{"id":5155,"date":"2010-09-24T17:20:08","date_gmt":"2010-09-24T21:20:08","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=5155"},"modified":"2010-09-26T12:21:58","modified_gmt":"2010-09-26T16:21:58","slug":"good-bye-to-all-that-the-basquiat-cult","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2010\/09\/24\/good-bye-to-all-that-the-basquiat-cult\/","title":{"rendered":"Good-Bye to All That: The Basquiat Cult"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Jean-Michel Basquiat, from \u201cTuxedo,\u201d in issue 87, Spring 1983.<\/p><\/div>\n

Jean-Michel Basquiat would be turning fifty years old this fall. Instead, he has been dead for twenty-two years, the victim, at twenty-seven, of a 1988 heroin overdose the art world witnessed more or less firsthand. Basquiat\u2019s crack-up begat a frenzy of speculation that drove that decade\u2019s art-market crash (since the rise of the contemporary auction ecosystem, there seems to be about one every decade). His funeral reportedly featured more art dealers than mourners; Jeffrey Deitch\u2014now the director of LA M<\/small>oCA<\/small>, then the high-flying founder of Citibank\u2019s art-advising arm\u2014gave the eulogy. According to Phoebe Hoban\u2019s detailed account in her unsparing book Basquiat: A Quick Killing in Art<\/em>, the ruined artist left behind \u201c917 drawings, 25 sketchbooks, 85 prints, and 171 paintings.\u201d That, and a counterfeit fable of overnight sensation for biographers, filmmakers, and groupies to pore over.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

At last count, the obsession with Basquiat\u2019s rise and fall has produced seven books (not including exhibition catalogues) and three feature films. The most recent item is a dewy-eyed documentary directed by a one-time Basquiat crony turned moviemaker named Tamra Davis (her other films include Billy Madison<\/em>, starring Adam Sandler, and Half Baked<\/em>, starring Dave Chappelle). Titled Jean-Michel Basquiat: The Radiant Child<\/em>, Davis\u2019s idealized effort situates the raucous highs and lows of Basquiat\u2019s life in the make-believe of a children\u2019s story. A gussied-up tale of troubled genius, The Radiant Child<\/em> repeats the trope of Basquiat-as-tragic-artist originated by the cutthroat eighties art scene and later canonized by schlocky Basquiat hagiographies. <\/p>\n

Basquiat\u2019s brief real-life art career reads like a druggy Reader\u2019s Digest<\/em> version of Lust for Life<\/em>. He did several things well, including paint frantic pictures of downtown anomie. But he was even more interesting\u2014and useful\u2014as a kind of kamikaze entertainer. An art star in paint-splattered Armani who placed vomit pails near canvases so that he could simultaneously work and smoke cocaine, Basquiat routinely freaked out, nodded off at social engagements, and alternately attracted and alienated people by acting out\u2014a performance of the age-old role of tortured artist that doubled, for his paying audience of dealers and collectors, as a portrait of racial unease. Basquiat\u2019s Caligula impersonation proved irresistible to those who wanted to exploit him financially or socially. Either way, he was fucked.<\/p>\n

If Basquiat\u2019s affectless buddy Andy Warhol\u2014with his Big Brother<\/em>\u2013like films and camp Factory version of Hollywood stardom\u2014is the father of reality television, then Basquiat is the classic fatal victim of the body snatching we\u2019ve gotten used to calling celebrity<\/em>, a condition that is as coercive as it is voluntary, instant powdered mass fame. When Warhol biographer Victor Bockris wrote about Basquiat in his book The Life and Death of Andy Warhol<\/em>, he pegged the shooting-star routine with these words: \u201cJean-Michel\u2019s career paralleled many [of Warhol\u2019s] Superstars\u2019\u2014two years of extreme fame, and then disintegration, even death.\u201d<\/p>\n

Today, we hardly mention Warhol\u2019s superstars, except to puzzle over their cold maestro. So why do we still care so much about Jean-Michel? His work retains an undeniable energy and a magpie\u2019s love of art history (Basquiat constantly recycled shiny bits from books that littered the floor of his studio), but the canvases\u2014despite their attractions\u2014remain remarkably beside the point. Simply put, Basquiat was not just young, gifted, and self-destructive, he was also black. A perfect victim of radical chic, Basquiat embodied a kind of radiant hostility, expressed as cagey surliness in public and sporadic rage in his work, that didn\u2019t complicate the bargain\u2014it purified it. The paintings could be as angry as Basquiat wanted them to be; they were still for sale. <\/p>\n

Those sales bought him something: a place in liberal culture that afforded him class privileges in exchange for racial ghost-busting. The last credible name to be attached to the myth of the downtown artist as a dark-arts demiurge\u2014recent applicants have failed to deliver anything like Basquiat\u2019s substance beneath their trucker-hat mannerisms\u2014Jean-Michel\u2019s celebrity continues to radiate the movie version of bohemian New York. A middle-class son of an immigrant accountant, Basquiat embodied his own counter-narrative; like much of his complex life, his race and Haitian origins were also consumed by fame. To paraphrase Roland Gift of the Fine Young Cannibals, Basquiat the art star was not black, he was famous. Except, of course, when he wanted to hail a taxi.<\/p>\n

Christian Viveros-Faun\u00e9 is a New York-based writer and curator. He writes regularly for the<\/em> Village Voice and<\/em> ArtReview magazine and is a visiting professor at Yale University.<\/em><\/p>\n

See Also: \u201cTuxedo<\/a>,\u201d by Jean-Michel Basquiat<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Jean-Michel Basquiat would be turning fifty years old this fall. Instead, he has been dead for twenty-two years, the victim, at twenty-seven, of a 1988 heroin overdose the art world witnessed more or less firsthand. 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