BASQUIAT
The word on the street was Jean-Michel had a daily need for heroin. He could occasionally skip a day to paint, but of late was stoned a good part of the time. Bernard figured the best way to a junkie’s heart was through his drug habit. Bernard, like all resourceful art dealers, could find drugs. In fact, in the eighties some of his best art buyers were dealing drugs and they paid in cash.
Drug dealers needed a way to launder their money and the easiest way was to buy art. Many art dealers would simply never declare the cash and the drug dealers don’t negotiate. They pay the full sticker. Once the drug dealer has the art, he can enjoy it, then if need be sell at auction years later, the new money coming from one of the legitimate auction houses. Then it’s all above board.
The dealer of choice was Big Boy Jones, a huge Columbian who got his stash directly from his South American source. He had bought art from Brit’s and he only would work with Brit and always alone. It was obvious by the suitcase that accompanied B.B.J. (as he was known), which went into Brit’s inner sanctum and never came out, that there were some serious money dealings going on. Bernard figured it was a drug deal. Maybe Brit bought and sold drugs, too. It was not unheard of. Many good art dealers started in the drug trade. More than likely the suitcase was cash and maybe a little blow and that was that.
Bernard called B.B.J. and was blunt about what he was looking for. “Hi, B.B.J. I worked for Brit and we met once six months ago. I’m Bernard Phillips, the tall guy who worked the Warhol room. Brit told me you were the man to get some horse from if I ever needed?”
“Yah, I remember you. Yep, I can help you. What’s you need?” B.B.J. said into the receiver in an almost unintelligible Columbian accent.
“I want the most pure heroin you can sell me; nothing stepped on. It’s only for local consumption, my art clients. I’m not looking to get into the drug trade. I’m willing to pay. If you want I would trade a nice little Warhol if you like. I represent Andy now.”
“That’s very cool, I like his stuff. Especially the kind with money in them. Got any of those?”
“Yes, in fact I do. How about we make a trade? I can come to you or if you want, come down to my new gallery in Chelsea, it’s The Cutting Edge.”
“I like that name, very gangsta. How about today. Give me the address and I’ll bring you something you will be able to really wrap your head around. But remember, self-use only. No dealing or I will have to hurt or kill you.”
Bernard believed the imposing drug dealer by the way he emphasized the word kill. “I understand. I’m an art dealer not a drug dealer. This is strictly for me and special art clients. So I’ll see you soon.”
“Get ready to have a real drug experience. You will love my shit. See you.”
The drug deal to Bernard seemed no different than most of his other art deals, just a little easier. Neither party haggled over the other person’s price. They both paid retail. B.B.J. warned Bernard to be very careful with the pure heroin. It should probably be cut by 75 percent, or he might end up with a dead art collector. If you were to slip a heavy user something much more powerful than they were used to, they would OD for sure.
Bernard thanked Big Boy Jones and traded a Warhol money print for $2,000 dollars of pure white heroin. The print was a 20 X 16-inch screen-print of a red-and-yellow-colored dollar sign on a purple background, number seven in an edition of 25. It seemed appropriate that the money print by Warhol that Bernard had just traded would get him real money from Basquiat.
Jean-Michel Basquiat had a huge group of collectors and dealers who tried to buy everything he made. The only way for Bernard to get anything was to buy it outright. Basquiat wouldn’t give him anything on consignment. It didn’t matter though, because art is an imperfect market. Bernard could buy a piece and mark it up 30 percent and someone would pay it because they just couldn’t get Basquiat’s work. It was rare. They would know it was overpriced, but didn’t care. They just wanted the art.
The heroin was Bernard’s calling card. He showed up at Basquiat’s studio and offered him the free drugs that he had stepped on by half. He warned Jean-Michel that his little gift was quite powerful and to take it easy. Jean-Michel thanked him. He didn’t want to OD, so took half his normal dose. Once Basquiat was quite high, Bernard went in for the kill.
“Jean-Michel, Andy loves your work and told me you were the only artist he would show with. He thinks you’re brilliant and hoped if you would sell me some paintings it might help repair your relationship. Andy is getting older and he doesn’t want to have bad blood between the two of you.”
“Wow, I didn’t realize he felt that way. I would love to hang next to him. What’s your gallery again?”
“The Cutting Edge. It’s in the new hip area of Chelsea. It’s a great space; plenty of room between the works and very high ceilings.”
“Cutting Edge. I could use that in one of my paintings.” With that, Basquiat went over to a large white canvas against the wall he had stretched ready for painting and wrote Cutting Edge and then drew a large black figure, arms outstretched, fists clinched. He then wrote the initials A.W. in red, washing them out with white paint, and then writing the initials A.W. again in blue letters.
Bernard was in awe of Basquiat’s talent. He could now see the genius. Even stoned, he was remarkable.
“How’s that? I believe Mr. Warhol will like this one. I’ll take $3,500 dollars. You can mark it $10K,” Basquiat suggested.
“I’ll take it. Great. I’ll let Andy know.” Bernard considered keeping the Basquiat painting for himself, but he sold things—not a collector’s heart.
With great finesse, just like in his juggling days, Bernard Phillips had managed to wrangle in two of New York’s most exciting contemporary artists and he had only been open for two weeks and selling art for a year. His father would have been proud, especially about how he fucked Brit. If only he didn’t have to handle Marsh’s work. But showing Marsh’s work was the least of it, Bernard would soon find out.