#005 : THE HOTTEST BITCH IN MIAMI / COVID ART BASEL
Original publication date: Dec 9, 2020
The Faena Hotel in Miami Beach is one of the most glamorous places ever, and it better be because building and decorating that shiz cost a fucking billion dollars.
The man behind the hotel is Argentinean hotelier Alan Faena, who has been called “Jay Gatsby...with the swagger and fashion sense of Tony Montana”:
I’ve never met him...but that day will come. I mean, he loves leopards—just like me. Look at what's hidden around his hotels!
That's not my photo; I haven't found them yet myself. But—again—I will.
Mr. Faena spared no expense, my dears. Why not have Moulin Rogue and Romeo + Juliet director Baz Luhrrmann design your lobby?
There are gold-leaf columns...topped with tulips. There are tapestries full of leopards:
But the best place is through the lobby, past the entrance to the tiger-and-leopard themed The Living Room bar: the enchanted garden.
It's huge, and lush, and the trees are hung with twinkling lights. There's always a wild wind, since you're practically on top of the ocean.
And that’s where she lives—out in the Faena garden, amidst the jungle plants, in a hurricane-proof glass case:
THE HOTTEST. BITCH. IN MIAMI.
*****
It's no secret: I love Art Basel Miami Beach.
The American fair—the Super Bowl of the contemporary art world, bigger than even the actual Art Basel in Switzerland—and its accompanying hardcore-glitzy party circuit takes place the first Thursday through Saturday of December every year.
(If you know better, you come early in the week—on Monday.)
During my party girls days, I liked Art Basel for the blowouts.
More recently, I've liked it for a getaway.
But not just for the beach. The city itself speaks to me: it brings me peace of mind.
Scoring cheap flights close to Art Basel is never a problem, but finding last-minute affordable hotels is a different story. So every year—even this crazy one—it’s the same: I book an inexpensive South Beach hotel as early as possible. That way, I am good to go come December.
In July 2020, I paid for a "family suite"—so I could invite friends—at the Villa Paradiso Apartment Hotel on Collins Avenue the low (for three bedrooms!) rate of $100 a night.
"We're going," I told my friend Moses Archuleta—and many others. "Even if Basel is cancelled, it'll still be great! No one will be down there, and we can just be by ourselves."
(I have to tell you: in July, I thought that corona would be a bit better by December.)
"Maybe..." Moses said.
*****
Art Basel was—predictably—confirmed “officially” cancelled in September, on account of the coronavirus.
I let my hotel reservation sit in my hotels.com account for months.
As the reservation date approached, I thought really hard about whether or not to go to Miami.
I'm no hedonist. (I wish!) Like most of us, I believe myself to be a moral adult.
Throughout November, covid rates were so high in Miami-Dade county that they made national news.
Close to Thanksgiving, Moses and the few friends I’d planned on coming down here with backed out.
That’s when I knew l actually wanted to go. I have been in crazy New York City the entire pandemic—living in hotels and one-room AirBnbs, or with my sister. Now the "hang" was cancelled, which meant I could write peacefully in a big, empty apartment by the beach.
Still. Going to Miami during the second wave of the pandemic...
"It isn't great," my sister said.
"It's selfish," I said. "I know."
In the end, I decided to go anyway—and to behave as covid-responsibly as possible while I was there. I also decided to write honestly about everything I did.
I am now giving myself permission to lighten the tone of this thing.
*****
I'm the airport queen!
I hadn’t been in once since I flew home from living abroad in April, but I figured they would be all good. After all, who's more control freak-y than the airports?
I was right—regarding New York's LaGuardia, at least. I came through on December 1st for my flight to Florida.
Practically empty! And so clean. There were even sterilizing wipes for the American Airlines touchscreens.
Airlines have always been total control freaks, too. And now they’ve taken everything to the next level.
Behold! A sterilized magazine:
And here I thought I’d seen it all.
