“Do people remember my paintings?”
It was a few days after my fifty-ninth birthday. I found myself in Reykjavik, Iceland. I was traveling to Basel, Switzerland, and had missed my connecting flight due to delays. Needless to say, I was exhausted and a bit pissed off.
The next available flight was not until the following morning, so I had no option other than to spend the night. I took a room at an airport hotel. It was 11:00 p.m. when I checked in and still broad daylight outside (Iceland is far enough north to have the midnight sun). I crashed onto the welcoming bed the minute I got to my room. About two hours later I woke up, feeling famished. After a quick shower I put on the same clothes I’d been traveling in and went down to the restaurant in the hotel lobby.
The place was two-thirds empty and you could pretty much sit anywhere you wanted. I found a table by a large window and admired the view of the architecturally ambitious airport, with its acutely slanted concrete slabs and precariously leaning curtain walls. I ordered a sparkling water and looked at the menu. Not quite ten minutes had passed when I was spooked by an unlikely yet unmistakable chuckle.
I was slightly delirious from lack of proper sleep, but this was no hallucination. Jean-Michel had already slid into the chair facing me. Disbelief is too inadequate a word to describe what I felt.
We both laughed and made eye contact, an accepted form of greeting between old friends, as if picking up a briefly interrupted conversation. He wore a beret and a US Air Force–issue trench coat that had a rather odd blend of primary and springtime pastel-colored paint spattered all over the lower section. He had on a scuffed-up pair of white bucks. His loose-fitting and weathered pants were held up by a leopard-pattern fabric belt that was way too long.
“Fancy meeting you here, bro,” I said jokingly. I was still trying to absorb what was transpiring.
“I must have made a wrong turn back there,” he said sarcastically.
“Damn, dude, you haven’t aged a bit. Must be treating you right up there, huh? Fuck, I got a shit ton of questions for you.” I was feeling slightly overwhelmed.
Jean-Michel assumed a grin I recognized from long ago. An expression of both guilt and defiance. Defiance was a quality that we both held on to stubbornly, and at a very high cost.
“Well, you might as well eat some of this airport hotel food while you’re here,” I added.
We both checked through the menus for a minute or two. I looked up a few times—as if to confirm that this encounter was actually occurring. A rather pale, thin young fellow appeared at the table and asked in perfect English, “What will you gentlemen be having?” This affirmed Jean-Michel’s presence, and I was finally able to begin processing the unfolding scenario. I felt a bit sad, but it was mixed with some mild anger. I had long awaited an opportunity such as this, although I never imagined it would be realized. I guess I was still pissed about the abrupt abandonment of what I always thought was a strong friendship as he became more and more famous. The feeling had never been so clear to me until this very instant.
And so I began.
“Seriously, though, when I watch those old video interviews, it seems like you really didn’t want to be there.”
He seemed disappointed and looked away. “People hang around because they need something you have. They’ll squeeze you dry if you let them.” His cynicism was evident. One thing his friends would agree on about Jean-Michel (as he became more famous) was how he developed a universal distrust for everyone.
The waiter brought us two plates of haddock with French fries, lackluster portions of a garden salad, and some small dishes with various dips. One was just plain ketchup, and the other appeared to be some sort of tartar sauce.
“Papitas,” he said, with a goofy grin as as he held up a stubby French fry.
He pulled the plate closer to him and ate slowly, periodically studying the shape of his fry or chunk of battered fish. At one point I noticed some light-colored food flakes at the corner of his mouth, which enhanced his childlike presence. It was difficult for me not to find the charm and humor in this.
People have often asked me throughout my adult life, What was Jean-Michel Basquiat like? There were so many contradictions and facets to his personality, which makes that question difficult to answer in a few sentences. Sitting there with him had transported me to a time when we could share nearly anything—obscure facts, feelings, and thoughts. A comparison came to mind. “I was watching a documentary on Quincy Jones. . . . You share parallels with Q. He was very ambitious, very young, also very talented. He was a player, a crazy prolific superstar—but he’s still alive. Did you know his mother was schizophrenic?”
Jean seemed to be processing this information and stared into the void for a few more seconds. Then he replied, “I always secretly liked those Frank Sinatra records. . . . Do people remember my paintings?”
“Frank Sinatra was cool. He opened it up for black acts in Vegas, so they wouldn’t have to eat in the kitchen anymore. You are as famous as Quincy Jones. Probably not as famous as Sinatra. People think of you as some sort of folk hero. They often refer to you as a ‘graffiti artist.’ ” This made both of us laugh.
