Basquiat
: Johnny Depp
The following text is from the catalog of a Basquiat exhibition
(Paris 2003)
Basquiat Paintings-for
Enrico-under the influence of pork
by Johnny
Depp
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 to 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 peak
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
of the 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 eternety, 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 drownd 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 massages 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.
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