​​Charo Oquet: In 2007, our second Zones Contemporary Art Fair took place at the World Arts Building on 2214 North Miami Avenue, where Edge Zone was located. It was a special time for us.

David Marsh: I am reflecting on the uniqueness of Edge Zones in the Wynwood Art District. It was a space that allowed artists complete freedom to express themselves creatively.

Charo: It was a massive undertaking with a 25,000 square feet of space spread across three floors, complete with a theater, bar, and even a ping pong table. By the time we moved from that building, we had built a total of 23 separate gallery spaces.

David: That's impressive! Creating a parallel art fair to Art Basel Miami must have been a monumental task. 

Charo: As a Dominican Republic native with experience attending art fairs like ARCO in Spain, I was curious about how local artists would be included in the Art Basel phenomenon in Miami.

It became clear that local artists and the Miami art scene were relatively uninformed about the impact this would have. This realization sparked my interest in finding ways for the local community to participate in this event. In 2006, we launched our first Zones Art Fair, and in 2007, we organized our largest and most elaborate fair, featuring segments like Talks Zone and live music. We invited international curators. We not only provided local artists with affordable booth opportunities but also rented spaces to international galleries

We also allocated individual spaces to groups of artists from Puerto Rico, Basel Switzerland, El Salvador, and the Dominican Republic.

David: What you did with Zones Art Fair was unique because it connected the art fair concept to the more discursive biennales. It provided a platform for emerging artists from marginalized countries. This allowed for some truly beautiful and genuine artistic experiences that you don't often find in other art fairs. Coming from Connecticut, I didn't have much exposure to art fairs before coming to Miami. Art Basel was my first experience when I was 19 and it was mind-blowing. Meeting you and being able to connect with collectors and more accomplished artists was a turning point for me. It propelled me to pursue a master's degree based on my ability to create and showcase my paintings in your space. 

Charo: There was a vibrant energy in Miami where anything felt possible.

David: Back then, there was a chance to meet real collectors at events. I was a 20-year-old invited by Art Basel, showcasing my video projector art on the walls. 

Charo: Miami wasn't prepared for the injection of art and visitors. It took a while for everyone including our local government figure out how to understand the phenomenon and support it financially. 

David: Art Basel was where I first saw Basquiat paintings. I also learned about running a bar in an art gallery through Art Basel. The early art fairs shaped many things and have had a significant impact on my life.

Charo: Art Basel brought amazing art from all over the world, raising our standards and forcing us to develop. However, it also negatively affected local artists and galleries.

David: Despite the downsides, I believe there are more collectors as a result. I think the art fairs have played a significant role in attracting people to Miami. Over the years, visitors have come to realize how great our art scene is. This has resulted in the emergence of a new generation of young collectors who are actively supporting and collecting the work of local artists. Art Basel in Miami provided numerous opportunities for local artists like myself. While many of my friends felt the need to go to New York City, I stayed here and witnessed the positive impact the event had on our art scene. 

Charo: Art Basel brought about a significant shift in the perception of art and collecting in Miami. While Miami already had a thriving art scene with local fairs and Latin American galleries, Art Basel introduced a whole new level of galleries and artists that elevated the city's status. 

David: The consequences that have come out of it is that a lot of us make art for the market because the city has been shaped by the art market. It's not just museums. The museums here are not that important. It's the art market here that's the thing. 

Charo: Edge Zones no longer produces the Zones Art Fair. Creating and maintaining an Art Fair year-round is challenging, especially with a small staff like ours. Looking back, it's amazing what we accomplished back then, but I can't do it now! Anyway, I think this was a good conversation. Thank you, David.

David: Hey, those are some of my best memories- I appreciate everything you accomplished. 

Katerina Llanes: So lovely to see you.

Carlos Betancourt: Same here.

Katerina: We're going to talk today about your experience in Miami, in the art scene from the 1980s to the present. 

Carlos: Okay. I'll tell you a little bit about my introduction to Miami Beach, which was kind of mythical in my mind's eye. I was born and raised in Puerto Rico to Cuban parents, and I came for the first time to Miami Beach around 1971 when I was 6 years old. Ponce de Leon, first governor of Puerto Rico, died looking for the Fountain of Youth in Florida. Miami had pink flamingos, springs, alligators, Flipper, Everglades, exploration and fantastical architecture. I remember having a fascination with the Fontainebleau Hotel, the decaying Art Deco building and the other jetsonian buildings, even at that early age.  Little did I know then that I would meet Morris Lapidus, the visionary architect of the Fontainebleau Hotel, and that Miami would be one of my main muses. 

Katerina: The trompe l'oeil mural that made it feel like you were driving into the water, it was so magical. Sadly, they tore it down in 2003.

Carlos: It was a trompe-l'œil mural by Richard Haas.

Katerina: I loved it! Was mesmerizing to me as a kid.

Carlos: Oh it was! The Fontainebleau was in decay after the years of Frank Sinatra and all of those great entertainers, but it was grand architecture of joy. And when that building was done, it was one of the most influential buildings in the world. It was both loved and hated.

Katerina: Morris Lapidus was ahead of his time.

Carlos: Yes, he gave Miami a definite style, form and a shape. We eventually became friends and he used to stop by my studio that was in Miami Beach, Imperfect Utopia. 

Katerina: Incredible!! But before we get to Imperfect Utopia, I heard you were part of a Christo and Jeanne-Claude fan club!

Carlos: When I was in high school, our art teacher, Mr. Fitzpatrick spoke to us about Christo and Jeanne-Claude doing the Surrounded Islands. I volunteered but not in the traditional way. I had friends with connections, friends who love to get in trouble. One of those friends loved to steal his father's car, and one day we showed up at the Pelican Harbor to watch the construction of the Surrounded Islands. One thing led to another, and I was passing out cups of water, helping people, and assisting or bothering these older artists. I was “volunteering” if you can call it that, watching all day, seeing all the material, and being heavily impacted by the brilliant fuchsia color and this idea of how monumental art can be outside the white cube. Also, it was my first appreciation of Miami. I mean, I was young. I think it was 1983, but I knew I wanted to be  an artist, architect, designer, maybe all of them. So I saw these artists being inspired by Miami and it was like a switch in my head. I started appreciating nature and all the possibilities. I mean, when you're confronted with something like Christo and Jeanne-Claude doing these interventions, at any age, it is very powerful. 

Katerina: Right. It's massive.

Carlos: It gave Miami a definite voice in the contemporary art world dialogue.  

Katerina: Putting us on the map for public art.

Carlos: Indeed. And we paid attention. I became a part of the “groupies” of Christo and Jeanne-Claude! We found out that they were staying at the Leslie Hotel on Ocean Drive so we would show up there to try to meet them. I actually met Christo later on and I told him all these stories!

Katerina: What did he say?

Carlos: He remembers the Leslie Hotel. He remembers people hanging out on Ocean Drive.  He remembers South Beach being so European and bohemian back then. Nothing particular about me.  But he knew what was happening and that people were showing up outside the Leslie Hotel to try to meet him and Jeanne-Claude.

Katerina: There were Christo and Jean-Claude groupies!

Carlos: Yes! And few cared back then about South Beach. So imagine how monumental Christo and Jean-Claude were for my generation... Their artwork and vision lured me to Ocean Drive and its futuristic architecture, again…I was captivated by the supersonic buildings surrounding the Leslie Hotel where they were hosted. These buildings were beautiful ruins and had a force and presence only good architecture can offer. That is why they were worth preserving. Great architecture creates great communities. So while I was going to art school, I resolved that I would come back to live and work in this magic Oz land of fantastical buildings. These artists opened my eyes to Miami as a muse. It's was very important for me and I didn't realize it until a couple of years later. The Sound Symbols Project , an enormous ephemeral installation that I created in 2000, was a direct response to this experience. The first time I collaborated with architect Alberto Latorre was with this project.

Katerina: What else were you doing with these art friends?

Carlos: A lot… During high school, and right after, there was a great alternative club called Fire & Ice in the Design District.  And like most people of my generation, we had fake IDs. Everything happened there on a Tuesday night. There was a program called Artifacts put on by Howard Davis, his archives are now at the University of Miami’s Special Collections (UM). There were all kinds of art interventions going on there. And I was a young teenager, and I witnessed many out-of-the-box moments that were considered art. It expanded my mind a lot. I started hanging around with a lot of my peers from Fire & Ice. The sound of these times was very defined, influential to this day, Echo & the Bunnymen, Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Cure, Alison Moyet, The Smiths, etc.

Katerina: It was like a dark wave.

Carlos: Yes. But with optimism. It was called the New Romantics back then. We were romantics in the sense of Oscar Wilde, and we also danced slowly sometimes...

Katerina: That moved into Morrissey later.

Carlos: Morrissey of course! 

