No More Heroes Anymore

Or, my complete fabrication of the night before Leon Trotsky was assassinated

On the sepia tiled counter rests a pile of swollen, ripe avocados. Oblong, uneven, pimpled turtle shells, waiting to be disemboweled and served alongside salt, lime and tortillas. In the main room, a Spanish record is playing. Andres Segovia plucks a melancholy classical guitar. The music is an eerie stranger in this hacienda in Coyoacan, just outside Mexico City. Most of the guards are out in the grass smoking. The house help have taken a stroll down the peaceful street, lined with trees.

The Spanish melody is carried out onto the balcony, where Leon Trotsky reclines. One hand caresses his mustache, the other is wet from the condensation of his glass. Vodka, ice and lime. The balcony doors relax wide open. The Mexican breeze breathes in and out of the house, pushing and pulling the crimson curtains with each inhale, each exhale. Leon sips in silence, squints behind his horn-rimmed glasses out at the tomato and cilantro gardens below. The Spanish guitar reminds him of the stories his comrades had told him, of their fighting in Spain against the fascists, two years before. Before the disaster at Ebro. He closes his eyes and sets aside his thoughts of continuing global revolution for another time. He only thinks about the nylon notes from inside, percussive pizzicato dancing.

           There is an article that needs revision resting on his desk inside. Tomorrow it will get my full attention, Leon says to himself, in Spanish, with a Russian accent. Leon does not know it yet, but he will never finish this piece. He gets up from the long chair and walks to lean against the rail of the balcony. The cross that stands atop the tallest church in Coyoacan is the only thing that seems to be as high as he is, at that moment. Standing on the balcony, staring out at a town that is not his home, but has been his home, his little fortress for four years now. Leon does not know that this will be the last time he will ever do this.

Leon does not know that tomorrow night he will invite a false-named visitor into his study to listen to the unfinished article. The visitor, sent by Stalin, will lay his raincoat on a table. Leon will not see the ice axe hidden beneath. The assassin, Ramon Mercader, will call himself Jacques Mornard. Leon will begin to read aloud the article when the assassin, Jacques/Ramon, takes the ice axe from the raincoat, grips with one hand, eyes closed, and strikes Leon a “terrible blow to the head.” Two guards from outside the study will rush in to see Trotsky, still fighting with the assassin and landing one last defiant gob of spit, propelled onto his face. The guards overtake the assassin, and Trotsky will shout, Do Not Kill Him! This man has a story. Natalia, Leon’s wife will rush to his side erupting tears and Russian cries. Leon will utter for her ears only, Now it is done. Natalia will understand. Years of waiting for the inevitable will end. Leon turns to face the assassin, pinned to the wood of the study floor by the two guards. He cannot see the face of Jacques/Ramon, his horn-rimmed glasses remain atop the desk above. Leon will quickly understand what has to happen. His last words will be, I will not survive this attack.

          In the kitchen, upon the sepia tile counter, the avocados remain, untouched. Their colors change due to neglect. They will soon no longer be good to anyone. The inevitability of decomposition. Weeks later, one of the last guards left will take the Segovia record when he thinks no one is looking. To be swift, to avoid falling under suspicious eyes he will hide the record beneath a trench coat and scurry out of the room and into the yard. Never turning to take one last look at interior of the hacienda.

Eroica,

 Or a Feeble Attempt To Connect the Eroica, Eroica of Basquiat’s work to his friendship with Andy Warhol.

            Jean-Michel Basquiat scribbles Eroica in violence. Eroica is not “Erotica” misspelled, as I thought at first. It means “heroic” in Italian, a reference to Beethoven’s Third Symphony, once known as Sinfonia Eroica. Basquiat scribbles it over and over. It loses its meaning to me. A hero stands alone, atop a rock facing the storm and the sea. A hero walks away, solitary, when the applause ends. Heroes do not multiply. A hero is prime.

