The women come and go, talking of Michelangelo

Autumn's all night contemporary art thing has been celebrated, criticized, attended, boycotted, and declared irrelevant. Everyone has an opinion on Nuit Blanche. It has been called over-branded, over-crowded, and too-905 friendly. It has also lined our streets with smiling faces and out-of-towners who, for once, have something positive to say about Toronto.

I weighed in with my own experience already, but decided to assemble what Toronto's Twitterati had to say about this year's Nuit Blanche. Parties, crowds and criticism follows:

The art kids were prepared to party, regardless of what nature had to say

And some developed a bit of a crush on Toronto's all-night arts-thing

Not everyone was a fan of Koons' commercial centerpiece (namely this Disney actor tweeting to Degrassi's Lauren Collins)

And even when the art was good, the crowds were overkill

Of the traffic: it was easy to tell the patrons from the party-goers

Torontoist and Art Stars provided live coverage, including the social observations of Ms. Ashley Carter

Morale seemed up, even if what the city saw, well, sucked, as party-boy promoter Matt Sims thinks it did

For some, like Shirk Magazine's Brittney, the night had a movie script ending

But by the time the festival settled, most just wanted sleep

Late nights end on the lawn

Rain taunted the city all afternoon, but the last of the drops fell with sunset. By then the crowds had begun to swarm, as if art were the only solution to the latest epidemic outbreak. At every angle, all night, we consumed as much as possible. The goal was to eat the whole evening, and wake full in the morning.

Assembled, separated, cell phones, cobblestone, and concrete: every footstep at Nuit Blanche begs to get lost. Inevitably it happens. The decision to head home occurred on a streetcar going in the opposite direction, overcrowded with day-time transit people. The homeless, bar regulars and even artists have been overtaken by couples with caravans parked in driveways a go train trip away. As for the drunk, the young, and the high heeled entertainment district: that was their first taste.

Still, I got what the city paid for. After the performances, floating rabbits, fire, costumes, religious art, and 8-second exposures, I end up alone, late at night, standing on the third floor of an unassuming building filled with graffiti. At my feet is a glowing green lawn coupled with a picket fence and finished off with a few spare tires and an open toilet seat.

I ignore the rotation of touring art eaters and think about the instillation. If the artist was here, I’d grab them by the shoulders, shake him, and say:

”Yeah man, me too.”

Lights will guide you (somewhere).

Nuit Blanche was the type of party where all anyone would talk about was the next party they were going to. It was a friendlier, more convenient backdrop for the Saturday night gutters of parking lots.

As I was quietly scribbling in a notebook on a bench in the back of a gallery, a young boy came up to me and asked me, "Are you an artist?"

It summed up everything.

"No, sorry."