Carlos: Fire & Ice was the hangout, a creative nightclub of sorts. We all knew the door man; we had our fake IDs. and we were dressed a certain way. I had my trench coat and skirts, my friends had punk mohawks, a particular look that reflected our interests and personalities. It was very important for me because there was a culture that was clearly defined. Those times were more about ideas than about objects. 

Katerina: Yes, stylistically.

Carlos: We went to these places, you belong to a movement of sorts, but you get to retain your individuality.  Other people moved through other cultures during those times, but the Fire & Ice counterculture was the form and the force of the times that helped shaped me, and it had a huge impact on many of my friends also to this day. 

The Fire & Ice crowd moves to Miami Beach because of some new mysterious energy, including uplifting architecture and cheap rent! There was a Bohemian force. Miami Beach was no longer a crime-filled forgotten Scarface. The Miami City Ballet was in Lincoln Road and the New World Symphony was soon to be housed inside an old art deco building near the Bass Museum. Many of us were heavily informed by our syncretic and very culturally rich Latin Cultures as well as Warhol, Frida Khalo, Rauschenberg, Octavio Paz, Keith Haring, Bettie Page, Celia Cruz, etc. and we were all obsessed with Miami’s tropical lushness and crisp light, mid-century architecture and design, and almost all things vintage. In Miami Beach, the past was right in front of us. These Art Deco buildings and mid-century temples were loaded with memories of glorious adventures, and for a country that was obsessed with constant change and demolishing the past, it was a welcomed reprise that these temples of memory still existed.  These ideas helped also shape our tribe. 

Katerina: You really had a scene! Where did you all hang out?

Carlos: There was a little visionary shop called Heydays, that was a favorite hangout. It was a secondhand shop that also started creating a particular fashion language.  Everybody from the scene was shopping or stopping by there. I met my friend Sandra Bernhard there and I first opened my first artist studio in the back room of Heydays. We drank our vodka there, we dressed there to go out to the new clubs that had our vibe and were playing the music we liked. It was mostly the same crowd from Fire & Ice as well as some very creative people moving from New York City, Europe and Latin America. 

Katerina: The Strand was around there too, right?

Carlos: Yes, the Strand, an iconic restaurant, bar and theater next door to Heydays was another of our favorite spots.  Many models that started using Miami Beach as backdrops would hang out there. And gays and creatives from all over the world were arriving in droves attracted by beauty and energy.  We would meet and dine at the Strand like a big family. Truly Bohemian.  Ed Ruscha, used to hang out there, as well, I think he contributed to the menus or something like that. I had my 21st birthday party at The Strand, meeting David Hockney and Paloma Picasso that night.

Hyperspace, run by the late Victor Fariñas, was also a favorite alternative space. It had an intimate movie theater that showed B-movies like Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!, also Metropolis and Ciao Manhattan and random footage of Bettie Page and Bunny Yeager. I exhibited there some large graphics with Carlos Alves, Linda Faneuf and several others in the late 80’s, 90’s.  Elisa Turner reviewed some of the exhibits. 

At this moment, Miami Beach was being identified as the next underground scene. Other artists favorite places where Café Des’ Arts (where Howard Davis of F&I curated special nights), Sempers (hosted by the dynamic duo Louis Canales and Tara Solomon), the Woolworth dinner counter on Lincoln Road, the Amsterdam Palace (eventually the Versace Mansion) and Lums on Lincoln Road. Slowly galleries start opening in the beach. I showed mainly with Helen Cevern Gallery in group shows with Kenny Scharf and other artists. 

You could feel the shape of things to come back then. It was an art community forming organically, connected to the source, a scene of sorts. There was purity, and innocence. The possibilities were infinite. We were inspired by our surroundings. People gravitated towards the beach because there was a commonality of a style, sound, and language that still was not defined, but soon. All disciplines of art, from ballet to painting, were in flux in South Beach and eventually in Miami, in a symbiotic relationship inspired by similar forces. Generally it was the syncretism’s of Miami’s new unique mixing of cultures.  Artist friends were doing cutting edge performances inside parking garages or inside supermarkets. I remember vividly a production by Art Act, with costumes designed by the legendary Barbara Hulanicki, of Biba fame.  She still lives in the South Beach. The community was developing its own voice. 

Katerina:  A signature.

Carlos: Yes, somethings like that.

I think that a counterculture or underground scene has to develop organically because it is mostly against any trends. It is a group of thinkers with common interest, but ironically, individuality of thought is treasured. I believe the South Beach underground scene developed organically, like a magnet, attracting similar people with very independent minds.  The most common goal was to be able to express freely and authentically. That is why individuality was treasured, without it, honesty could not flourish. The South Beach scene took a more definite shape once the artists began to arrive attracted in part by what was already there, and of course always the sea.  The early gay, fashion and modeling scene followed, also attracted by the same forces.  And as we start spending time together, a “scene” is created with the same artists, the same gallery owners, the same drug dealers, the same door person, all going to the same places attracted by the same visual language and vibe. I remember when artist Keith Herring opened a Pop Shop on 5th Street called Wham Bam, we knew similar people and went to the same places, the same when Kenny Scharf arrived to Miami Beach.  

There was very little money. However, we had this thriving force to create. Some people thought we were doing interesting things, and some artists started getting some attention from some international publications, like Interview Magazine, which was our “Bible”. They did a special issue, half of it dedicated to Miami in 1987. Andy Warhol actually called the Director of the Miami Design Preservation League, Diane Camber, who eventually became the Director of the Bass Museum, because he wanted to see this place called the Art Deco District. And she gave him a tour. I have pictures of that!

Katerina: Amazing, I need to see those! 

Carlos: It was interesting to get coverage in magazines that we admired and, of course, we read these sitting at the tables of the just opened News Café, but the goal of sort was to remain pure…Anyways, some of us joined the Miami Design Preservation League, led by the late Barbara Capitman and the late Leonard Horowitz in the battle to preserve the Art Deco District integrity. We used to tie ourselves to the buildings, light candles, and do vigils. We lost some buildings like the Senator Hotel, but we saved many others, like the St Moritz. The community that existed was participating in saving their community while creating a new one. The Preservation League won the fight to have the Art Deco District historically designated and, in a way, protected.  We now have the largest collection of Art Deco buildings in the world and it’s in Miami Beach. I like to say “not everything old is bad, not everything new is great….

Rent was still cheap.  And we start attracting some of our “heroes” to come here and get inspired by our surroundings.

Katerina: So it's like cyclical energy.

Carlos: Nicely put.  And in a way that starts validating some of our efforts. But we try to preserve Paradise.  

Katerina: And what are the years? The mid-'80s to mid-'90s, would you say?

Carlos: Yes. These are the years of Louis Canales, Tara Solomon, Susanne Bartsch, huge influential forces in the scene and Miami in general. Louis moves from New York. He understood the alternative club scene and the influence that it could have.  I attended a concert in 1991 at the Cameo theater on Washington Avenue. David Byrne performed with Celia Cruz! I remember thinking how our culture and Miami was quietly influencing the world. 

So, you know, as I have said before, we wanted to keep the purity in some way… I think when Madonna started coming here, and other high-profile people, even though she had an edge, (she had been Basquiat's girlfriend), she was already becoming mainstream. And for many of us, we didn't want her here. She would call too much attention to the area. We were like, oh God, this is our little paradise. But you just can’t stop it. That would be selfish, to take this inspiration away, so once in a while, I would hang out with this crowd and take them to see Albita at El Centro Vasco on Calle Ocho. It became like a ritual.  

Also during this time, and after submitting my art portfolio, I was invited to join the South Florida Art Center, which was already a couple of years old. It was founded by the late Ellie Schneiderman, a visionary. I used to walk up and down with Ellie on Lincoln Road. When Ellie was interested in renting spaces, many of the artists would tell her, “Ellie, don't rent this! This is the future. Have your foundation buy these spaces.” She was an intuitive leader and the foundation bought them thanks to her. One of those spaces she bought for the Art Center for $300,000 sold a few years ago for $88 million. And that's why we now have Oolite Arts.

Katerina: Which is moving to Little Haiti.

Carlos: Yes, exactly. The South Florida Art Center was very important for us. It was very organized. And the Art Center had an edge. 

Katerina: So Art Center is what brought you to Lincoln Road where you started Imperfect Utopia.

Carlos: Yes. Imperfect Utopia was mainly my working studio, also an incubator of ideas and art salon. It was a hang-out for my peers from the South Florida Art Center, my friends, family, drag queens, poets, performers and other fantastical creatures. The first artwork series I developed there was the Assemblage series, assembled from the utensils and kitchen ware that I collected from the Netherland Hotels in Ocean Drive.

Katerina: Oh cool, I like that. And the space was a ground-level storefront?

Carlos: Yes, it was a storefront. This was where I lived also. It did not have a tub or shower. I had a hose attached to a sink. And I would take a shower in the alley on the back, so did a lot of people and a lot of my artists friends….. A lot of people took showers there. 