            I am not a Basquiat aficionado, but I am an admirer. I would never dare claim to comprehend the stream of conscious neo-expressionist scrawling that adorn many of his works. I stand back, hands behind myself, and let the jigsaw puzzle pieces fall from the box to the wooden gallery floor. I grab a handful and compare them to the image on the box. I realize that every piece before me belongs to different puzzles. They do not belong together. Their fractions cannot be combined. But couldn’t there be a chance that two puzzle pieces, from separate puzzles, could fit, one into the other. The image formed may not be linear, but isn’t it possible that they could at least fit into each other?

            Basquiat scribbles Eroica in multiplication. Then, Man Dies. Man Dies. Man Dies. Man Dies. Heroes do not die. They wear immortality as a cape. They shine, blue streaks, highlighting the sun in their black hair. Think Superman, in the comics. Or else, they are idols who possess no super powers. These idols inspire young impressionable sorts in high school. Teens seeking out an identity, a code.  In this case, it helps if they are already dead. Basquiat might have said, “The only artists who really mattered died young.”

            In 1987, Andy Warhol died. Ten years later, in high school, I developed an obsession to all things Andy Warhol. One of the numerous, dead idols I carried then. I bought book a book that collected all of his works so I could stare at a hundred soup cans, Marilyns and Maos. I dove into photographs from his “factory” in New York City. I listened to the Velvet Underground. Over and over. I wanted to be inside that scene, a player upon his avant garde stage. Through obsessing over Warhol, I first learned of Basquiat. The fictional story of how Basquiat walked up to Warhol in a cafe and asked the master if he wanted to buy some of his work. After that, the story goes, the two became inseparable. Basquiat, invited to work with his hero. The man he had fantasized about meeting. Artists collaborating, together. Basquiat welcomed being thrust into the spotlight of the art world. The new darling, rising up from the streets of New York City, bringing with him hop-hop and punk, graffiti and street art, skulls colored with Haitian voodoo. He dated Madonna.

            Basquiat crosses out Eroica. The X deletes the hero. The X instantly washes his heroism away. First you read HEROISM, next, it is gone. This is how the artist says nothing, with force, thundering silence. What is behind the act of crossing out your own words, for public consumption?

            Sonic Youth sang Kill Your Idols in 1983. Beethoven composed the Sinfonia Eroica in 1803. He dedicated it to Napoleon Bonaparte, who was then First Consul of France. The new leader, to lead anew. A short, Corsican, idol. Napoleon’s reign began with France at peace with the world. This soon changed. Napoleon crowned himself Emperor, a Roman Caesar reincarnate. Napoleon invaded every border in Europe. Beethoven is said to have raged, “So he is no more than a common mortal! Now he will think himself superior to all men, become a tyrant!” Beethoven crossed out Napoleon. Eroica.

            In 1987, Andy Warhol died. It is said that in the years before this, the friendship between Basquiat and Warhol had grown strained. Warhol’s efforts to separate him from drugs were in vain. Into Basquiat’s ears, some said Warhol was using Basquiat. That Warhol did not respect the contributions Basquiat made to their joint efforts. That Basquiat was to Warhol, just another character in the factory, there for Andy’s amusement.

            Basquiat first scribbled Eroica in 1987. Before Andy Warhol’s death. Basquiat again scribbled Eroica in 1988. Was their friendship ever mended? I wonder. After Warhol’s death Basquiat coiled into depression, deeper into the chasms of heroin addiction. In 1988, he died from an overdose, combining cocaine and heroin, in his apartment on Great Jones Street in Manhattan. 27 years old.  Buried in Brooklyn.

            At times, when I should be doing something else, I ponder about Basquiat’s reaction to Warhol’s death. Basquiat sits alone in the corner of his studio. He is not painting pieces of vibrant colors clashing against each other in a violent dance. We do not see his Haitian, hip-hop, boxing influences. We only see works in white. He is squiggling words over each other. He breathes remorse. He pauses, writes Man Dies. Stops. Repeat. Repeat. Basquiat walks away from the work and into darkness. He retreats to the streets, carrying a walkman with a Dead Boys tape inside. And inside his mind, addict’s hallucinations, musings of himself as painting’s Charlie Parker, and the needle. Riding with death, beside him. Somewhere between heroism and the rapid inevitability of his demise. The need to reconcile the death of his friend. The hero he abandoned, who in turn abandoned him.