The Library of Us: A Meditation on Connection and Life at Art Basel Miami Beach

By Alexia Cretoiu

December 5, 2025

Image Courtesy: Pinterest

Amid the whirlwind of Art Basel, where every corner pulses with energy, spectacle, and excess, Es Devlin’s The Library of Us at the Faena Miami Beach feels like a quiet heartbeat. A 20-foot-tall rotating bookshelf, housing 2,500 carefully selected books, it draws you in not just as an art object but as a space for reflection, connection, and memory.

As I stepped onto the circular platform, the library slowly turned, bringing me face to face with strangers. With each rotation, I noticed the subtle shifts in proximity, the fleeting eye contact, the shared curiosity. It was a reminder that life, like the revolving books, moves forward, pulling us past one another, yet tethering us together in invisible ways. The triangular structure, floating in a circular pool of water just feet from the Atlantic, felt both monumental and fragile, a meditation on impermanence. Pages fluttered in the salty breeze, and for a moment, it struck me how delicately knowledge, culture, and memory exist in the world, always at the mercy of time and tide.

The experience was more than visual. Audio readings from the books, some banned, some deeply personal to Devlin, filled the air, giving voice to words that might otherwise go unheard. As someone who is naturally empathetic and sensitive, I was struck by the resonance of two ideas that lingered in my mind long after: “People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, people will never forget how you made them feel,” and “No greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” These words reminded me of the importance of sharing, of connection, and of the emotional weight we all carry.

Hearing those words echoed through the library made me confront the quiet truths of human experience. We move through life leaving impressions that are often invisible, yet their impact lingers far longer than any action or statement. Every interaction carries weight, whether we recognize it or not, and the way we make others feel becomes a part of their story just as much as our own. The second quote, about the untold story, reminded me of the internal landscapes we all carry, the thoughts, dreams, and experiences we keep hidden out of fear, shame, or hesitation. Each untold story is a fragment of ourselves withheld from the world, a piece of our humanity unshared. Together, these ideas underscored a profound responsibility: to honor connection, to express ourselves honestly, and to recognize that vulnerability, the act of sharing who we are and how we feel, is not weakness but a bridge to empathy, understanding, and shared human experience.

Sitting there, watching the library rotate, I thought about the untold stories we carry inside us, the moments of joy, loss, and growth, the experiences that shape us yet often remain unspoken. Devlin’s installation felt like a metaphor for that: each book a life, a memory, a voice; each rotation a gentle insistence that life moves forward, that we must keep turning, keep sharing, and keep feeling. It made me reflect on why I feel compelled to share my own stories and experiences, to honor those untold moments and to create a bridge of empathy with others.

The Library of Us is, in essence, an invitation. It asks us to pause amid the noise, to notice the people around us, to engage with words, with ideas, with each other. It asks us to reflect on growth, on impermanence, and on the invisible threads that connect us. Walking away, I carried a quiet but powerful realization: even in a fleeting glance with a stranger, even in moments of stillness amid the chaos, connection is possible, and stories, once shared, can make a difference.