remembering the radiant child

greetings,

This should have been written weeks ago. Actually it should have been written over 20something years ago. Let me explain. As strange and weird as this must sound, I remember the day that Andy Warhol died (Feb 27 1987...who the hell is Andy Warhol right?) I remember the strange white haired dude, he looked like my Adv. English Teacher, I can quite vividly recall the imagery of his strange body of work, that blended perfectly with the culture of the pastel 80's. The Multi-colored Marilyn Monroe with six images, oozing with pinks, turquoise, yellows, purple and whites, with the oval fire-truck red lips puckered up and ready to kiss the young black teenager. A recent suburban transplant from North Side St.Louis, I was dizzy being amongst all the young white girls 1 out of 4 looking like a young Elizabeth Shue from the original Karate Kid. It was a trip. I remember his painting of the Campbell Soup Can, his films, as well as his social networking with many celebrities, a successful career spanning nearly three decades . His eccentricity was perfect for my introduction into to the world of the suburbs, white girls, alternative and classic rock. It was the year of discovering Hendrix. (Indeed I had met the father of Prince!!! )
Watching the news reports of the passing of an obvious cultural/artistic icon, I did not know that in a quiet loft in New York, filled with future, present and past artistic masterpieces, an estranged friend of the late Warhol deeply mourned the death. The two were not on speaking terms when Warhol suddenly passed, so the news hit him devastatingly hard. His name was Jean-Michel Basquiat, who in five years had shot to stardom in the Art World. He and Warhol had developed a familial relationship, which culminated in several collaborative works between the artists. While Warhol was well renowned the world over, the young Basquiat (Haitian and Puerto Rican descent) faced the obvious racial and cultural attitudes within a stiff and euro-centric art world. He had received a great deal of world-wide recognition in a very short time , however, Basquiat was looking for greater artistic clout that collaborations with Warhol was sure to offer him. Unfortunately, the collaborations were met with negative reviews, which in turn alienated the young, immensely talented, confused, "exceptional black man" (look up Dyson's definition). Basquiat struggled with Heroin, identity and the haunting duppy's that celebrity status methodically brings, to torment and entice the fragile artist. Jean Michel tried numerous times to kick, but ultimately lost his fight a year and some moths later August 12, 1988....on that day I can't recall hearing anything on the news about his career nor his death....remembering the radiant child...to be continued.