In a trash city
Roughly 1 million dollars in cash and jewelry were found in cardboard boxes, trunks and Cracker Jack boxes, and $500,000 was found in an oilskin bag that Ida hid under her skirt.
An Ephemeral New York
“Ida dies 5 months after her ‘discovery’ in 1932,” age 93.
The Mudd Club mythology only lasted five years. On 77 White Street in downtown Manhattan.
Opening its doors officially on Halloween in 1978 and closing in 1983, the loft-turned-nightclub was located in TriBeCa (before most people knew the name of that area).
the sole evidence of its existence are the small black letters “MCL” (Mudd Club Lounge) on a dirty plate-glass window and a recently installed chain barrier, a la Studio 54, across the entrance.
Club 57 regulars were eating mushrooms, mudders were into china white.
Gritty, simple, and founded on a shoestring budget, the Mudd Club was all about the people and creativity they brought through the door.
Whispering rite of passage through a halfway house of heroism thru heroin, the wall street people in their limos lining up to cop their horse before work in 19^9.
I don’t buy it
She gets it for free
“SAMO is dead.”
“Escape what they’re escaping”
-Lee, known by his tags
The body bags
along the drive thru
of a TV party
living in a box
after rent never paid
a neuron Sansa
threw another da Vinci
in the dumpster
Letting art be itself
let the padding
The mere passing
of a moment
catapults his life
into figurative work
Inside a six by ten
Mr. Boch moved from his native Long Island to New York City in 1976 to be an artist. He rented an apartment in Greenwich Village, and registered for graduate studies at New York University, but never attended. Instead, he did drugs, worked on his art and ran around with fellow artists and musicians downtown.
Jean Michel was a gallery. While painting his gf’s doors with aboriginal symbols he was gradually “becoming the artist” he would embody. Become. Infiltrate. Obsess over. Exhaust. Expel. Vacate.
The Times Square Show
A survey of the Underground in an “abandoned massage parlor” aka whorehouse – performance art on your back or on your knees.
Diego Cortez the killer unveiling a smug version of fame showing off on a wall. I don’t get escaping through Drugs, he says, sanctimoniously satisfied with the life he’s living.
“Mudd” was named for Samuel Alexander Mudd, a doctor who treated John Wilkes Booth after Abraham Lincoln’s assassination.
Ida claimed New York society. After all, she had danced with the Prince of Wales in 1860 and even met Abraham Lincoln.
A solialite in the city of squalor. In such a place, you must cultivate your own spurious correlation.
The two counselors from O’Brien, Boardman, Conboy, Memhard & Early were late.
The room was crammed with piles of yellowed newspapers, cracker boxes, balls of used string, stacks of old wrapping paper and several large trunks.
The manager said he had worked at the hotel for seven years and had never seen Ida Wood or her deceased sister. His records indicated that they had moved into the two-room suite in 1907, along with Ida’s daughter, Miss Emma Wood, who died in a hospital in 1928 at the age of 71. They always paid their bills in cash.
A documentary about an artist and the failings within:
Spurious sound bites to evoke the prurient imagination but which provide no context, rendering them meaningless.
Followed by yet another blase, non-chyroned expert musing on unrelated affectactions, which a black and white text card reads “considered one of the best artists of the 20th century” is supposed to fix –without showing any of his art. The filmmaker didn’t even try to get inside the mind of Basquiat. We observe, from the outside, a random collection of postcards from a urinal but because of a title card, we are expected to believe that this is the path to greatness.
After all, we can surreptitiously google a superficial treatment of events to fill in the blanks this filmmaker was too lazy to uncover.
Why deep dive when a synthesis of trivia satisfies the know-it-all clan? These slapped together non-ideas serve only to thin out any impetus to create, replacing the depths of art with the polite parlance of blatherskite.
‘I wanted to be a star,’ Basquiat once said. ‘Not a gallery mascot.’
“Hamlet saw that pithy old Polonius was a preposterous and orotund ass.”
So what began as a quest for more understanding ended in frustration. Why can’t I get a vague idea funded, completed and released when it would appear that even the most intellectually devoid are cranking out content for mass consumption?
Because in the end no one mosses quality if they never see it.
Because I have been reduced to merely surviving after the film industry destroyed me.
It’s beyond heartbreaking to have amassed the experience and dedicated your life to mastering your craft, only to be forced to abandon your dreams. To be left with nothing. Perhaps this is how Basquiat felt – Covered up and disclosed by color
With all the reflections fairly offhand and distant so you are told things like how “he was cute and needed a place to sleep” followed by another de rigueur Burroughs riff, the documentary is a collassal wreck of the scattered, tattered relief map of unspoken for grey matter.
There’s no retrospectively gathered meaning to bear down on throes of archival footage blazing through our collective consciousness, just a groupthink amalgamation mess, masquerading as the penultimate artistic nemesis.
The same one that will kill you in a cardboard box without explanation other than the epidemic of undesirables. Acquired. By the immune system like junk bonds for the soul. Deficiency syndrome. A capacity for losing the innate ability to fight this thing that’s killing you, harshly.
An overdose of ideas. Paintings that sell for millions from a man whose work was unceremoniously tossed into the dumpster by a slumlord when he couldn’t pay his rent.
Cut to shots of a burned out city kicked off with a tepid Gerald berating the burned out avenues of our greatest city’s latest economic crisis.
Then, 37 minutes in over an aerial shot of a line of limos, we get a sound bite that we are just supposed to accept as gospel that this was the line of wall street thugs picking up their heroin before work.
We knew about the coke which made sense. I knew a guy in college who moved to New York City after graduating to work on Wall Street. I heard later that he had gotten into crack, long ago sold the stereo system in that bottom floor apartment we crashed in one night with the band. I was their driver at the time and, unfortunately, under the spell of their bass player who was sewing his oats with the sort of chicks who’d ask me to introduce them to him while they were playing. I always had a backstage pass.
The coke made sense, the heroin did not.
“The world exploded”
Jordan mentions the word counter culture
Samsa went to black sheep island to “take an overdose of pills.”
By the time all LSD had been administered by the CIA and scientists working on mind control shoved out the window, Woodie Guthrie was there with Tymon Dogg getting chords together with Savory Trampyon.
You never knew day for night
By 72 it was all over casualties on the floor
Freight Handlers moving a stack of women’s pasties outside a warehouse on Reade St.