press. She has published Requiem pour Anaise, a novel in Nice, France, in 2002, and she is looking forward to publishing Exiled, her first novel in English. She is currently working on her next English novel.