I found the story of Basquiat to be deeply compelling. The turmoil of his life imbued it with a beautiful artistry that his young death only served to enhance. I was particularly struck by the relationship he had with Andy Warhol. I was at first confused by Basquiat’s rejection of Warhol after the accusations that he was nothing more than a lap dog for Warhol but under deeper reflection, it made sense. To establish one’s self as an artist is a struggle regardless of one’s circumstances. Attempting it as a formerly homeless black man must have only intensified the struggle. Art, as many things reserved for an elite majority, is reserved mainly for whites. A quick Google search on “famous artists” brings up all white, predominantly male figures, many of whom have been dead for centuries. As we’ve found in the case of female representations in art, traditions can be overwhelming and consuming. It can be very hard to change a dialogue that is so well established. Basquiat was able to circumvent huge barriers even before he met Warhol. Admittedly, his relationship with Warhol helped raise Basquiat’s profile but he had made great strides on his own. To be dismissed as just a Warhol lapdog must have been demeaning; it undermined the many accomplishments he made. If one considers the history of blacks in this nation, such comments become all the more offensive. For too long were blacks considered less than whites. It’s sad to see that even into the 1980s in a city as “enlightened” as New York, such attitudes could have survived. While one shouldn’t excuse destructive behaviors such as drug use, I can’t help but feel such behaviors were Basquiat’s way of dealing with the less-than-accepting environments he existed in.