On
a turbulent flight out of Vienna, en route to Paris, I was
asked to
write a couple of pages about the works of Jean-Michel
Basquiat. The passengers on this bumpy journey—Enrico Navarra,
Sebastian Moreu, and myself were in the throes of what happened to be
an enormous Austrian pork
hock . . . at least we hoped it
was. We’d
acquired the beast at a small, run down, carnival-like market on the
edge of Vienna. Our
feast was primitive and ferocious. Speaking for
myself, I can honestly say that it had been at least 24 hours since
any solid had slithered down my gullet and my appetite was ravenous.
And now, here we were, bearing down on this greasy pig meat and all
too grateful for it, even as the plane dipped and jilted us around
like kewpee dolls.
The brain has been fed well that day, having just seen a collection of Jean-Michel Basquiat’s works and then on to another museum for a quick peek at a huge Warhol exhibition. All this information, in the matter of a few hours, is enough stimulation to drive any man to the nearest carnival-like market and throw down all of his coin for as much pork as humanly possible. So we did just that . . .
Between
bites, Enrico brought up the idea of me writing something for the new
and updated big book of Basquiat paintings he was about to
re-publish. He said that if I wrote the piece, I should, at all
costs, try to avoid writing about Basquiat’s life. Everyone, it
seems, has a tendency to write more about the man than the work
itself. This seemed fair enough, especially since I didn’t know the
guy and had never met him, so the only thing that I really have is my
opinion and my take on the legacy of what he left
behind . . . in art.
That, and of course, we seemed to share the same affinity for pork
products. However, it is almost impossible to speak about his works
without it becoming a crude dissection of the man. On any
canvas or
drawing, he spilled
himself . . . maybe even without
wanting to. His
thoughts, his feelings—however fleeting, unfinished or
incomplete
are captured in that moment when he connected with his target. Early
drawings show that he even literally shed his own blood onto the
paper as proof of his commitment to the piece, his
art . . . an
acceptance of his destiny. A blood fusion, like a voodoo ritual,
making the man and his art inseparable, an unholy bond merging the
two into one.
If we really get down to brass tacks here, we can begin by saying that Basquiat is not for everyone. Much like pork is not for everyone. You either get it, or you don’t. One either loves with a passion, or despises with a vengeance. I’ve never heard of anyone saying, Well, he’s okay, I guess . . . No, to my knowledge, that doesn’t happen with Basquiat. This is a very difficult result to achieve in any art form. The capability of not merely floating nicely in the middle, like a medium-tempered, semi-well-intentioned, virtually-invisible neighbor, whose passivity grates on ones very being, but rather, the ability to speed like a bullet into the brains and bodies of the many jaded, and therefore ruined, intellectual art-hag and simpleton alike. That is the objective. It is a game of hit or miss. And when this motherfucker hits, he hits hard, on many levels.
There
are some of his works that kill me and some
that do absolutely nothing for me. But once you are touched by him,
you are burned into either a kind of emotional stillness, or you may
find yourself on the verge of doubling over into a painful belly
laugh. Because
as much honesty and history and life experience that
he spewed into his drawings, paintings, objects, writings,
whatever . . . he had a killer
sense of humor. Even in some of his most
poignant works, his devilish sense of the absurd came through like
gangbusters, completely unfiltered. As did his heartfelt
disappointments in the human race, and his hopes for it. The
signature imagery that comes to mind: the crown, the halo of thorns,
portraits stripped of flesh, vital organs pumping blood—blue
veined or devoid of any life, his childhood heroes Hank Aaron and
Charlie Parker, etc . . . sainted
for all eternity, the homage to his
ancestry, endless references to his
childhood . . . he splayed himself
open like a can of sardines for all of us to pick at, as he, in fact,
devoured us. He was never truly able to hide his feelings or
influence in the work. He openly acknowledged Cy Twombly, Picasso,
the word juxtaposition of William Burroughs and Brian Gyson, Andy
Warhol, Leonardo da Vinci, Be Bop Jazz, T.V. programs and cartoons.
He sometimes even used the drawings of his friend’s children as
inspirations. His deep understanding and profound confusion with the
American culture that he practically drowned himself in, was also an
infinite reservoir from which he could draw upon for his chaotic
assaults.
Looking at these works, one cannot escape without feeling the almost perverse sense of care taken to raw detail with what seems an acute distracted concentration. However crude the image may be or how fast it appears to have been executed—every line, mark, scratch, drip, footprint, fingerprint, word, letter, rip and imperfection is there because he allowed it to be there.
His
paintings and drawings come alive for me every time I look at them,
and if Jean-Michel Basquiat had stuck around for a bit longer, I like
to think that he might have eventually moved into animation, for a
time at least, combining his music, his language and drawings into an
arena seemingly more palatable to the rank and file, but one that
would have opened the floodgates for his messages to attack the
masses. Something akin to Lenny Bruce’s Thank You Mask Man, an
ingenious weapon that enabled him to scatter his divine tirades out
into the world without the hammer of censorship slamming him hard.
Had Jean-Michel Basquiat lived through the fatal times that eventually took him away from this world, there’s no telling what he would’ve been able to do. The possibilities are endless.
Nothing can replace the warmth and immediacy of Basquiat’s poetry, or the absolute questions and truths that he delivered. The beautiful and disturbing music of his paintings, the cacophony of his silence that attacks our senses, will live far beyond our breath. Basquiat was, and is music . . . primitive and ferocious.
J.D.