I could not help but think about how, when I first met Jean-Michel, he was a sort of homebody who had a few books about MGM films and a crawl space under the stairs for a bedroom. Set against the contrast of Frank Sinatra playing faintly in the background.
Half smiling, he said, “Maybe I should have had Q as my manager. Then I would have been as famous as Sinatra.”
I thought to myself, Enough small talk. I had real questions. For example, why did he diminish the depth of our graffiti campaign/collaboration in an interview after he’d become very famous?
“Cocaine is a helluva drug. . . .” This was obviously a loaded remark. As well as dismissive. Although we would both separately become heroin addicts, we shared cocaine quite often during the early eighties—and it strained our ability to actually have meaningful conversations.
At this point I knew that I had to pull my reins in, remembering that Jean-Michel was always prone to shutting down in the face of confrontation. Unless of course it was him doing the confronting. Softening the tone of my interrogation, I continued.
“But why now? What brings you around here, to Reykjavik? Here and now, in motherfuckin’ Iceland?!”
“I was looking for my mom.”
The subject of his mom had always been a conversation stopper. He was deprived of a mother early in his teenage years when she was placed in a psychiatric institution. It became apparent to those of us who were close to him that he hadn’t ever recovered from this, or developed any sort of coping mechanism. Instead, he’d act as if he were stalling out when confronted with the subject. The one time I actually met and interacted with Matilde was on a Saturday afternoon in the fall of 1978. She was permitted to leave the institution where she resided for the day, as long as Jean-Michel assumed the role of guardian. She seemed heavily medicated and somewhat confused. His protectiveness and unquestionable love was clear and visible. I am quite certain this pain would forever remain deeply lodged in his soul.
“So much for the concept of heaven. You don’t see anyone out there, do you?”
“Heaven? Is that some sort of Nordic mythology? After the lights go out, it takes a while before you realize it’s over. Eventually it becomes evident just how alone we always have been.”
A long silence followed. I stared out the big window. I thought about the times we had spent at the after-school “drop-in” center called the Door. We’d go there for free meals or to bring girlfriends who needed birth control. I remembered how we lived back then. Free of any worries, responsibilities, and commitments. Just a couple of street urchins, meandering through the universe. Wild-eyed and filled with a lust for living. Believing only in the moment.
The conversation resumed. “People loved you and still do. You were the one who fucked that up.”
He looked away once more. “Everyone always lets you down.”
I responded with my usual optimism. “Yeah, sometimes we fail each other; nobody’s perfect. But we try better next time.”
“Better to leave an indelible mark; you don’t always get another chance,” he said didactically.
“Anyway . . . you should know that you are appreciated. You changed the game. A whole generation of creative and ambitious young blacks, Latinos, Asians, Eskimos, Cossacks, those whirling-dervish mofos, misfits, queers, freaks, and what have you . . . they all feel a little more as if they might have a chance at the game. Since you came and went.”
“I can’t see myself as a guru or like some charismatic-leader type. People should just be inspired from within themselves. It’s too much of a responsibility. I don’t know. . . .” The obligatory pause and pensive moment followed. There was a brief silence, and he smirked again. “Heh-heh, whirling dervishes . . .”
We finished eating almost simultaneously. After using up the last napkins and pushing the plates aside, we sat back in silence for the remainder of the time. Then, as if like clockwork, the colorless waiter reappeared and cleared away our dishes. I ordered two coffees. Jean-Michel stood up, looked at me, and smiled a knowing smile. I reciprocated with a nod of approval. In an instant he was gone. I looked around a few times to see if he was still there. I stared at his untouched coffee cup as it gradually turned cold. I wished that I had more time to ask the questions we always think of after it’s too late, but it was just that. Too late.
By the next evening, I finally arrived in Zurich and continued on to Basel. During my week at the art fairs I saw an immense amount of work, master works: new, old, obscure, iconic. These included quite a few Basquiat paintings and drawings. Viewing them made me think about how and why Jean-Michel had aspired to be included among the masters and earn a permanent place in history.
Meanwhile, I was looking vigilantly for that unforgettable palette of color I’d seen on Jean-Michel’s Air Force trench coat in an unlikely Reykjavik airport restaurant.
Al Díaz’s career spans five decades. At fifteen he was the recognized subway graffiti artist known as BOMB-ONE. His friendship and collaboration with schoolmate Jean-Michel Basquiat on SAMO© . . . (an avant-garde graffiti project) and the iconic hip-hop record Beat Bop are noted in contemporary art history. A sought-after expert of New York City counterculture art, he appears in publications and films and speaks at universities and museums. His mixed-media work is shown and collected internationally. In 2018, Díaz authored SAMO© . . . SINCE 1978, an illustrated history of his street art legacy.