Basquiat at The Brant Foundation: “It all depends who you are on what street” The Brant Foundations newest East Village location opens with an inaugural exhibition neither faint in heart or grandiosity, with nearly 70 works of none other than Jean-Michel Basquiat. With that many Basquiat’s in one place, the Brant is home to a show that is as rare as it is prolific. Jean-Michel Basquiat was an emblematic figure of the Neo-Expressionist movement, but more so the embodiment of the brave artist versus the art world. In a New York Times Critics Pick ​ review, Martha Schwendener says it best: though Basquiat was “embraced by a popular audience…he often felt treated like a faux-primitive genius, which he found racist and demeaning. And yet, this seemed to fuel his work — and the anger in it — toward greater heights.” In his short lifetime, dying from an accidental overdose at just 27 years old, Basquiat lived to the mere brink of his hopeful career, but never won the attention of grand scale Museums. Basquiat’s work was far grander than said museums, albeit controversial, it sustained fluid commentary that fought racial and social injustice, the best way he knew how. However, private collectors, such as Peter Brant himself, jumped on the bandwagon of Basquiat before it was too late, acquiring an extensive collection of the artist’s lifetime of work. For that, we can grant Brant tasteful credit. As for the thoughtful presentation of this exhibition, not so quick. One can sense the egregious grandeur they are getting themselves into before they enter The Brant Foundation, newly renovated art space and more importantly, new home to an extensive retrospective of none other than Jean-Michel Basquiat. Eager visitors are welcomed by a line of even more eager visitors along the sidewalk on East 7th. From March 6th until May 15th, a long line of aforementioned attendees range from Millennials to Elderly, seeming to be solely East Villagers, if not Brooklynites. Said Villagers check their IPhone clock each minute waiting for admission, the golden ticket lighting up their screens. Tickets are generously free, admitting a renewed maximum of 2,000 visitors per day––reserve-only, that is. Assuming you were not one of those 2,000, I will paint the picture for you, or rather Basquiat will. Admission is granted in 15 minute intervals, which is remarkably accurate; each floor takes no more than 15 minutes to ooh and ah and move along––but back to the foreshadowed grandeur. Once your fifteen minutes of fame is granted, you are asked to enter the two-story shiny black doors, the apparent threshold to (elitist) greatness. The lucky few are speedily ushered inside; moments after, groups of rookies are ushered out once more, emptying their ever-full Kleen Kanteens onto the sidewalk, splashing the feet of those behind the barrier, cherishing their last sips for the sake of high art. Once all liquids are relinquished, the group of the moment is ushered once more into a massive mirrored elevator, the size of a more than fortunate East Village apartment. The glory starts on the fourth floor, and only the fourth floor, no other method of entry is allowed. The only juicy sneak peek granted is a two-second glimpse into one of the lower levels through the elevator window. Yes, there is a glossy window in the smudgeless mirrored elevator, far larger than the window in my living room just one block over. The topmost level kicks off the exhibition with an abundant display. A massive skylight––scratch that, a massive rooftop pool––casts shadows of the crystal clear water onto the spectators, floor and artworks below. After all, a simple skylight is far too humble, and why not cast sparkling shadows on Basquiat’s lifetime of work––it adds to it, no? The focus of the room is cast to this architectural success, the paintings themselves drowned out by Brant’s impressive crib. Strangely enough, photos are allowed, and encouraged––not a single spectator moves from piece to piece without their same iPhone in hand, viewing the work through their phone screen far longer than through their own two eyes. I learned from experience when I say the Brant Foundation is pro IPhone photography, after trying my best to sneak a photo of my favorite piece with my film camera. A security guard was in my face before I was able to say “But film is COOL!”