*****
I landed in Miami around 4 PM and Lyft-ed to the hotel.
I changed into flip-flops and a bikini and hit the beach for a second.
When I got back, I tripped in the courtyard and skinned my knee. Then, up in the suite, I pulled down the blinds—all the way down. The entire situation popped off the window and WHAM—bonked me in the head.
So that's what I get for coming to Miami during covid.
*****
That night, I walked around South Beach. The 'hood was fairly empty—compared to how I usually see it.
I love South Beach because I live for colored lights:
There were even glittery Christmas decorations up:
I felt so peaceful walking around that first night.
Which is...possibly a tone-deaf thing to say.
*****
I wrote all day Wednesday—save for a (chilly, cloudy) hour on the beach.
At some point, a notorious and bewitching Manhattan publicist with hair the color of the Woolsey Fire forwarded me an invite to a South Beach soirée—an exclusive dinner.
I had no idea who this Libbie was, but I was happy to celebrate her. Yes, it was a dinner during covid. But I'd walked through Nolita and Chinatown and Soho all summer, where the streets were packed with diners. How was eating at a hotel different than going to a restaurant?
(These were the—again—selfish thoughts in my head.)
Besides, it was at Faena—a controlled white-glove environment where you're greeted at the door and where no expense is spared.
And Faena was where the hottest bitch in Miami lived. Now I’d get to see her again.
I didn't think twice before RSVPing (and dropping my last few Page Six appearances into my email signature—to ensure I'd not only get a seat, but would get to bring a friend.)
Sure enough...
"Confirmed! Cat Marnell plus one!" AMW PR hit me back right away. I texted one Julia Cooke the invite—the one straggler from New York who'd come down—and told her to dress up.
*****
I didn’t know it at the time, but I did know who Libbie Mugrabi was.
She'd famously caught her billionaire husband passed out on a topless chick in the television room of their nine-bedroom Hamptons mansion (underneath a painting from Richard Prince's After Dark series, no less). Click here to catch up; you won't regret it.
I’d been following her crazy-ass divorce story for a minute! It’s been in all the New York media. I didn't make the connection until 7:30 PM on Thursday night.
It was half an hour before the dinner began, and I was fully dressed and made up for it. I'd been swamped working on the last BEAUTYSHAMBLES column—Brujashambles—literally all day.
That's when Julia texted me a (different) Libbie article from the New York Times:
"Wait, what?!" I shrieked—right there in my messy makeup area.
I kept reading:
The New York socialite Libbie Mugrabi, fresh from a divorce settlement from her powerhouse art dealer husband David Mugrabi — which reportedly netted her upward of $100 million — said she was not only winging into Miami, but also intended to host a Miami Art Week event “with only A-listers and artists” at the Faena Hotel.
“Do you remember Aby Rosen’s dinners at the W Hotel?” she asked, citing that developer’s celebrity-studded Miami Basel gatherings. “Every year it was the talk of the town.” This year, she promised, “My dinner is going to replace Aby Rosen’s dinner.”
Beyond hosting a memorable evening, she intended to reinvent herself as a cultural impresario in her own right: “Now I settled a divorce and I have a lot of money,” she said matter of factly, while declining to provide financial specifics. “And I can do whatever I want with it. It’s my choice. And this is what I want to do.”
Ms. Mugrabi brushed aside concerns that her dinner was a potential superspreader event with strangers from around the country. “It’ll be like 50 people max,” she said. “Everybody that will be at the dinner will have to submit Covid tests or be tested there. I will send a tester with a rapid test.” And the notorious unreliability of rapid tests? “They can wear a mask if somebody wants,” she said. “I won’t wear one, but other people can.”
Oh no, I thought.
Then I started laughing—a bad laugh.
You guys. A deranged and possibly sociopathic art world socialite deadset on blowing her divorce settlement on an ultra-exclusive superspreader soiree that had been condemned by the New York Times before it even popped off—and I had a seat at the fucking table?
