Sorry, but at times like these, especially seeing as i've been at work all day (
wee..lll, since midday really, but who cares), i'm not really in that state of mind to conjunct words that express my 'ability' to string words together in a creative...
ahem... manner as to talk about this particular artist. Instead, I have opted for the normal, brisk approach; to simply say it as it is.
So. The artist in focus is my main man,
Basquiat. Not that I
know knew him or anything, for such a personal and colloquial introduction on my part, but I guess therein lies the beauty of art: The realisation that a person can create an avenue of mixed feelings, thoughts and persuade you to share in the world they have created, thereby making you feel okay with addressing esteemed artists and the like as your "
main man". Or maybe I am alone in this. Am I?
'Catharsis' (1983)
Jean - Michel Basquiat, is main man's name, by the by. I would give you a run down of his life and times, but that is what Wikipedia is for, homies. And Google. So crack on, if you must!
I originally came across his artwork in my secondary school art class, looking for inspiration as to what my final year piece would be. And my teacher, drawing from her observation of my obsession with mixing mediums, directed me towards this mastermind. What looks like scribbles on canvas, or perhaps could be likened to a child's rendition of reality, is what immediately strikes you about his work. (
it also pays to note that he draws inspiration from Picasso. Hello, cubism?). Yet, the heavy undertones of politics and society and just life in general as he sees it are evident, but, in a way, almost easy to miss due to excessive overload of information per piece. Almost like a poem or literary piece... or something, that you need to unravel (
in many different ways) in order to understand the message being passed across.
'Bird on Money' (1981)
'Untitled' (1981) ... I see phallic imagery everywhere...you?
Umm... Awes..ome self portrait there dude. The hair is rather.... fetching.
There is nothing cohesive, no consecutive train of thought about his artwork. Yet, meshed together, the odd combinations produce this quirky infusion of randomness and brings out something so obviously individual. Which makes him a cool cat in my books.
Unfortunately, his heroin addiction got the better of him, and he died at such a young age from an overdose. Aged 27. So did Edie Sedgewick, Warhol's muse. And Basquiat knew Warhol also. Perhaps he was a jinxed fellow. Who knows.
Well... I must leave you be for now!
See you soonish? Maybe?
Yes.
A bien tot.
xoxo!