At Imperfect Utopia We would conceive artworks, have poetry readings, performances, exhibits, and parties of course. It was a microcosm of the forces that were active in South Beach back then. I remember working with artist Carlos Alves on an installation in the huge display window of Imperfect Utopia. We assembled a composition of objects we had collected from the streets after the passage of scary Hurricane Andrew. 

Some others that stopped by where Octavio Paz, Linda Evangelista, Tony Ward, Bruce Weber, Celia Cruz, Gianni Versace, Barry Diller, Glen Albin, Jason Rubell, Andrew Sullivan, and Rudolph Nureyev, whom I would spend hours with listening to his life stories. I remember Julian Schnabel and his beautiful Spanish wife at the time, Olatz. He liked my works from the Fracturism series. I used to play La Lupe for them. I was surprised they knew of her music. Julian eventually produced the masterpiece Before Night Falls, a movie about the life of Reynaldo Arenas, the legendary writer who escaped communist Cuba and lived in Miami Beach (Ocean Drive) and NYC for a while. And once we hosted an event for the renowned Jazz musician, Dizzy Gillespie. 

Katerina: Wow, what a cast of characters! Did this crowd influence your work?

Carlos: Yes! With all these very talented people around, we were absorbing knowledge like a sponge. We were certainly learning a lot of things not taught in art school! And it was at Imperfect Utopia that I found my language as an artist, when I began embracing my roots and Puerto Rican/Cuban heritage and the environments around me, as well. My reality, in other words. I had also begun to explore issues of memory, syncretism and using collage, silkscreens, and Miami as a muse. 

Rauschenberg, whom I spoke with several times back then was highly influential. Collaging and layering was important to many of us. Then there was Morris Lapidus, the architect of the iconic Fontainebleau Hotel. I finally met him decades after my first visit to the hotel when I was a young kid. Glen Albin, editor of Interview magazine brought him to the studio. Back then hardly anyone new of him and we were his groupies, making sure he knew how important and influential he was to us.  During his first visit to Imperfect Utopia we became friends. I showed him an anthology on architecture that mentioned his influential work, a rare thing back then. He was so excited about this!  I quickly pull a pen and he autographed the pages of the book where they mentioned him or showed pictures of his work.

Eventually Morris lived long enough to see several books about his influential works. My generation grew up surrounded in what some scholars called the “architecture of optimism”. Morris was instrumental in developing that language, which still continues to influence my artwork and that of many others. I actually have a series of works called Lapidus Infinitus. And in Miami Beach there is a large sculptural glass artwork by Dan Graham titled Morris', from 2010.

Katerina: I love Morris Lapidus and that Dan Graham piece! Didn’t realize it was named after Lapidus, but that makes a lot of sense. I got to meet Graham once at Lovely Day in NYC. He was eating alone and I went over and knelt by his table to tell him how much I admired him and he asked me what my sign was, lol. He’s very into astrology. There’s something playful that connects him to Lapidus. That mural on the Fontainebleau felt like you were driving into an oasis. Made Miami truly magical! 

CB: Indeed! 

Katerina: And you made magic happen at Imperfect Utopia. What were your favorite shows there?

Carlos:  My favorite exhibit at Imperfect Utopia was Fracturism. Elisa Turner wrote about it. The show was a series of mixed media paintings I created based on the concept of fractured cultured: assembling the splintered vision of all that we knew and related to. This is before the internet attempted to organize information, before google became our memory. Collaging and layering was the best way we could represent this, with Rauschenberg influencing. I used silkscreen a lot. Here I found a unique language, once I embraced my ancestors and rituals, my own history and surrounding, no matter the circumstances. I was captivated then to explore issues of memory, identity, beauty, and nature, as I am now. I liked a lot the exhibit Cuba-Cola where I invited Afro Cuban dancers who performed around sculptures of roasted chickens. We also had events for Amnesty International in support of poet and pollical prisoner Maria Elena Cruz Varela, who inspired an early series of graphics I did. 

I realized back then that Miami is a melting pot of backgrounds and cultures, but somehow we get to retain our identity, slightly removed from the melting pot theory. A new experiment, not truly assimilating, but mixing a little bit. 

Katerina: More of a diamond with facets than a liquid that combines to become a new thing.

Carlos: Yes, how beautiful. Those are some of the things that happened. It was a laboratory of experiments. It seemed to be at the right place at the right time. 

Keep in mind that this is also the time during the AIDS epidemic. A lot of people came down to Miami to live out their last years of life, many cashed their health insurance. I can give you dozens of names of dear friends and artists that passed away. The Cuban and the Haitian refugees dying at sea constantly. All these were tragic situations that impacted many of us. These were very personal moments, sad and confusing times. 

Katerina: I was too young to experience the full force, but the echoes are haunting. We lost most of a generation. What I remember from South Beach as a teenager came after this. It was more of a club scene than an artist one. Is that part of why you closed Imperfect Utopia?

Carlos: Well, I thrived there as a young artist, after all it was primarily a working artist studio, but things were becoming more mainstream in South Beach. Even the gay scene. Warhol had died. And after Giannis death, it was like the end of innocence. And perhaps because it was so much in the news, everybody wanted to come to South Beach, as if it was just discovered. The energy was no longer organic or pure. Gentrification of sorts. I think what happened is that we started getting noticed a bit too much.  And like I said, at first it was the publications that we admire, but then it was all kinds of publications. This was, in a way, very flattering and many of us benefited from it, but it was also opening, at least a bit, a Pandoras box. This had happened in other organic communities like Montmartre, and more recently, Soho in NYC.  Artists making communities, developers gentrifying communities, artists moving on…The same developers that had helped gentrify Soho, moved to Miami Beach with the same intentions.  It was the beginning of the transformation of the South Beach underground scene, and perhaps the last opportunity for a truly underground scene anywhere before social media made that impossible.   

And with all these you start losing the dialogue, the conversation that was once very clear and focused is dissipated. So, a lot of things and magical places that were influential to us start disappearing, replaced by nightmare ugly modern cold spaces without personality. Imagine you have a Banana Republic opening on Lincoln Road, Victoria's Secret. The old Woolworths became McDonalds, and the doors of alternative spaces, cafes, gay clubs, art galleries, were shutting or getting gentrified. The gentrification was painful to watch, it was constant and careless and unfortunately, the local government supported it. It was too much. A little bit would have been okay. 

Buildings start getting renovated no longer by local creatives but by outside and too corporate forces, all at light speed. And you could feel it, you could feel the change, the “we don’t care”. But a lot of money was coming in…And, you know, with money comes other possibilities... We're no longer in our 20s. We need to create a future that might cost money, if we want to create a family, travel, if we want to do big projects. So, we start becoming a little bit of accomplices with these forces. I learned quickly that it is all about balance…It was so different, that some of the artists that were here saw no future and started moving away to New York. Miami didn’t have much of an artist support system back then, not even academically.  

Katerina: That's true, to this day.

Carlos: Yes, in some ways.  But I decided to stay in Miami not caring much about opportunities but about inspiration. I really believed in Miami, and it could only be one of my muses if I stayed here. But I understood that collectors weren’t buying enough local work, so artists sometimes need to make economic decisions to survive, as well as to find other muses. But I was still fascinated with this place. I did question a lot of things during that period because so much of what we loved was disappearing, was being replaced by nonsense, with little creativity and nothing to do with Miami. It felt impersonal. 

Katerina: They were importing things into Miami rather than looking in our backyard.

Carlos: Exactly. It was boring stuff, didn't have the dialogue, the conversation. Not challenging enough. I have to say also that during this period, there were some people who said, "There's nothing in Miami, there never has been."  Of course, we were trying to find our own language, but there was always a language here.  I really believed in Miami and Miami Beach as a muse, at different times, like Bunny Yeager, Ana Mendieta, Cesar Trasobares, Bruce Weber, Purvis Young, Carlos Alves, Keith Haring, and so many others.   

Miami is inspiring to me, the ancient Tequesta, the kitsch, the elegant, the vulgar and edgy. Miami is tropical lush and parking lots, beautiful and ugly, dirty, clean, poor, rich and can be very Avant Garde.  Most of us tolerating each other and getting along somehow, most of the time. Like Paris in the early 1900’s, it still is in a way. And after all, it was in Miami Beach where Robert Miller first saw my artwork. He loved Miami. We explored it so much. It was very symbolic for my friends and I when I signed with his gallery in NYC, without having to move to NYC!  You see, I am an island person, and Miami is almost like an island, water everywhere, the Everglades to the west, the Atlantic on the other sides, and highway barriers everywhere. Yes, Miami is an island. I heard someone say once that the best things about Miami is that it so close to the United States…

And I tell you, it was encouraging seeing back then at least a few artists comfortable embracing Miami, being inspired by it, the good and the bad, the reality of it, and not moving to another town like so many others did. 

Katerina: Embracing all of what it was. I had a hard time with that. I moved away because I wanted something more. But there’s usually a pull that brings you back home. It’s like a magnet.