I'm sorry. I'm sorr-rry. I'm fucking gross; I'm awful. My "responsible" plan was done for. I had to see it; I had to go.
*****
The hottest bitch in Miami is, of course, Damien Hirst's sculpture “Gone But Not Forgotten”—a 3,000-year-old 24-karat gold-gilded woolly mammoth skeleton, in the aforementioned oceanfront hurricane-proof glass case—in the Faena garden.
I met up with Julia outside the hotel at 8:30 PM. She was wearing the baby blue Corréges suit Sharon Stone rocked in Casino. I was wearing a Forever 21 dress I’d bought on Ebay for $3.89.
(FACT: I always wear very expensive shoes with a cheap dress. You must.)
I couldn’t wait to see the hottest bitch in Miami. We made our way through the lobby, then exited—via some extremely heavy glass doors—into the back.
I am now going to insert a deluge of photos so you can understand how enthralling it is to approach her.
You already saw the far-away image at the top of the column. Now: closer...
Closer...
She's gargantuan—like an elephant at the zoo. I wish I'd put something in my photo to show scale.
I introduced Julia.
“This is the hottest bitch in Miami," I said. Julia nodded.
The dinner wasn't outdoors like I'd figured it would be. It was inside: at the restaurant Pao by Paul Qui.
My friend and I ascended the stairs. Then we entered the party—masks all the way on.
*****
As previously established, I knew—the second I read about the super-spreader socialite dinner—that I'd attend. I also knew I'd write about going, too—even though doing so might get me fucking cancelled. I really don't know.
So here we are.
My "dinner party" report is actually pretty tame.
Did anyone ask to take our temperature or request our negative covid test results? Of course not.
Instead, the socialite Libbie locked eyes with me right away and gave me a big (mask-less) smile and a wave—like we were old friends—right when I walked in.
“Me?” I mouthed.
“Yes!” She mouthed back.
Goddammit. I was instantly charmed. This is Cat Marnell’s BEAUTYSHAMBLES, okay? It’s not New York Times’ The Ethicist. Glamorous women destroy me!
Libbie's new collection of mesh hats were right at the front for the taking. I scooped one:
"Drink?" A (masked) waiter said.
"Thanks." I took a large can of Beach Juice rosé with a paper straw.
Then I walked around. Every event I've ever attended at FAENA has looked like a bananas production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and this party was no different.
My favorite thing about the decor at the dinner were the freshly clipped plants and flowers painted gold.
They were all real plants. I checked.
The star of the show—besides Libbie, of course—was the Damien Hirst unicorn sculpture, Golden Myth:
Look at the ceiling above it in my photo—at the colors! See what I'm talking about? Ugh. I’d like to meet Miami Beach’s top lighting directors and enthusiastically thank them from six feet away. The magic they create…
In the end, I was formally introduced to aqua-caftan (kimono?)-clad Libbie, but barely spoke to her at all afterwards (which I deeply regret).
I did hang with the brilliant Nate Freeman, my friend who writes Wet Paint from Art Net. He looked great in his mask and cream suit! His column is icy-cool; in real life, Nate is the warmest person.
I also hung out with Anthony Haden-Guest, the party boy writer-turned-nightlife senior statesman who has shared club circuits with everyone from Andy Warhol to Bret Easton Ellis.
I’d met AHG almost ten years ago at a previous Art Basel Miami Beach thing—a bizarre bodybuilders-and-graffiti-themed party I wrote up for xoJane—but he didn’t remember me from that.
He knew “who” I was, which was cool. (Sometimes I really can’t believe how far I’ve come!)
“But tell me about your book, my dear,” he said, when I mentioned how long I’d owned the silver hardback edition of The Last Party: Studio 54, Disco, and the Culture of the Night.
Writers have to talk about their own books so much that we are bored to death of doing so.
“It’s a party girl Condé Nast memoir…” I trailed off. (Like I said: bored.)
