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Poemas do Basquiat
Lourdes Vázquez translation by Rosa Alcalá "Woman Trapped" One sunny day, a fleshy, moon-faced woman arrives at the painter's studio. The outline of her dress rests on skin made of bread. She removes her clothing, her jewelry and accessories, and the painter begins the first strokes of that yeast and honey figure. Not one citizen intervenes, not one mouth pronounces a word. The painter interrupts a stroke and positions the model onto a sofa, like a criminal who strips a crystal candelabra hanging from wood ceiling. There the arms, here the profile, the hair gathered at the nape of the neck, here the gaze and each leg at some extreme, the magic eye exposed, a soldier trying to forget the war breathes, clown in his coffin, suspicious of everyone in that painter's studio, keeper of a broken light house. The citizens vigilant of the intense eye, spiritual carnival opening and closing at the slightest disruption. Accurate Eye, maker of perfumes, flavors and creatures. The painter tells me of his recent influences, of his stay in New York, Of Jean-Michel and his graffiti decorating the columns of the Brooklyn Bridge: SAMO saves idiots. SAMO as an escape clause. SAMO as an end to playing art. SAMO as an end 2 confining art terms. Riding around in Daddy's convertible with trust fund money. SAMO for the so-called avant garde. SAMO as an end 2 confining art terms SAMO as an alternative to the meat rackateest on display. SAMO as an end to this crap. Jean-Michel's mother is Puerto Rican. Her name is Matilde Andrades. "My mother went crazy as a result of a bad marriage to my father...she was beautiful when she was younger..." Jean left this recorded on a tape. A black woman trapped in a web of madness and instrumental in her son's artistic development. Jean-Michel lived a short life, like a meteor that shoots into space, penetrating a set of constellations with his broken glass, leaving an impressive collection of art, hidden in images of skeletons, cartoons, and graffiti. His phrases, small poems, loose words, always paired with paintings, drawings, sketches: Bird of God, Shame. Secret Society. una telecamara firma toda la escena. Hey little...man broke. an unreasonable facsimil., arroz con pollo. Irony of a Negro Policeman. Abuelita. Quality Meat for the Public. Woman drying her neck. I won't even mention gold (oro). diseased tissue. Non-toxic. Eroica. the pájaro diva a peseta. In Port Au Prince, Pyramid on beam. King Pleasure. Mujer __________________________________________________________ "Nude with turban" The painter's model is one of art history's classic figures. Some painters prefer to surround the model with decorative objects, a sofa, a turban, some piece of jewelry. Matisse barricaded himself in a Moroccan hotel with fabrics, lace, tulle, feathers and turkish divans. For four years he recreated a harem-like atmosphere and devoted himself to painting women sent by a modelling agency. Modigliani preferred to paint the body, just the body sitting on a divan or reclining on a white cushion. He was not comfortable with objects distracting his attention. Painters can lack benevolence when offering a representation of the human form on canvas and, I am a vain woman, I always have been. My womb's wound was my main concern during this collaboration. How do I show my body to the Master? My fatness, my own ordinary existence and this voluptuous cut like a dark scorpion, a sculpture of horror against the night. I remember the master calm against the scientific nude. His pencil distributing rapid strokes onto the paper and the feminine figure begins the materialize. The circle is impenetrable without sperm and other provocations. I felt relaxed, happy with myself, satisfied with this activity. My face appears again and again in dozens of sketches repeating themselves like an aging Betty Boop. A few simple sketches. A few curls meeting the face. My face is always in the foreground the body remains removed, in the paper's horizon. On occasion the thighs meet the face's perspective. The master continues his sketching. The hand attains independent movement, free of loneliness, of strange faces, of beer and cigarette. The painter has retired to a land occupied by rivers with their wild ducks and banks greased with mud. And already the model is unimportant like an antique porcelain doll, she is conquered by the death of afternoon. The days continue their eternal rhythm, seagulls occupied with trash citizens leave at the shore. The model and the artist talk about love, about palm trees destroyed by the ocean, the lash of crime on those streets our children, human anatomy, boats on the horizon, roses, and Basquiat, always Basquiat. ____________________________________________________ "Black Man" Basquiat became a famous black man and white women fell to his feet. Cannibal devouring feelings, emotions, even breath. With his brushes, he disintegrated bodies, transforming them into a factory of skeletons, witches' scrawls, the stains of terror absences in acrylic and his phrases MAN DIES he wrote into one of his paintings, and he himself was dying of an overdose In this cemetary like no other, surrounded by hundred-year-old trees, birds crickets rubbing their wings and ancient mausoleums, his grave has become a small altar. Photographs of women with porcelain skin, postcards with caricatures of exotic women and one simple inscription. Jean-Michel Basquiat. Artist. The artist begins to prepare a canvas of powerful dimensions. He asks me to remove my clothes once more and I begin to reclaim my space in the studio. I loosen clothes from my body, piece by piece. Sea breezes save us from the recent heat and citizens continue their domino match in the plaza. Days after in the master's studio, there are seventeen sketches of a nude woman in the comfort of a chair. The scenery consists of the strong, dark lashings the master applies to the background. Sometimes tigers eye necklace, a shawl of hindi silk on the shoulders of a body marred and rippled. At 57 Great Jones in Manhattan, in a building full of light and ample space, Basquiat's kept a studio. Andy Warhol provided it, as he had provided many other things. Here slept Basquiat's white lovers. Here they scoured themselves with passion, interpreting his nightmares and suffering. At 57 Great Jones they say someone has painted a crown on the door in honor of the painter who trotted with death. Heroes are more useful when dead and presently his paintings are auctioned for millions of dollars in New York and Berlin. Madison Avenue galleries receive phone calls from all over the world requesting more of Basquiat's art. They do not know that he can no longer produce anything but HUESOS. his father was given a jazz, antique toys and African art inventory and I REPEAT: an impressive art collection. On some street in Los Sures of Brooklyn his mother says: I'm sorry I don't want to give out more information on Jean-Michel. The master pauses for an instant: What would it be like to live with you? - Difficult - , I tell him . Are you in love? - I have a partner - . And love? - The heart is exhausted - . San Juan - Nueva York 1993-1998 |
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Nov 30, 1999