Carlos: Things move, evolve, but there is always opportunity where you connect. Keith Haring said something like, "The primitive will always make us new." That statement had resonance with me. I translated it into …  - once you know your roots, once you own your reality, the possibilities are infinite. 

Ironically during this time, I found comfort and inspiration literally in the primitive and underground, (in the oolite) when I became a volunteer in the recently discovered Miami Circle archeological site. It was very important to me, but somehow many of my peers didn't see the site as history. My artwork continued to be influenced by my Caribbean roots, but my new present was Miami and I kept embracing it in several ways.

The site consisted of a perfect circle measuring 38 feet of cut stone in the ground. “It is the only prehistoric permanent structure cut into the bedrock in the eastern United States.. It predates any other known permanent settlement “. It is believed to be the location of a structure built by the Tequesta indigenous people of Miami around 2000 years ago. It was a very important discovery that actually made it to global news cycle. Suddenly, this young city had an ancient past and a larger identity. I remember artist Jose Bedia was also very excited about this finding so I took him to the site a couple of times and we had a magical time sifting through the oolite and finding artifacts that belonged to the Spanish and to the Tequestas. It was one of my most satisfying experiences for me in Miami because it reminded me of Puerto Rico and its indigenous Taino Culture and the importance of immersing yourself in the history of the place you live in. I think Miami found its way again in part because of the Miami Circle archeological site.

There is a simple saying that I like to live by. Know where you come from to know where you are going.

Katerina: I love that. But they didn't see what you saw.

Carlos: Many didn’t.  So they tried to belong to another place, New York, Berlin, Los Angeles that made sense for them.

Katerina: But that also speaks to the fact that there wasn't an infrastructure for them here, right?

Carlos: There wasn't a lot, and I get it. But I always thought a creative environment was more important than infrastructure. 

Katerina: True, but the rent was no longer cheap so they didn't have a real reason to stay. 

Carlos: Well yes, but there were still many reasons to stay. Yet, we started seeing a lot of the artists leaving for greener pastures where they could get support and earn a living. That's very important. I struggled. I come from an interesting last name, but we had little money to spend. I worked as a superintendent and cleaned buildings during this period just to support myself. Many artists from the South Florida Art Center decided to leave Miami. 

Katerina: A lot of people were and still are getting displaced because of the influx of money and gentrification.

Carlos: Yes, that’s one of the reasons I moved out of the space on Lincoln Road and I decided to move into downtown Miami in the late 90s. There were some historical buildings in downtown Miami that I liked. And the commercial spaces were cheap. I looked for abandoned buildings and I found one owned by this gentleman named Nathan Rok, who had a street named after him off Flagler. I had never heard of him. Somehow, I convinced him to rent me a dilapidated space with electricity on only one wall. It was a walk-up.  And it was huge! Like 10,000 square feet. There was a bank inside with safety deposit boxes, also old offices with carpeted cubicles, and a huge lobby. It was ideal. So, I started working from there. It was too big of a space for one artist so I gave studio space to other artists, including Charo Oquet. I also shared it with my partner and architect Alberto Latorre, who later on became my studio director, and still is to this date. I studied architecture and we both thought that the merging of visual arts and architecture was mythical. We continue collaborating on projects. He is so brilliant and his experience and help as an architect is invaluable. We had a blast in The Bank collaborating. 

Katerina: I bet! It’s beautiful to collaborate with your partner in that way.

Carlos: Yes. 

Katerina: How did the DASH students come into the picture?

Carlos: I always wanted to support up-and-coming artists, in the same way that other artists had helped me when I was younger. I was involved in a DASH internship program mentoring artists in the studio. Daniel Arsham was one of them. He would help me with my plaster of Paris sculptures and he was very interested in our architectural collaborations. Back then, Daniel wasn't one of my best interns at all. He was young and he was doing drawings of trumpets. He would sneak these trumpets into our commissions! In a mosaic fountain I was working on, he sneaked a trumpet shape with all the Taino and Tequesta symbology I was using. He was driven.

Eventually many of the kids from DASH start hanging in the studio, even after graduating, and at some moment they asked if they could curate an exhibition at my studio. 

Katerina: Who was around?

Carlos: Artists like Bhatki Baxter, Tao Rey, Martin Oppel, Bert Rodriguez, Leyden Rodriguez-Casanova and, of course, Daniel Arsham. They were getting inspired by the Bank Space. So they all intervened. Each artist took a cubicle. Bhakti’s installation was in and around the safe deposit box Leyden exhibited a file cabinet loaded with files of people that had his same name, he pulled them from the internet, which was so fresh back then. 

Katerina: Did the studio have a proper name? 

Carlos: At some point, we started calling it The Bank. I always thought that it was from this space that The House comes out of, but who knows. These young artists saw the potential of having their own alternative place. They needed freedom, without asking anyone's permission. They were young, there was a rebellious spirit. 

Katerina: They were also talented and resourceful. 

Carlos: Agree. Creative forces activate tenacious individuality.

Katerina: Yes, individuality. You also have a largely immigrant population in Miami leaving oppressive regimes. 

Carlos: Exactly. A large portion of the population here knows what it is to lose your freedom of expression, to lose everything, for real. It happened to them, not in some novel or the news. That is why Miami is so tolerant of other people’s different views.

Katerina: Absolutely. The spirit of Miami is freedom.

Carlos: And then we have to say also too, that the idea of gentrification was oppressive in a way. 

Katerina: Yes.

Carlos: We came from diverse backgrounds, some children of exiles or immigrants. We participate with mainstream cultures, but sometimes these could be very removed from our own culture, so it was important for many of us to work in the margins and I think to remain authentic. And avoid much of the noise. 

Katerina: Authentic and very anti-establishment too. 

Carlos: In a way yes.

Katerina: That was the punk DIY culture of the time.

Carlos: Something like that. 

Suddenly, the younger artists start opening alternative exhibition spaces like The House. And Jose Diaz is doing exhibitions in a condo, Worm-hole Laboratory. Slowly some galleries start opening again. We start avoiding the beach as it no longer has the vibe. Some galleries in Coral Gables were doing interesting things but there wasn’t an exciting vibe. Keep in mind that when the beach starts getting gentrified, mostly by developers, Craig and Scott Robins start offering artists free studio spaces in the Design District, where Craig owned a lot of the properties. These offers continued through my time in The Bank. The Robins brothers managed the Española Way Art Center in the 80s and 90s which provided affordable space to artists like Miralda, Craig Coleman, Roberto Juarez, who was also with Robert Miller Gallery, and others. 

Katerina: Right, with Kenny Scharf.

Carlos: Yes, Kenny had his space there too. Craig had the foresight to start acquiring places in the Design District, with all its empty design stores. The Design District was gentrified since I can remember. It had some cutting-edge design shops but by this time they were moving someplace else. For me, it didn't have a force, it didn't have enough history, it didn't have a culture and valid architecture. I liked downtown Miami because it had more history, with the river, the Tequesta settlement and more. 

Katerina: And also, downtown Miami for you was more of what had inspired you on the beach, which was these old, abandoned buildings.

Carlos: Oh, yes. That is so clearly said thank you. While some artists begin to move to the Design District, Craig expanded his offer to new energy of artist-run spaces like Locust Projects. I remember visiting Cristina Lei Rodriguez at her studio and many other artists.  

Katerina: And there was also Box.

Carlos: Yes, Box was started by Leyden Rodriguez-Casanova, Manny Prieres, and Jose Reyes around 1996 and closed in 2004.  Naomi Fisher and Hernan Bas had Bas Fisher Invitational. Fascinating things were happening. There was an amalgamation of tradition and history with many disciplines and the new and avant-garde. It was like a Tropicalia, a bit like the beach back then. It was fresh, but not underground. The House was special. It was like Imperfect Utopia; a salon, alternative exhibits, performances, art video projections, it was also fun. And it was great because it helped them develop their language.

Katerina: Yes, artist-run spaces do that. That’s why they’re so special. You can feel the difference.

Carlos: I remember one of the greatest forces back then was overdevelopment. The cranes were everywhere…constantly building. And these artists were rapidly exploring these important issues about Miami in their exhibits.

Katerina: They moved into The House in 2000 then they lost their lease in 2003 due to development. There was a wrecking ball crane outside and I think it was like a “Destroy The House” kind of party.

Carlos: If I remember well, they were having it up until the very last moment we all knew it was going to be destroyed. And the agreement was like, "You can have this until we sell the land”, funny that was usually the offer with most artists, that is how it happened with The Bank. I moved from several studios because artists kept improving the neighborhoods…! The Bank is now a high-end condo. My old studio on Lincoln Road rents now for $40,000 a month. Back then, the landlord wouldn't even come to pick up the rent check. So once again artists just left Miami. It was like, "Oh, no, We're losing the new voices. We're losing the new language." But Miami had unique energy, you can’t help but be in the present here, so, again, many artists returned. 

