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From: John Nepo
Category: Books
Date: 06 October 2004
Writing a poetic book about the real relationship between Suzanne and Basquiat is risky.It is unclear how well Clement knew Basquiat, and how much has been recounted by Suzanne, and how much is made up. A lot of the stories seem straight out of Schnabels film Basquiat, so I wonder whether the ultimate source is that of truth, or originates from the crap of retold anecdotes that swirl round all celeberities.
Basquiat was the last believable painter. He says something with painting, and not just about itself. For the viewer, belief in painting comes from seeing real painting made by contemporary artists, and Basquiat, at the moment, seems like an extinct animal, self-extinguished perhaps, alive he would now be only 44.
Anway,,, the book is gaudy with heroin chic and NY cool, but it tells little about what Suzanne or Basquiat thought or were, more it is the very readable and concise impressions of an intelligent gossip columnist pretending to be very poetic and real.
Poor ol' Basquiat, he lies in the ground, dead, unable to appreciate the stupidity of those that seem him either a PC token of African-American /graffiti culture, or just another overhyped overdose. He was a very good painter.
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