Sante D'Orazio and I strolled through Art Basel Miami Beach at the Convention Center yesterday. I was concentrating on male splendor and he on the distaff side, equally splendid, for Vogue Italia. The first day of an art fair is the big day, when the heavy hitters check in early to get first dibs on the historic offerings. We took hundreds of pictures, as there were a great many stylish individualists strolling through the art. Everyone we asked for a shot complied, with the exception of Keanu Reeves. If he wasn't a movie star you wouldn't have noticed him. The real stars of this firmament were the dealers and collectors.

When we spotted Tim Hunt, the dapper curator of the Andy Warhol Foundation and a spectacular practitioner of bespoke clothing, we wanted to get him in front of one of the boss's works. I figured at any given spot in the Convention Center there had to be a Warhol within 75 feet. I was right. Here's a nice, late painting at Gagosian.

Here's New York's most intriguing and amusing dealer, Mr. Gavin Brown, proprietor of Gavin Brown's Enterprise and Gavin Brown's Passerby, the only gallery with a bar in it. Gavin is the hirsute chap on the left, and he's with two wry friends. My Swiss-cheese-like memory bank lost their names, but not their charm. Today I'll be toting a pad. By the way, my theory is that the handsome Mr. Brown's beard and its effect on the ladies is substantially responsible for the vogue in untrammeled facial hair.

I don't know if the collectors dress so colorfully because they are aesthetes or because they are in Miami. I suspect a bit of both. Here are some fellows who caught my eye with their chromatic splendor.

The shirt, glasses, and crocodile shoes all match. These gents were together. Orange top. Orange bottom.

This young gent had a terrific pink shirt on and wonderful shoes. Should have had a close-up of them. He's laughing at something I said, not the Art Newspaper, despite the wit therein from writer Adrian Dannat.

No shrinking violet, this gentleman.

We can't all be gym rats, and there is something to be said for substance. This man proves my theory: If you've got it, flaunt it.

This nearly-metallic sport jacket looked even better in person.

And here are my friends Peter Brant and Stephanie Seymour Brant. Peter is not only America's most feared polo player, he is also one of the most important collectors on the planet. He was a pal of Andy Warhol's, and my old boss at Interview Magazine, which he still owns. The Brants are standing in front of one of those Warhol self-portraits where his hair seems to be electrocuted. You know who Stephanie is. She doesn't do much supermodeling these days except for exceptional gigs. She's a busy mom and second-opinion on the art collection. More later!