Katerina: What would you say was different about Miami during this time?

Carlos: We used to say then that the best thing about Miami was the airport... I started working a lot from the rainforest in Puerto Rico. I think things in Miami started to change because of the Miami Circle, as I said before, and when a younger group of artists returned to Miami after going to art school somewhere else. So there were more of us! These included some artists I mentioned before, like Naomi Fisher. They were embracing Miami also, its unique crisp light, pink flamingos and all. So I could relate to them with my artwork. Albert and I promptly began collecting some of these artists work within the capacity of our small budget. Some of these artists also became friends.

Katerina: And they did come back stronger, in part, with the help of the Knight Foundation and Craig Robins, who gave free spaces for over a decade before developing the Design District. Some of which, blossomed into well-established non-profits : Diaspora Vibe (DVCAI), Locust Projects, Dimensions Variable and Bas Fisher Invitational (BFI). 

Carlos: During this period, besides The House events, I recall going to Dimensions Variable and the opening of Diaspora Vibe. Rosie was monumental in the sense that she was looking into the Caribbean, expanding the narrative of Miami and owning it. Most of us come from the Caribbean and South America, so it was appreciated by the artists. There was a place called the Food Culture Museum, which was also close to the Design District it belonged to Antoni Miralda, and his wonderful partner Montse Guillen. And Albert and I had moved finally blocks aways from the design district, on the edge of Wynwood. We moved to a sea foam green house that Robert Miller Gallery bought. So many things happened in the district with this gathering of creative forces, from installations and performances to parties and backyard barbecues!  

Katerina: Jason Hedges’ BBQ’s! 

Carlos: What I see in general is a transition into organizations and organizing.

Katerina: Yes, taking it into your own hands.

Carlos: Cultivating our own voice, and keeping close to those who have similar visions, again. But it's interesting, after a while, it was becoming different in many ways. And there was a lot of competition. Like who was hanging out with, and who was copying who with their artwork.

Katerina: Cliquish.

Carlos: Oh, cliquish. Wow, that's a very good word.  And remember, many of these places began as vehicles for our own works.

Katerina: Right, that's how artist-run spaces typically function, they are an extension of your practice.

Carlos: Exactly.

Katerina: When I spoke with Westen about Locust Projects, he was saying that they had originally, same as you, gotten studios but had too much space. And they were using their own funds to print the invitations and to put the exhibitions together. It was a labor of love. Naomi had a studio in the back of  Bas Fisher Invitational (BFI) during the Buena Vista years. I think it’s generous that on top of your own studio practice, you would want to share your space with the community and put other people on.

Carlos: Yes, there comes a moment when you are doing okay, you feel confident and you can start giving. Not only that, you start getting influenced by the artists around you. 

Katerina: Your community.

Carlos: Yes, it is the exchange of ideas in our art factories. And artist’s works were influencing each other again, expanding and it was diverse. There were many different voices, Leyden with his minimalist Cuban themes, Daniel with architectural themes, Naomi and Cristina Lei with lushness, I can go on and on. Robert Farris Thompson, pioneer in the study of Africa and the Afro-Atlantic world, once wrote about my artwork during this time that the Caribbean was a school for me, “where everything has been always mixing and bending”….I thought about Miami in that way. 

Katerina: It had fracturism.

Carlos: You are great! Yes, it had fracturism! And we were talking to each other in more or less in the same way visually. I put together this show at J Johnson Gallery in Jacksonville, Florida called Miami Visions of Now, including the artworks of Leyden Rodriguez-Casanova, Wendy Wischer, Daniel Arsham, Charo Oquet, Glexis Novoa, Pepe Mar, etc.  The catalog had an essay by the late Paula Harper of Art in America. What I tried to accomplish with this exhibit was perhaps, that there was a Miami school being formed. I raised the money privately. There weren’t many foundations.  We were trying to support each other. Some supportive organizations existed like the Vasari Project, Miami-Dade Department of Cultural Affairs with Michael Spring and Brandi Reddick, as well as, the South Florida Art Center, all investing in Miami arts and culture but the other ones like the Knight Foundation were just beginning to establish their grant programs for Miami artists as well as the other alternative organizations. It seems as if the institutional academic part was soon finally coming together. 

Katerina: Your generation in the '80s wasn't organizing in that way.

Carlos: We were organizing ourselves, but that support didn’t exist back then. 

Katerina: Maybe there was a professionalization that you hadn't received, and they did through mentors like yourself.

Carlos: That is very generous of you. Some went to great schools.

Katerina: Yes, many came from New World, Dash, YoungArts. And a lot of the artists that we're talking about got shows very early in their careers.

Carlos: Yes.

Katerina: I know that Naomi and Hernan were with Fred Snitzer in their early 20s. And that Bonnie Clearwater really took a lot of them under their wing and started showing them at MOCA. Can we talk about that?

Carlos: We needed an institution to embrace its artist community, no matter what it was. There were so many missed opportunities to show institutionally what Miami artists were doing. Bonnie at MOCA finally did just that. I think some exhibit she was supposed to have was cancelled, and luckily she thought of the artists at The House.  Most of the institutions in Miami had little interest in Miami artists. Exceptions were the Lowe Museum and the occasional “summer exhibit”. 

Katerina: Yes, Bonnie did very important work.

Carlos: And that was influential. We were so happy that something like that had taken shape. And even though it was a small group of artists, it still had an influence on everybody. 

Katerina: It brought attention to the art scene. And the exhibit garnered some good reviews in international arts publications. 

Carlos: Locally and then internationally, it got well-deserved attention. And a lot of artists were coming back because the small collector’s base was growing. And some artists failed because they didn't have the continuity in Miami. I benefited a lot from staying here and risking it in a certain way, you know... 

Katerina: Yes, in claiming Miami.

Carlos: The good, the bad, the kitsch, the deep, the superficial, its history and the complexities of a new experiment in the states like no other.  But also, you know, that once you own your reality, it becomes universal. The local becoming global, someone once said. I think a lot of artists began understanding that concept and grasping it. 

Katerina: The House ended after 3 or so years but the other artist organizations -  Bas Fisher Invitational (BFI), Locust Projects, Dimensions Variable, and Diaspora Vibe Cultural Arts Incubator (DVCAI)- all still exist to this day. So, they've gone through the ups and downs you started talking about with your space.

Carlos: They have the economics and the support that many artists didn't have.

Remember, Art Basel comes here because of what was already here, that so many people worked on.  And even thought the main fairs did not involve the Miami arts community much, Art Basel brought a lot of credibility, it was validating Miami as an international art destination, so the local institutions kind of start paying more attention to the Miami based artists. So ironic. 

Katerina: Yes, the big art fairs didn't pull from Miami. They took over the city, but they didn't make it about Miami ever. 

Carlos: I am grateful to have exhibited in the main fair several times and benefited from their studio visit programs, but there should be by now, more specific art projects for Miami based artist in the main fair. It will actually be a great business decision as well.  But there was, and maybe continues to be a persistent inferiority complex institutionalized that forces many of the museum gate keepers to look outside of their community too often. Perhaps because they are not very familiar with the art scene/ history of Miami as it is not that accessible. And few scholars have ever taken an interest to write a book, take a deep dive. That is changing.  Albert and I live sometime during the year in Greece and Mexico, and when that’s our reality, we immerse ourselves inside the culture and history of the places that surrounds us, and new museums and new curators arriving to Miami should do that.

Katerina: They look outside, instead of inside.

Carlos: Whatever art is being created in the community, is what it is. It doesn't matter if you like purple, black, green. I believe it is part of the job description of most institutions to help present it.  There of course has to be some curatorial decisions, but institutional curators sometimes let their personal taste and concept dictate the vision, when actually it is the artist or artist community vision they have to represent.

Katerina: Exactly.

Carlos: Institutions in NYC, Brooklyn, Los Angeles, San Juan, have been representing and supporting their local art scene for decades. So much great art and stories in Miami that could have also inspired have disappeared perhaps forever because there were few ways of sharing it.

Katerina: All these spaces like Imperfect Utopia, The House, Box, they were curating from their community. They would collaborate with artists from the outside sometimes, but only if there was already a relationship with Miami. 

Carlos: You have the artists taking care of the artists because these institutions were not doing their part. It was long overdue, 20 years ago, imagine how delayed they are now! Such much beauty and inspiration that was not documented, not archived, not shared…Behind our new studio in Little Haiti, that was designed by Alberto and a little bit of me…we have EL Speakeasy, a private art salon, exhibition space, library, party and dance place.  We get to play The Cure followed by Celia Cruz like before! Here we have tried to archive memorabilia from the Miami art scene that I have kept and collected.  We share it with anyone interested.  Our non-for-profit, the  Betancourt-Latorre Foundation, is using many of these archives for a future project titled South Beach and the Last Underground.

