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.