On Sunday my friend Amy and I drove south to Coral Gables in her new red car to see the play Red. And after a week of laboring on a piece consisting of thirty red fiber objects, it's been a decidedly red week, completed by a jarring sight, in the play, of artist Mark Rothko asleep in his studio with his arms immersed in a bucket of bright red paint. After the play the world outside was mercifully green and yellow and blue. The rows of trees, ficus and banyans, formed wonderful tunnels through all that low blue Miami light. The street I grew up on, on Long Island, was not nearly as dramatic or grand, but our maples were decades old and linked branches over the road this way. They weren't as large or embracing, but this is how I remember them, and I love the trees here as if I grew up under them.
The buildings are beautiful, iced like cakes...
with The Biltmore Hotel at the neighborhood's center, with all its Di Chirico angles and shadows,
its swimming-pool-blue tilework,
and twilight interior.
The chandeliers are like brooches, and the ceilings as intricate as if they were embroidered.
It's a mix of Italian and Moorish and Spanish architecture, collaged together with the "why not?" that Americans have always been so good at. It shouldn't make sense, though it does, because it's here. You can't quite place the hotel, each corner recalls someplace else, but it still manages to be recognizable as itself somehow, a South Florida design buffet. It fits my adopted state perfectly.