Katerina: To come full circle, what would you say made these artist-run spaces so important to the conversation about Miami’s art history, and what made them so energized and different in how they operated?

Carlos: I think an artist-run space first and foremost takes the shape and form of the artists themselves. It's their world and how they see the world. There's an energy about it that I think in my case, you feel, and you want it to be expressed and it includes more than yourself. The process takes priority, being in the present and connected to the source. With Imperfect Utopia, it was the shape of things to come. You didn’t know the shape but you could feel it and we as people are attracted to that, especially when a visual image is formed out of it.  

Katerina: I agree, because it's an open invitation.

Carlos: It's an open invitation for creativity and experimentation that allows some to capture the essence of that time without really knowing it. Museums and bigger establishments have bureaucracy, planning exhibitions and programs years out. The artists don’t have any delay.  These places live in the times and in the moment. It is about new work and new visions. So artists are in a way, keepers of a certain truth.

Katerina: Beautifully said. They get to work in real time and connect to the present.

Carlos: Correct. But I am old enough to know that not everything new is great, not everything old is bad.  And American culture is too obsessed with the Future, like the title of one of my exhibits, The Future Eternal. Too fast, too much.  So it is more about balance.  But you can still remain experimental.

Katerina: Yes. And innovative.

Carlos: We try to do what’s in our nature, you know, at least we try. Like you said ''You remain true to the mission of that organization. As long as you can.”  And protect that, hold on to it with all the strength and courage you have. And as I believe in God big time, I like to remain connected to the source.  Sometimes art can be as simple as picking up seahsells.

Lorie Mertes: Hi, Debra. How are you doing today? It's great to have this opportunityto do a little flashback on Flashback Friday! LOL!

Debra Scholl:  HAHA! Yes, I've been thinking a lot about this. 

Lorie: Obviously, why we're here is our connection to Locust Projects, founded by artists for artists in Wynwood in 1998 and also the unifying fact that all of the artist spaces and collectives part of this project, including Locust Projects, would eventually have a physical space for a period of time in the Design District thanks to Craig Robins' vision and generosity towards artists. 

So to give a little background, maybe tell us a little about how you got involved with Locust in those early days, then I'll chime in with how I came to be connected.

Debra: Dennis and I got involved with Locust by coming to one of their early shows, I do not remember the exhibition or the artists. But I do remember walking into Locust which was on Northwest 23rd Street in Wynwood. And this was before Wynwood was really Wynwood. They had a thirty-day month-to-month lease. 

We met Westen [Charles], COOPER, and Elizabeth [Withstandley], the artistco-founders. I didn't love the show that they had up, but I loved the idea of what they were trying to do. They all had day jobs, and made art by night, but wanted to support artists in whatever realm they wanted to show work and not have to worry about any commercial ramifications. It was so freeing to see something like that, that wasn't just curated for a certain space–nothing wrong with something being curated– but, it was nice to have that kind of alternative space, which I guess Locust has always been. So we went to their shows. We loved what they were doing. And we continually went back. And at some point, Dennis and I said to Wes, COOPER, and Elizabeth, we think you should become a little more structured and become a 501(c)3. And that's how we started getting very involved with Locust Projects.

Lorie: As for me, in the years between 1996 to 2006, I was the curator at the Miami Art Museum, precursor to PAMM. I knew you and Dennis back then as collectors deeply supportive of artists, as well as curators, both locally and nationally. I got involved with Locust because I got what I remember receiving was a manifesto, statement of purpose,  I think it was in the mail, from the co-founders Elizabeth, Wes, and COOPER. 

And so I bit, and they asked me to get involved as a curatorial advisory board member, along with Jeremy Chestler and Amy Cappellazzo. I stayed on in that role til I left Miamiin 2006. And at your invitation, I came back to Locust as Executive Director in 2017. What's really hard to believe is that this year, Locust Projects is 25 years old, and five years ago, we published a book for our 20th anniversary. So, I thought we might cheat a little bit and focus on the big “moments”, those iconic ones that have lived on in collective memories, the moments that really distinguished what Locust was doing different. There's language Locust used repeatedly over the years that says, “it provides the time, the space, and the resources for artists to create ambitious work not possible in traditional spaces or commercial galleries” I feel that in no way captures the chaos, craziness, and creative awesomeness of what Locust enables, what I see is a culture of Yes, providing that space for artists to dream big, realize really ambitious projects that really, truly couldn't happen in other type of spaces. And so maybe, if you want to think back, even to the Wynwood days, like, what was one of the first like, projects, where you said, "The artist wants to do what????" 

Debra: There are two particulars in Wynwood. The first was Clifton Childree's show, it felt like it was a creepy carnival. To me, it was very dark, a little political, if I remember correctly. I'm not very good at remembering, you know, the specifics but, I remember walking through one space to another amazed. And it was like, Oh, my God, this is so dark, so strange, but it made me react, which I think that's what art should always do. And then the other one that was just the opposite - the TM Sisters swimming in an above ground pool and roller skating throughout the space. And it was just like chaos, but it was beautiful chaos. To me, those were like the two quintessential Locust shows that you would never see anywhere else. And it was just wonderful. There are other shows too, like Loriel's [Beltran]...

Lorie: Yes, the last show in old Wynwood space, which was just phenomenal. I wish I had seen that.

Debra: Right. It was the last show in Wynwood and he tore apart the walls, sort of what Ruben Ochoa did on 38th street in the Design District where he dug up the floor. 

Lorie: Yes! massive chunks of concrete torn out of the floor and suspended on metal poles like flowers creating an urban flower garden. Projects pushing the boundaries of concepts of art and space is what I've always associated with Locust. I remember in the early Wynwood days walking into a dark space when Rosario Marquardt and Roberto Behar had a woman sleeping-dreaming in a bed and all the candles on the floor and thinking, okay, something different is going on here, or the Tent survival show where they had artists stay for 48 hours in the space camping out and creating a show. 

Debra: I loved that.

Lorie: As a curator at the time working in a museum, I was so into it. And then Jason Hedges cooking a lamb on a spit and the Donald Judd-inspired Caja de China in the Locust Courtyard and, again, Loriel's final project closing Wynwood was all part of the trajectory of artists at Locust pushing what the very concepts of art is. You becomechair right around that same time right? Like 2009?

Debra: Yes. So we were still in Wynwood. But we were moving, I don't remember if it was like February, I just don't remember but we were moving. And that's when I became Chair. Claire Breukel had just left. And I remember interviewing Chana Sheldon. We were in the 38th Street space for a little while but then moved to North Miami Ave after 39th Street, the old Placemaker space, where we were for about 12 years.

Lorie: I was not here in Miami at that time, but in the process of working on Locust's 20th anniversary book in 2018, I saw there was clearly a big shift with the move to a storefront space on 38th Street in the Design District, and subsequently to North Miami Ave. it really changed the nature of a lot of the shows, like Leyden Rodriguez-Casanova's massive undulating hills of pink carpet in the gallery. And then one I really wish I had seen was Valerie Hegarty.

Debra: With all the birds and the post-apocalyptic swamp... in 2010, it was an amazing trompe l'oeil effect where Miami swimming pools have turned into swamps and succumbed to sea-level rise. So I remember that. It looked incredible with the birdsand faked landscape - almost AI.

Lorie: Yes! So not long after you are moving from that space and Ruben Ochoa is the final project, the one we talked about with the raised floor concrete flowers. So, I want to know how that conversation went down where the idea for Ruben to tear up the floor came up?

Debra: Well, we knew we were leaving the space. And I think we got approval from Craig Robins because he was demolishing the space. So it made it very easy for the board to be very excited about doing that.

Lorie: So afterward, did the artists come in and kind of say, Hey, can I do this level of destruction too? Or did you all say just in this case, hey, this building's gonna be torn apart? Do you want to do something? Do you remember how that went?

Debra: I think it was sort of the latter. I think maybe Chana was speaking to Ruben and said this is what he wants to do. And I think we then all said, That's a great idea. Go ahead and do it. 

Lorie: Yeah, I feel like that was the moment where for future artist projects, what's the term when you say, when "all bets are off," bringing forward a new era for what is possible at Locust Projects.

Debra: Yes. I think Locust Projects definitely defined this kind of support for artists. And I think moving ahead, when we moved into the old Placemaker space on 39th, it was a precedent for Daniel Arsham who would go so much further, tearing up a massive 30-ft diameter, 2-ft deep section of the concrete floor. Craig was willing to do that, you know, as long as we covered it.

Lorie: I think ever since those iconic projects, any artist who applies well knows the context in which they're hoping to work. I think exponentially the projects have become more and more ambitious and attractive to not just emerging, but also mid-career and established artists, for what we are able to help them realize that other spaces do not support. For example, we're supposed to end this dialogue with 2012 and that was a penultimate moment for Locust with Theaster Gates, on the heels of Documenta, creating his Soul Manufacturing project. Do you want to talk about that? A little?

