A metaphor for the High End Art Market.
Whenever I start to fall into the trap of criticizing a piece of art I’m working on, I say to myself my secret mantra: Jean Michel Basquiat. His work looks like something a four-year old with inchoate rage could have made if he had access to the right materials and a hit of acid first. Strangely evocative in an “on the spectrum”’ sort of way. A primal scream of urban rage. And yet, when he transitioned from street artist to Andy Warhol collaborator, his paintings started selling for $20,000. Then rumors began circulating that he was addicted to heroin and was going to die of an overdose any day. Art ‘connoisseurs’ rushed to buy his work in anticipation of their value going up. How perfect a demonstration of the crassness of the high end art market.
Last week, a Basquiat sold for $85 million, and another some time back topped $110 million. He's been dead for 34 years, so it's a safe bet he didn't get to enjoy the profits of his labours.
Yesterday was the thirtieth anniversary of my father’s death. He was 30 years old when I was born. Therefore, I am living on borrowed time. Quick everybody! Buy my art! I could be dead soon and then it’ll be worth so much more.
And just when I thought the Basquiat story had a beginning a middle and an end, comes the story of the recently discovered Fake Basquiats. Apparently, even though the lovely Jean-Michel has been dead for 34 years, he’s still been hard at work producing more paintings, 25 of which have surfaced at a show called “Heroes & Monsters” at the Orlando Museum of Art. The gallerly owner has been busted. Read all about it here:
https://nypost.com/2022/06/02/how-a-fedex-box-exposed-a-fake-basquiat-museum-collection/