Basquiat

Last night I went to LAMOCA's exhibit on Basquiat. Hawking his cardboard scribbles on sidewalk corners, homeless Jean-Michel Basquiat was picked up by Andy Warhol and elevated to star position in the 1980s contemporary art world. He is one of those modern artists whose work looks like it was done by a second-grader. Truly, I have similar drawings posted on my refrigerator by dear six-year-old friend Tobie.

Basquiat is known for giving the art world a sort of FUCK YOU, making fun of art snobs and their critics, the very people who eventually supported his rise to fame. Even in the self-film about his life, Basquiat seems to tease about the validity of his art. MOCA, in part, gave him a FUCK YOU back. They hung his huge canvases like a Baroque salon, printed pamphlets explaining his work, and generally praised his every crayon stroke. I kid you not, this man used crayons. And newsprint.

I love the titles he picked for his work. Some examples are: Leonardo DaVinci's Greatest Hits; Natives Carrying Some Guns, Bibles, Amorites on Safari; and Arroz con Pollo. Some of his pieces have words drawn all over images, some connected by arrows, and some in list form. He connects, for example, Madonna and High Priest, Dizzy Gilespie and ornithology.

My all time favorite Basquiat is where he connects Post War with Post cereals.