Brasilia at Midnight

It was a swanky house in the heart of the Jardins, one of São Paulo's posh districts. While some guests twerked frenetically in the living room-cum-dance floor surrounded by expensive works of art, others made cocaine runs to the nearest bathroom. Outside, in the unseasonably sizzling weather, some got naked and jumped into the big, bright pool framed by tropical shrubbery. The sound of cocktail shakers over owing with caipirinhas sometimes pierced the heavy bass of the music coming from the house. There were artists, gallerists, collectors, and writers like myself. We left as the sun began to rise, and this was only a few days into this year's SP-Arte week, packed with museum openings, events, and the headline art fair. It would have seemed like any other art world shindig were it not for the performance that began to erupt just outside the gate. As guests stumbled out the door, still in a haze, an artist began to shout. “Não vai ter golpe,” he screamed, his voice bouncing off the high walls of the fortress-like mansions all around. There will be no coup.