AHG nodded. Soon enough, he was telling me throwback publishing stories in his lovely English accent.
“When I met Anna Wintour, she was the fashion director at Sassy...” Anna never worked at Sassy, but I wasn’t correcting him. “Anna’s husband called me when they were breaking up and said, ‘Anthony, Anna has no empathy...’”
I cackled. (I still don’t know which of Anna’s dudes he was talking about—if this was an old story or a more recent one. But who cares?)
Back inside, we kept our masks on until we were seated for dinner. I gagged down a piece of spaghetti or something.
The day after the party, Page Six reported that Libbie and "legendary bon vivant" Anthony Haden-Guest scaled "a multimillion-dollar golden unicorn sculpture by Damien Hirst to take a photo", but “management and security freaked out."
I am stealing their photos.
Debauchery!
*****
Unfortunately, I didn’t stick around long enough to see the art-climbing.
(Someone told me later that week that Anthony Haden-Guest was on molly—at age 83—when he did that. I am only repeating this information because he has been openly raging for sixty years and I really don't think he cares.)
I had to edit in the morning, so I did an Irish goodbye and broke out at 11 PM.
Byeee... I said—in my head—to the hottest bitch in Miami.
I changed into flat shoes in the Lyft. Then I went to the Walgreens across from my hotel and bought Skinny Pop.
Then I walked back to my hotel. The moon was out...
I watched TMZ Live on my computer and took melatonin. And that was the night.
*****
Spoiler alert: it is six days later and I have tested negative for covid.
I got tested at the Convention Center in South Beach before my return flight. Currently, I'm quarantining at a shitty hotel back in New York—and getting tested again on Friday.
Still...I'm sure I'm not in your good graces.
Would it help if I reveal the awesome drugstore eye makeup I used to create my "Libbie party" look?
No? Well, guess what; I am going to do it anyway.
First, I applied my mom's Shiseido Synchro Glow Luminizing Fluid Foundation in Neutral 3 (she gave me the last of her bottle over Thanksgiving) with my fingers. I set it—using a Walgreens foam triangle sponge—with Charlotte Tilbury Airbrush Flawless Finish Skin Perfecting Powder #2, Medium. (This is also a sheer powder—a bit too sheer for my usual nighttime look, so it's not my #1—but all CT products are good.)
Then, I took my finger and rubbed it on all the different shades in this Wet 'n' Wild ColorIcon Palette in Nude Awakening. (I had expensive eye shadow with me, too, but I prefer this kit of mixed browns and blacks). I patted the black-brown mix on both lids with my fingers until I had a smoky look. (Sometimes I use brushes, but I don't need them.) I also dipped a brow-wand (like this one) into the powders to swipe through my brows to darken them.
I used brown eyeliner pencil on top and bottom and in the rims; obnoxiously, I am not ID-ing the product here because I'm saving it for another story. I added Prestige Liquid Eyeliner in Black-Brown on top along the lash line. Just pile the layers of stuff on; it's all the same color!
I applied black Great Lash Mascara (not my fave, but fine). Then I added Ardell Wispies lashes with the white Duo glue. (I always use Wispies when I'm going out at night.)
For my lip, I used an old Laura Mercier brown-ish lip pencil to over-line my mouth a bit; I truly can't even read the shade name; sorry! Then I dotted a bit of a fuchsia in the middle (I do this look a lot—it's not for everyone but it works for me). For the pink, I used a tiny bit of The Sexiest Beauty MatteSheen S-Proof Liquid Lipstick in Rosebud. (Random company—they hit me up on social and sent it to me.)
What I was missing (because I didn't have it): eyelash curler, concealer, an eyeshadow brush.
What I never use: highlighter, makeup brushes for face, blush, bronzer, primer, et. al.
*****
So, there we have it. Thoughts on me traveling to Miami during the second wave? On socialites? On drugstore makeup? On your favorite places to get cheap dresses? Tell me in comments. I write everybody back.
XO CAT