NF:  In my experience, it was primarily a bunch of galleries in Coral Gables that showed mediocre South American painting. There wasn't much that interested my friends and me until some people started creating alternative art spaces in Bird Road, this remote warehouse district west of the Miami International Airport. Space Cadette — a record label and venue — had a little gallery in front, which is where I first started showing in Miami. The Box started soon after, just around the corner — they kept that going for years doing interesting projects. We were just a bunch of kids no one took seriously. I didn't think Miami was somewhere I could come back to after finishing school, but my hatred of winter brought me home. The return of other friends and these beginnings of a scene made for an inspiring group that took form in the later '90s.

NF:  At the time, Fred was one of the few people who took notice of what we were doing out on the fringes of the Miami art world. Bert and I worked together at the Rubell Family Collection, and we had so many ideas since we were constantly talking and thinking about art. We came up with that show, which also included another photographer, Shannon Spadaro, and proposed it to Fred. Things really took off from there. Miami is thought of as a transient city, so this was the first time that a largish group of Miami-bred artists were continuing to stay — or at least still identifying with the city. Fred was the main advocate for all these new voices.

NF:  For me, working there was a total education in contemporary art. I knew and loved artists like Mike Kelley and Paul McCarthy, and the Rubells opened the door for me to a more varied group of intense and powerful artists. The work I made never seemed to have a place outside of a young, post-punk, abject context, but they brought the guts of the art world to Miami. They showed young artists that we could make uncompromising work and have a place in the contemporary art world. Miami has so many superficial and beauty-oriented aspects, so by opening their collection to the public, they introduced the possibility of going further and deeper culturally than I ever thought possible unless I left the city.

NF:  It was actually pretty amazing because all the big shows people had planned still happened, so many people who planned to come for the fair came anyway. It seemed like those who were there at that time were true believers in art. Everyone was vibrant and intelligent, and I felt so inspired and ripe with possibility.

NF:  It gave so many more talented and outstanding artists a chance to be taken seriously. At the same time, I think the scary side of the art world is very clear here. While ABMB is a great place to see loads of quality art, it's still a fair — a place for commerce. Most people see the fair as the epitome of culture here, and even though it's been a gateway for locals to come to value art, the value is often assigned in dollars and the potential for resale. That upsets me. Jim recently reminded me of a great quote he read, somewhere along the lines of, "Art is not a mirror to the world — it's a hammer." I worry that truth is getting lost.

NF:  At the time, we had so many great opportunities, and the studio represented one of them. We had recently lost the house we shared, as did our neighbors, the guys who lived in this great alternative art space, "the House." The whole block got bulldozed to make way for condos, so it was a time of much upheaval for all of us. Craig Robins at Dacra, a real-estate developer, was super supportive of our situation, and we ended up with a space way bigger than we needed. We wanted to pass that generosity on, especially in the wake of losing "the House" space to such speedy gentrification. We recognized that we had many peers who were exciting and inspiring, but you might see a piece in a group show here and there without getting to know the full range of their work. We built out the space so we could invite people to do solo shows where they could do absolutely whatever they wanted, without any commercial pressure.

JD:  I first came to Miami when Larry Rinder guest curated for the Moore Space. He invited Ara Peterson and me to do a show there in 2004, during Art Basel Miami Beach, so we came and checked out the space during the July before the fair. Coincidentally, Shamin Momin was there to give a lecture. I remember Ara and I tried to take a walk around the block and had to stop to catch our breath. It was so hot. I didn't know much about the city beyond Miami Bass, Rat Bastard, and Harry Pussy, but moving here seemed like a better option than having to date Naomi long-distance forever.

JD:  The only difference is that you don't hear as much German spoken in Home Depot during the non-Basel times of the year. The hurricane season ends in November, only to be replaced with an incoming barrage of fairs and festivals hitting the Miami coast until June. There's an existential sensibility that rides with the convertible top down here. It's in the plants, in the heavy air, in the heat and bikinis. The sense of one cohesive scene is slippery. What connects the fragments together is that when it gets bad, "I got your back, bro."

NF:  Well, it's so far from everything that it's almost an island. Bands rarely come here because it's still an eight-to-nine-hour drive once you enter Florida. Anything that happens here that can't fit in a suitcase is homegrown. There's been a lot of camaraderie and loyalty between artists here, though the beastly art-as-commodity side of contemporary art has mauled some of that. Bhakti Baxter and Jason Hedges, who curated both Co Operative and Confluence, came up with the idea for those shows as a way to foster the experimentation, encouragement, sharing of ideas, and conversation we valued as a community before there was a spotlight on it.

JD:  The goldenrod plant produces the most rubber per energy input. Thomas Edison found this out. He also invented the electric chair. Miami artists have to huddle together for when the Big One comes. Bring a flashlight, a radio, peanut butter, and a flask of whiskey — we'll need muscle for the sand bags.