By Ciara LaVelle
By George Martinez
By Kat Bein
By Ciara LaVelle
By Travis Cohen
By Carlos Suarez De Jesus
By Monica McGivern
By Travis Cohen
On one of Wynwood's grittier side streets, a towering Fernando Botero sculpture of a nude male torso squats majestically behind a gated sidewalk, its crotch covered by a fig leaf the width of a hubcap.
Considered a masterpiece by many, the blubbery bronze Adonis, trumpeting the arrival of kingpin dealer Gary Nader's Colección Gary Nader into the suddenly buzzing hood, slows lunchtime traffic to a crawl.
I'm standing outside the eponymously named art impresario's new headquarters that house his $100-million inventory, a place he calls "the biggest art gallery in the world," situated on a strip where curb zombies still hold sway.
A large-scale John Henry steal-beam piece, painted red, juts diagonally from the far wall across the gallery's entrance. The shadow it casts gives the impression of a sundial splitting the parking lot where Nader's spiffy sable Rolls-Royce Phantom bakes in the early afternoon heat.
As one enters the 50,000-square-foot space, the first impression is of a sprawling Hialeah factory commandeered for an ambitious modern and contemporary art fire sale. A staggering cache of Pablo Atchugarry's marbles, along with Mark di Suvero and John Henry pieces, litters the area. Two dozen large paintings and more than twenty bronze and marble sculptures by Botero, featuring his trademark cholesterol-clogged figures, choke the room.
"I have the largest collection of Boteros for sale anywhere," Nader informs as he leads me to his office to point out the prize Matisse gracing the wall opposite the dealer's computer a 1920 oil-on-canvas still life titled Deux Pêches that depicts a pair of peaches on a plate atop a table, a gem valued at $3.5 million.
Once inside his office, I spy yet another Botero, a rare marble equine figure in the half-million-dollar range sitting on his desk. As I look at a Yoshitomo Nara painting of a small girl, Nader fields a phone call from a collector whom he claims to be helping broker the sale of a Botticelli, a renaissance masterpiece the dealer later informs me is one of a few privately held in the world.
"It's a painting of a Madonna and child, and I might have a buyer for $17 million," he says, leaving one wondering whether a Nader domestic has been sprinkling flimflam dust into his breakfast birdseed.
As we embark on the grand tour, the gloating dealer hyperventilates over the $12 million he raked in during his humdinger preopening reception a few weeks earlier. He mentions the sale of a couple of bronzes by Joan Miró and another by Henry Moore, a Jean-Michel Basquiat painting, and a monumental canvas by Chile's master surrealist Roberto Matta.
Walking through the modern masters section, one of several capacious galleries his mammoth space lodges, the dealer waves at a Frank Stella sculpture in a nearby corner and a trove of Amelia Pelaez, Cundo Bermudez, Mario Carreño, and Wifredo Lam paintings on a far wall. "Tell me, where else are you going to see a collection like this?" he triumphantly declares.
Acres of contrasting styles and clashing colors are splashed on soaring raw cinder-block walls. Works by Carlos Capelán, Julio Galán, Carlos Quintana, Guillermo Kuitca, Rufino Tamayo, José Bedia, Manuel Mendive, Albert Oehlen, Sigmar Polke, Anselm Kiefer, Martin Kippenberger, Robert Rauschenberg the art world's elite are draped everywhere.
Trying to keep stride with the fast-talking dynamo as he escorts me to a spectacular Matta mural, I can't help being impressed by the nearly 2000 works Nader has amassed. The Matta, a 1968 work titled Watchman, What of the Night?, is the size of a tractor-trailer and until recently belonged to The Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. The piece appears to depict a pig-iron foundry with multiarmed factory workers toiling at an assembly line under the steely watch of jackbooted guards. Swirls of billowing smoke and fiery orange sparks fill the air while what might be giant turbine engines drone ominously, suggesting an indictment of capitalism.
"It was a mistake for [the Met] to sell a painting like that and probably just to end up buying the work of lesser artists with the money," Nader cracks. He resold it to a private collector for more than a million dollars.
A kaleidoscopic Stella oil-on-canvas painting dated 1968, rendered in pastels and the size of a garage door, hangs nearby. The gallerist informs he is negotiating with the artist for a solo show next year.
A rare Kippenberger latex wall sculpture, of a bathtub with an arm sticking out, displayed on the opposite side of the room is worth $700,000, the dealer explains. A flashy Basquiat costing more than a million dollars rests on a nail around the corner.
Stunned by the whopping price tags of his stock, I ask Nader what type of collector is buttering his bread, and he responds that most of the top-ranked local and international names give him preferred status in their Rolodexes.
"The top fifteen local collectors all come to me; some are in here every other day. I've sold to Prince Charles and Saudi royalty. All the big collectors from Latin America, Europe, and Asia buy from me."
Nader is also quick to add that the heavy-hitting art-dealing powerhouse Nahmad family, known for its London and New York warehouses packed with Impressionist and modern work, has been sniffing at his heels.