Miami reinvents itself yet again—this time as the newest home of the international art world. Julia Chaplin takes a tour of its eye-popping collections, galleries, architecture, and design districts

It was almost sundown and I had just wandered into the Beach House, a hotel in Bal Harbour, for "Pillow Talk," a seasonal art series. I was slightly late and very nervous as I entered a crowded parlor; I'd stressed about what to wear—dressy or casual?—and after settling on white slacks, had raced here through spring-break traffic. The series brings in legendary artists, such as Jenny Holzer and Ross Bleckner, to spend an evening discussing their work in a reasonably intimate setting. Tonight, David Salle would be holding forth; several of the world's most admired private collectors would also be present. I was braced for a night of stuffy pretentiousness.

"Would you like a mojito?" a man with a long brown ponytail, wearing paint-splashed Levi's, asked me. About fifty people of various ages, countries, and backgrounds were lounging on wicker couches and oversized cushions on the floor, their footwear ranging from alligator Manolos to ratty flip-flops. From a dimly lit barroom off to the side came the festive buzz of blenders whipping up tropical cocktails. The hosts, Don and Mera Rubell, were passing out drinks, and the scene was refreshingly laid-back.

Owners of this and several other hotels and major collectors of contemporary art, the Rubells are one of the pioneering families of the Miami art scene. They came here from New York City ten years ago and were the first to move their collection into Wynwood, a depressed industrial area across Biscayne Bay that is now an up-and-coming artists" enclave. Their exemplary artwork is on display in a converted Drug Enforcement Administration confiscation warehouse.

Their daughter, Jennifer, who helps run the family businesses, was on hand as well. When she found me voyeuristically mesmerized on the sidelines, she offered to show me around. A young man I had noticed standing in the corner, with chiseled features framed by long, dyed-black hair, turned out to be a local art star by the name of Cooper. The waiflike guy in a T-shirt and jeans was Norberto Rodriguez, an artist whose parents had emigrated from Cuba. George Lindemann, Jr., a multimillionaire collector and museum benefactor in his thirties, was sitting cross-legged on the floor joking with Tom Healy, a poet, collector, and prominent figure on the international art circuit.

When it was time for Salle to begin his talk, Mera Rubell led him to a stool beside a slide projector in the front of the room. "Our only requirement," she announced, "is that the artist drink a mojito first and not give a long, prepared lecture."

To assist me in my reporting, the Rubells asked me to a dinner for thirty that they were holding on the Beach House terrace overlooking the ocean. Curators, young interns from the Rubells" Wynwood art warehouse, and museum directors ate family style, passing platters of seafood and pasta. I was seated next to Bonnie Clearwater, the director of Miami's Museum of Contemporary Art.