Debra: At that time, Dennis and I were collecting a lot of his work. He was at the precipice where he was just taking it to the next level. And I think he was excited about coming to Miami during Basel doing something that was so off, nothing that you can really sell. And so he did this great space of production with a working ceramic studio and workers supported by yoga, music, and more, and it was really wonderful. 

And you know, I always thought that that was what Locust was about, you know,having someone like Theaster make something that's not really sellable. Having someone like Daniel digging into the floor and, putting things he made inspired by his past in there like a time capsule to be found in years to come. That, to me, is the beauty about Locust and to get that level of artists to do those kinds of things and not have to worry about the commercial pressure, I think that's, that's great. Whether they're emerging, or mid-career and they want to shake it up a little and do something new, Locust uniquely supports that.

Lorie: For me as a curator, the opportunity to come to Locust in this role was so exciting because you really get to help make art happen, support the creative process, and get to see artists like, even Theaster Gates or Trenton Doyle Hancock, take a risk and do something they've not done before with the freedoms the space provides. 

Debra: Agreed, and you've also added to all we do since you've been at the helm.

Lorie: Thank you! Well, this was fun but I think that's kind of where we're at time-wise given Theaster's show was December 2012. Fast forward a couple of years to 2014 and Daniel Arsham would return to what was Placemaker and create his iconic jackhammered floor project. And now, with a move in early 2023, Locust's story continues, in a space twice our previous size. I am excited about what artists willmake happen here and into the future.

Aramis Gutierrez II: Subversion is something- that's why artists come to Miami. 

Justin H. Long: Totally. 

Aramis: Because there is somewhat of a subversive “fuck you” element here. Our city is basically built on illicit money and it's just like a hodgepodge of cultures. Nobody's from Miami, but everybody's from Miami. It's where wealthy people come here to import their bad taste but I think that the freedom you get as an artist to come here, you can explore failure through subversion. And that is why there was enough of that going on to support a lot of homegrown galleries and smaller spaces. We had artists coming here because they weren't getting that freedom in New York for sure. 

Justin: Oh, definitely. 

Aramis: LA was its own thing, and I don't think you could be that type of artist in LA. 

Justin: The LA thing's funny because there's not free spaces, everybody hoards their spaces, and I think that was a crazy thing and kind of what this book is about is how the Design District allowed that stuff to happen- they would invite people in to use those vacant buildings. 

Aramis: Yes. So, an interesting thing happened though, because you had these wealthy people giving places to like Locust or The House kids.

Justin: They all had studios there. 

Aramis: You were inviting these people in that were seeking subversion, this specific type of artist that was a free spirit... we were making our work and doing our thing, but at the same time, the normal conversation of whatever was going on in New York was not interesting for us. 

Justin: Well, that's what led us to do that crazy Youth Fair show! 

Aramis: I told you last night, it was like one of my top shows. 

Justin: It was an absolutely crazy idea. I borrowed one space from Dacra and curated a show and they were like, okay, you didn't destroy it. We'll let you do it again. We almost did though with two good friends of mine when Meatball [Robert Lorie] and Till [Koerber] made this machine that had a diesel engine that was meant to destroy the art gallery. It was in the middle of the space, and they would start it up and it would just bounce around and I thought… oh man, this thing actually could tear through the wall. And it had a kill switch that was a hand-carved wooden gun with a “kill button” in the trigger of this gun, an art killing machine!  But luckily nothing went too bad. 

Dacra gave me another space, which was a defunct artificial flower shop in this fancy mall. 

We got a whole bunch of weird outsider friends, actually, Ben Locicero was one of our characters. He was running the Himalaya ride. I think he had fake teeth, or we colored his teeth black with a permanent marker or something crazy to do it. But we decided this flower shop had this weird round room when you entered and we were like, what should we put there? I think a Gravitron! So the homemade Gravitron, which a couple of people fell out of was built, and yeah, we did an opening and a closing party that were both really well attended. 

Aramis: As an outsider coming into that show, I thought it kind of recreated a Paul McCarthy moment. That was the vibe. That's something I feel like a lot of other grad schools would love to claim that they bring in outsiders and get people to make art and open up, but that's not what happens. When you have a bunch of people who are subversive artists who are friends with people who know how to do things, there's no real black-and-white conversation about it. It's just all gray, let's get together and do this big event, and it will happen. 

Justin: It was fun. All the materials were recycled from other projects. I think half the wood we used was borrowed from the Collabo show that was a little earlier, where we made this crazy ramp thing, but all that plywood got taken apart and put back and reused. So, it was always about being as frugal and resourceful as we could be. 

Aramis: It's funny, those years were from around 2006. I was a specific type of painter and a lot of my friends were not doing that. I was the only person doing whatever I was doing. 

Justin: Yes. 

Aramis: But everybody was doing their own thing and it encouraged me to collaborate with a lot of them. In the spirit of collaboration, I was just getting to let go of my own bullshit and it was one of the reasons I was able to move on and do an independent space later. I realized I don't have to like everything, but I have to accept everything. 

Justin: It was like that, and nobody stepped on each other's toes. There was a bit of respect for one another.

Aramis: It was very inclusive, everybody was welcome. It wasn't the art world per se, but it was the art world for us. And one of the things we talked about last night was my three favorite shows that I saw at independent spaces, obviously one was the gun and knife show!

Justin: Oh yeah, we called it That's Not a Knife at the Little River Yacht Club. The name was from Crocodile Dundee!

Aramis: It was one of the most dangerous art shows I've ever seen. 

Justin: Seriously. We turned the gallery into a firing range and put a chain link fence up to keep the viewers outside. 

Aramis: I remember I fired something that made Twix bars go through a piece of plywood. 

Justin: That thing was crazy. It was a homemade shotgun that a friend from Costa Rica made and then smuggled into the country in his luggage. It had 100 rounds of 12 gauge shells that I filled with Walgreens candy. So, there was the Twix, gummy bears, and Double Bubble..

Aramis: I had never seen anything like that before. 

Justin: Yeah. But that was insane because Juan, who worked at the de la Cruz Collection, took some pictures that night and showed them to the curators. The de la Cruz project room was a hot commodity, especially for the Basel show. And I guess they reviewed the applications and then Juan pulled out his phone and was like, ''Hey, this just happened the other night.'' Rosa was like, oh my goodness, that's awesome! So we ended up being slotted right into Basel with an insane giant crossbow. We were shooting two-by-fours at the wall that housed the control panel for the elevator. They were like, please do not pierce the wall and blow up the elevator!

Aramis: Rosa made some incredibly unusual choices, and I'm very grateful for it. 

Justin: That was the prime, 2011. We had Jeffrey Deich, Eli Broad, and everyone was deathly scared of it! They're like, this shouldn't be anywhere near this museum or any art. 

Aramis: The other shows I loved were at Locust Projects, which always really surprised me. The shanty town installation…

Justin: Clifton Childree. 

Aramis: Clifton’s show was phenomenal. It completely transformed the space into this rickety, haunted, dangerous sea-themed village. 

Justin: And I think there were hidden passageways and secret rooms that the public never found. They must have let him use the space for two months to build out the craziness!

Aramis: It was like he took the entire set of Robert Altman’s movie, Popeye.

Justin: After it was towed by sea to Miami. Everything felt wet and smelly. 

Aramis: I think that was the only art installation I ever crawled on my knees through… because I had to! Then the other one that I really liked was Scott Murray's 2020 Projects. There was a work by Matt Schreiber and Daniel Newman that was wild.

Justin:  Right, they built a plywood room inside the gallery space that had the snail entry. 

Aramis: It was kind of creepy.

Justin: That was insane. 

Aramis: And you would go in and you had to sit there for 20 minutes waiting for your eyes to adjust. Once they did, you started seeing all these low-frequency lasers projecting crazy psychedelia and weird patterns on the walls. It really felt like you were tripping without doing drugs… in the dark. 

Justin: That was a wild time. Daniel Newman was a cool outlier who kept doing great stuff. 

Aramis: He was always just coming out of left field. He always curated really good shows and brought in a lot of people from the community to participate in them. 

Justin: The SCHADENFREUDE show, which I think both of us were in. 

Aramis: It was like an Aidan Dillard film that had all these weird characters that came together. It was an interface of established artists who were doing more traditional of art with real weird outliers. It was just a really fun time. Still to the day, I don't see stuff like that. And when I visit a lot of alternative art galleries or artist-run spaces in other cities, I just don't see that level of “anything goes”, but it's got to work. 

Justin: That was such good wild experimentation which we talked about with Aiden… him kayaking in the pool at the Boyz of Bazel show at Carol Jazzar’s. But just how that came together, it was like, let’s make a shirtless calendar of all male Miami artists, we've got to raise some money because we want to buy this ice sculpture of a naked woman!

Justin: No, but they did it so well. I think Pres did the layouts for the calendar, and it looked pro but it was made at Walgreens.