––explaining “only iPhone photos allowed.” Moments later, I am an obedient and attentive visitor. And moments after, I am back to my state of rebellion, in awe of Basquiat’s own handwriting poking fun at the scrutiny I just experience: “MUSEUM SECURITY,” he writes in all caps, and once more, “MUSEUM SECURITY” with both words ​ ​ striked through, followed by his favorite copyright symbol. With just a little oil stick, he diminishes the power of those suited up on high alert , condemning the hierarchy and above all, rooting for me, assuring me I’m still COOL! No wall didactics are needed, being that the overwhelming majority of Basquiat’s work is untitled. Even Untitled (1982), shown to the left, which sold for an American record high of $110.5 million ​ ​ just last year goes on unnamed. Such a sale resulted in a Sotheby's representative saying this admitted Basquiat into the VIP section: “the pantheon of great, great artists.” According to him, it was the price tag that marked Basquiat with the badge of success, long after the sheer impact of his art ever could.The noteworthy painting is in fact in the building, blending in with the rest, as it should. Perhaps most telling of The Brant Foundations mishandling of Basquiat’s work was the second floors overwhelming display, with 16 works gridded from floor to ceiling on a maybe 30 foot wall. Rumor has it, the top left one is owned by Jay-Z, but forget about it, you can’t see it anyway! While compelling from afar, the curatorial choice was frustrating due to Basquiat’s nature of intimate details, momentous handwritten ramblings marking each inch. As visitors strain their necks to get a half-decent look, the grandiosity of the building is more on display than the art itself. The Brant Foundation seems to be saying “look at me! look at me!” while demeaning the endearing, thoughtful moments which make his work what it is. And don’t get me started on the gift shop, on the bottom floor, near the exit, as the art world does. While humble in its size and welcoming in its allure––Brant is selling Basquiat socks for forty-five dollars and sweatshirts for over 100. Perhaps this is a reasonable price in comparison to $110.5 million, but I beg to differ the placement of value between those goods. In one of Basquiat’s (reproduced) notebooks, also to be found in the gift shop, he wrote, “It all depends who you are on what street...Podium Scaling his way to a bed.” On East 7th, there is an entirely different podium to be scaled. I don’t know about you, but if socks are $45 a pop, I sure got a long way to go. Basquiat’s work was not made to impress or be defined by selling price––if it were he would have avoided condemning the art world ––biting the hand that feeds him with each scribble. Rather, Basquiat’s work was made to express his messy inner world, hoping others would not just listen, but understand. The powerful internal dialogue Basquiat’s acrylic and oil stick works portray is one that not only continues from work to work, but broadens and deepens with each abstract figure and obscure handwritten note. With sentiments like “GANGSTERISM, ​ WHITEWASHING ACTION, FOOL, Most young kids get their head cut off, COWARDS WILL GIVE TO GET RID OF YOU, HEART AS ARENA, LIARS, FOR LACK THEREOF, NOTHING TO BE GAINED HERE…​.,” the works of Jean-Michel Basquiat stand and speak for themselves alone. Together, they provide an visual narrative unlike any other collection of works. One can hear the emotion in his words, experience the frustration within each messily stretched canvas, feel the tension in each sunken nail. Upon exiting this show into the sprawling pebbled driveway, passing the plump greenery on the way to the gate, one’s mind is just as messy as Basquiat’s, dwelling in the beauty of the space, yet resenting their being there. I wanted to rip off the price tags, carry the works with me and journey to another street, with another name, a humbler podium. I wanted to listen and to understand, in a space that did not inhibit my doing so. In his 1985 interview for the New York ​ ​ Times, Jean-Michel Basquiat said,“I wanted to be a star, not a gallery mascot.” Basquiat’s voice, ​ and now, legacy, must not be drowned out by shadows or diminished by its surroundings. Rather, Basquiat must be the star of his own show. Notes: Organized in collaboration with the Foundation Louis Vuitton and curated by Brant Foundation founder Peter M. Brant and Dr. Dieter Buchhart, the exhibition brings together masterworks from the Brant Collections as well as from international museums and private collections. “Basquiat has been a cornerstone of the East Village art scene for decades, and to bring his work back to the neighborhood that inspired it is a great privilege,” says Brant. According to Dr. Buchhart “with the astonishing radicalness of his artistic practice, Basquiat renewed the concept of art with enduring impact.” Out of the more than 2,000 works of art that Basquiat produced, New York’s Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) has just 10 drawings and silkscreens, the Whitney has six, the Metropolitan two, the Brooklyn Museum another two and the Guggenheim one.