At the MLB Maria Livia Brunelli Gallery, they describe a very intense, almost overwhelming first day, with a constant stream of collectors and journalists and an initial sale already concluded. At the Merkur Gallery, making their debut, the reaction is immediate: ‘I’ve never seen so many people at a fair, with enquiries about prices coming in from the very first day.’ At the 193 Gallery, too, the pace is fast, with works barely unveiled and already in demand, and a genuine curiosity about artists who bring diverse geographies and identities to the fair.

The audience is there. But that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s enough.

You only need to linger a few minutes longer in these very conversations to realise that this sense of fullness does not necessarily equate to intensity. Giuseppe Lezzi of M77 puts it bluntly: all show and no substance. Silvia Guastalla speaks of a good opening – plenty of people, a few sales – but by the very next day the mood has shifted, cooled, become more uncertain. At the Primo Marella Gallery, the tone is even more stark: the fair is a bit subdued; people are there but there’s a lack of momentum, a lack of that immediate decisiveness that used to be more common, and the time it takes to make a choice is lengthening, shifting away from here.

Trade fairs are no longer the place where actual sales take place.

This gap between presence and decision often recurs. At the Alvise delle Piane gallery, it is made abundantly clear: it is impossible to imagine that profit is made here; the fair serves to establish a presence, to build, and to initiate relationships that develop over the following months. P420 also puts it bluntly: here, one does not truly understand an artist; rather, one constructs a dialogue, a mental map, a sense of direction.

And it is precisely this system that holds everything together. Miart works because it is in Milan, and that is no small matter. Institutions, foundations, galleries and the public all come together here, and it is this ecosystem that sustains the fair and enables it to continue to exist.

The problem isn’t the quantity. It’s the focus.

As you wander through the halls, the fair feels like a vast, bustling city, yet one without a centre. At MLB, they put it simply: there’s a lot to see, and to really appreciate it, you need time. You move about a lot, you look at a lot, but it’s hard to plan a route, and it’s easy to find yourself following numbers, corridors and directions, trying to figure out where you are rather than what you’re actually seeing.

It’s a bit all over the place.

It’s a phrase that keeps cropping up, spoken by collectors, echoed by galleries, and picked up by those who wander through the fair without really managing to stop.

The theme exists. But you can’t really see it.

This year’s theme is jazz, under the title New Directions. On paper, it’s a very clear promise: transformation, openness, the ability to take a standard and push it further. The reference to John Coltrane and Miles Davis is anything but merely decorative. They weren’t musicians who simply stayed within the confines of jazz; they were musicians who pushed the boundaries of jazz, challenged it, transformed it, and constantly changed its direction.

That is exactly the point.

But inside the exhibition, this tension is hardly noticeable.

When someone truly interprets it, you notice it straight away. At M77, the theme enters the stand and becomes visible, weaving a narrative. At the Alvise delle Piane gallery, it takes the form of a carefully crafted improvisation, in a space that seeks its own identity somewhere between the natural and the artificial. But these are isolated instances; they do not form a coherent system, nor do they establish a shared language.

On paper, it all works. In practice, not so much.

The theme is there, the narrative is there, the story is structured. But the crucial element is missing: curation as the actual construction of the experience. Curation is not about declaring a theme; it is about shaping the space, creating connections, guiding the gaze, and establishing a rhythm.

Without this step, everything tends to become rather bland. The stands follow one after another, often well-organised and professional, but all rather similar. The artworks are there – some of them significant – but the way they are presented rarely gives a sense of direction. Images pile up and one loses one’s bearings. It is a tangible, shared feeling that affects not only the public but also those in the know.

Without an identity, the fair fails to stand out.

So the issue changes. It is no longer a question of the quality of the artworks or the galleries – those are there and they are solid – but a question of identity. If you remove the name ‘miart’ and replace it with another, what really changes? The artworks remain, the galleries remain, the format remains, but there is nothing left that is immediately recognisable.

This is where you can see the difference compared to Art Basel or Frieze, which are not just art fairs but established, recognisable, carefully curated systems. Miart today still feels, above all, like a market held in a warehouse: well-run, well-organised and bustling, but still lacking in a cohesive, curated experience.

And without experience, it doesn’t become a format.

It remains tied to Milan, to its surroundings, to its strength; it works because it is here, because everything around it supports it, but precisely for this reason it risks failing to truly evolve.

At this point, the question is inevitable.

Miart works, and that’s clear, but perhaps it’s no longer enough, because at this point the question is not just whether the fair can hold its own, but whether it wants to remain a market or truly become an event.