In George Sánchez-Calderón’s version of history, the conquistadors, hitherto pleased with the trade winds pulling them across the Atlantic, would be caught in an inexplicable yet suicidal traffic jam somewhere off the coast of Miami. The ships would still be there today.

Since objectivity so embarrassingly often gives the slip to those who speak in its name, I’m happy to propose the following as fantasy: there was a moment in which Miami visual artists had an opportunity to participate in giving form to that subterranean, amorphous, slippery Thing that makes a city distinct. Some would call this Thing a city’s identity.

My several earlier visits to Miami were more motivated by sunlight than art, so any prior perspectives on the city were built upon a platform of ignorance mixed with objectivity. As such, these thoughts of a Northern visiting writer emerged from three cloudlessly enjoyable days in late April — an enlightening opportunity to sample (in very affable and erudite company) the city’s thriving cultural scene.