Aramis: I used to have the calendar, but I don't know what happened to it. I would love to have a copy of that. 

Justin: Yeah, I haven't seen one in a while. Kevin Arrow pulled out the poster for me the other day and he was asking who the different characters were.  

Aramis: I'm going to have to blackmail him for the calendar. I'm sure he's got it. 

Justin: Oh yeah!

Natalia Benedetti: How are you? Can you hear me?

Adler Guerrier: Yep, I can hear you. I'm good. As good as one can be. 

Natalia: I was looking today at my old resumes from 2000 and then you shared the screenshot of your old resume, and I'm impressed by how much we did. There's so much I don't remember, but we did quite a bit. We were a busy bunch, not just the two of us, but everybody who was around. There was quite a lot going on! 

Adler: For sure. There was a lot to do. 

Natalia: But even before The House too, there was a lot going on.

Adler: The House happened in 2001. I had in mind 2003, it began right in the beginning. That is right after we graduated.

Natalia: This would be something to be confirmed with The House guys, but I have a memory of Bhakti being young and really fascinated by what was going on with the Studio 10o3 and the Green Door Gallery. I wonder if The House project was somehow inspired by all that was happening around us at New World. One would have to ask them if this was the case. 

Adler: That's a fair assumption to make because it's in the artists' tradition, where the desire to make and share, to be in the flow of art, and not just be in an insular studio practice, but one that opens up a little bit. That's a fair assumption to make because 10o3 and Green Door were examples. There was a kind of boldness as well. We're done with school in 2000, in May, by that December, we're showing at MOCA, in Travelsin Hyperreality.

Natalia: That was crazy! 

Adler: I kept forgetting the date for that, 2000, and not 2001.. 

Natalia: Wasn’t the first Miami Art Basel in 2000 as well? 

Adler: It was supposed to be 2000, but it was canceled. I’m sorry, it was supposedto be 2001. It was canceled because of September 11. 

Natalia: It’s funny how our memories get so distorted. 

Adler: Very distorted. 

Natalia: I didn’t document much about the shows at the Green Door Gallery, didn’t take any pictures or put the shows on my resume.  Nevertheless, I have strong emotions when I remember those moments. It was exciting and so fun to have such a place. With the Studio 10o3, I also don't have very much documented, but I remember having the certainty that we were accomplishing something deep. I felt really proud of the work I showed there.  

Adler: Yep! 

Adler: I think in a way, a few things were happening, in terms of how we worked. It's interesting, works were made for exhibitions. And not for much more. Thinking about how Basel changed the scene, while I looked for works to illustrate what I was doing then, I found there were all these things—sketches, small compositions, photos-- I was doing very loose and speculative and observational and kind of note-taking. But they didn’t amount to being artworks. They were soft in focus- and they - even seemed unsure as to what was the point or what was the focus in the essence of these images. It's interesting. I like it, to tell you the truth. I know it doesn't really communicate well to another person. 

Natalia: Perhaps it was just the beginning of the way you work now. 

Adler: For sure. At that point, we're only two years out of art school, out of undergrad. We didn't go directly to a grad program that would've enforced a studio practice structure or demand that studio practice explorations must end in art objects. That's what that education is for in essence. It forces people to make stuff along the stated thesis and lines of inquiry. But when you're working at home, on your own terms, it doesn't always amount to making a statement or finished pieces. You don't have to make a statement. There are no professors, there are no grades involved, there's none of those pressures. My timeline for making art was much longer. The work that came out of this period of time took longer to make, because I took my time. The thinking process was much longer and unhurried. Maybe I'm better for it. 

Natalia: Were you thinking of going to grad school? was that even an option? did you consider it? 

Adler: I considered a little bit in 2000, 2001. Once Kathleen became pregnant, I didn't think about it anymore.

Natalia: I just thought of something. I think the reason why I didn't document the Green Door Gallery shows, is because I was very much focused on grad school. Everything I did those last couple of years at New World was totally focused on developing something that would get me into grad school. For that reason, I didn't really pay attention to these other very meaningful shows. 

Adler: How many times did you apply? Once? 

Natalia: Yeah, only once, and I got rejected from every place. I was very upset. But in retrospect, we did a kind of grad school equivalent those years, by working and showing in the Miami art scene. 

Adler: if we had gone to the right graduate program, that would have been very different. In the right graduate program, the two years would've been a pressure cooker that forced us to think and read and study and get us to that point of knowing one is interested in these subjects. And we would just go and work along these lines. But because we didn't go through the pressure cooker, we took our time to find the subjects of our art practice. Actually, I may have been and probably still am too idealistic and bohemian in my artistic values. I just want to make art. That is clear. 

Natalia: That's why I like you so much!

Adler: Did I want to sell art?  I can't really say that was a very big motivation early on. I wanted to show art in the biggest places, and I was lucky. Not only, I was in the group shows MOCA, but Miami Art Museum gave me that show, and I was in Freestyle at the Studio Museum in Harlem. I was already lucky that I am showing my artwork in big places. That's the part that I loved. Because I didn't live in New York, it also meant that there were opportunities that I missed. Nevertheless, living in Miami was to my liking, that's the rhythm that I liked. I didn’t want to be in New York with all the pressure to see all the artworks that I like and find balance in making a living, a studio practice, and family life. I wanted to take my time to make artwork, and Miami gave me that. On any given day when Kathleen went to work, and Ellington and I would walk around the yard, walk to the library, and then back home. I'll take a few pictures between the library and the house and the yard. I would read whatever art stuff that comes through, either through newsletters of places we follow or an art magazine or a recent catalogue from an exhibition. 

That was the practice in a way. The practice was as loose as that structure.  That was my structure, it was a recipe for disaster financially, but it was also a recipe for low stress, thinking and play. I got easy access to a life that I wanted where art was well integrated within it. The advice I'll give my younger self is that life is unsustainable without money, so make a little more money!

Natalia: But if you had said that, then you would have ruined the whole thing.

Adler: Not necessarily. If I traveled back in time, I think there's a way that I can convince myself that making some money in that realm would not be too out of step. If someone else had told me this, I probably would not accept it. The other thing about grad school is that if you go to the right graduate program, your professors are very good and these are people whose advice you'll actually listen to. One problem in those early years was that I didn't really have access to people to give me advice. We had each other, colleagues at our same level but we didn't really have access to people who were five to ten years ahead of us who could give us pointers as to how to navigate our own practice and the world. I think that's the advice I would travel back in time to tell myself--keep everything as is but find a way to make a little more money because just making a little more money would've given me - more opportunities and the hard time would have been more manageable. 

Natalia: We had some people that we could have asked for advice. Some good friends and teachers, but they had their own thing going on.   

Adler:  It's difficult actually. It's not that I wasn't open to it, but it was also the kind of thing, a mentor-like relationship, where asking this type of advice requires you to be close, and to reveal aspects of your own life, and trust that the advice given is right for your professional and personal life. 

Natalia: By the way, you recently mentioned your connection with Janine Antoni, who was one of my idols at the time. Wouldn’t she have been an amazing mentor? 

Adler: She's definitely that type of person.

Natalia: I was just remembering meeting Teresita Fernandez in Rome in 1997. She was very generous and kind, and I think she would have been willing to offer guidance and play such a role for me. But I was too proud to ask and never followed up. It was also fitting that she had moved away from Miami. In those days, I sometimes got the sense that the more established local artists were not immediately able to trust us. Because we were suddenly appearing in the art scene, without much experience, but getting a lot of opportunities. Whether it was true or not, this feeling sometimes made it difficult for me to open up to the more experienced artists.

Adler: All these things are still with me, but I know how to manage all of them now. When I first graduated, I did not. I didn't know who or how to ask. What I did know is how to emulate the art historical arc of what it meant to be an artist, that is you make your artwork, try to get it out there, and make the best work within your circumstance.  I was going to say, in 2005, you created a show at New World Gallery, Brought Together Again, and I was in that. 

Natalia: I loved curating that show so much. 

Adler: You did? 

Natalia: Yes! I put so much love into it. And I was proud because I was able to do it how I wanted, without compromise. 

Adler: Was Maggie [Cuesta] already the Dean or Louise Romeo was still the Dean?

Natalia: I think it was Louise. She trusted me so much and that might be the only way I could end up with so much freedom.

Adler: Brought Together Again ...I don't remember what I showed. 

Natalia: I also don't remember what you showed specifically.  But I remember enjoying the process very much and working hard to give everyone a good experience. I curated one other show at World Class Boxing.  

Adler: Oh, that same year.

Natalia: It was in 2007. The show featured works from Dennis and Debra Scholl’s collection. It was called Killers and Their Hiding Places. I believe the name for theshow came out from our conversation about a movie. 

Adler: There is a Stanley Kubrick movie called The Killing. 

Natalia: Curating is a lot of fun. 

Adler: Curating, I like it, as well.