Create Dangerously

Emerson’s sculptor had extracted youth from marble. Michael Richards had repeatedly chiseled himself as a dying man in agony, in pain. He had linked the European warrior Sebastian to the cunning southern African American trickster Tar Baby, titling his representation of his airplane-pierced body Tar Baby vs. Saint Sebastian. He had sculpted not one but two of his Tar Baby vs. Saint Sebastian statues, one that perished with him in the towers, and a second that was stored and then rediscovered in a cousin’s garage.

Michael Richards was born in New York City, but grew up in Kingston, Jamaica, and then returned to New York as a young man, making him an American who was often called an immigrant. In Richards’s obituary in The Independent, the art critic Adrian Dannat wrote, “Richards had gone against the expectations of his Jamaican family in becoming an artist, an extremely rare profession in a society dominated by bourgeois conventions of financial success.” His friend, the art curator Moukhtar Kocache, told the Village Voice that Richards’s work featured “men who were alienated and unacknowledged, using that for his own existential feelings as a black man, an artist, an immigrant.”

“The highest minds of the world have never ceased to explore the double meaning, or shall I say quadruple or the centuple or much more manifold meaning, of every sensual fact,” Emerson wrote in his essay “The Poet.” “For we are not pawns and barrows, nor even porters of the fire and torch bearers, but children of the fire, made of it.”

Michael Richards was a child of the fire. He often remade himself in it, using his body, over and over again, as his template.

In Ralph Ellison’s “Flying Home,” an old man asks Todd, the fallen young pilot, “Son, how come you want to fly way up there in the air?”

“Because,” Todd replies, “… It’s as good a way to fight and die as I know.”

This leads Todd to think about a time in his childhood when he would chase the shadows of passing airplanes, thinking he could somehow capture and own them. Even the fact that the planes were being used to dump hateful and racist flyers did not diminish his admiration.

“Above he saw the plane spiraling gracefully, agleam in the sun like a fiery sword. And seeing it soar he was caught, transfixed between a terrible horror and a horrible fascination,” wrote Ellison.

Unable to accept the swift reality of sudden death, I’d like to think that Michael Richards had a final moment when he was downright enthralled and mesmerized by his-our-horrible fascination. Or that maybe he had enough time to stop and whisper, “I will take off… and fly away on my own wings. Please forgive me, I loved you all.”

CHAPTER 10

Welcoming Ghosts

It was a testy interview and part of it still lives on in cyberspace via a clip on YouTube. The art historian Marc Miller asks the twenty-one-year-old graffiti artist, painter, musician, and one-time film star Jean-Michel Basquiat about his roots.

“You’re what?” demands Miller. “Haitian-Puerto Rican?”

“I was born here,” answers Basquiat, “but my mother’s fourth-generation Puerto Rican. My father comes from Haiti.”

“Do you feel that that’s in your art?” continues Miller.

“Genetically?” Basquiat interrupts.

“Yeah,” replies Miller. “Genetically or culturally?”

“Culturally?” Basquiat wonders out loud, almost as if speaking to himself. “I guess so.”

“Haiti’s of course famous for its art,” Miller adds.

“That’s why I said genetically,” Basquiat replies while fidgeting and looking away, “because I’ve never been there. And I grew up in, you know, principal American vacuum. Television mostly.”

“No Haitian primitives on your wall?” asks Miller.

“At home?” asks Basquiat, picking up a trace of Miller’s sarcasm and running with it. “Haitian primitives? What do you mean? People? People nailed up on my walls?”

“I mean paintings,” Miller answers, chuckling. “Paintings.”

“No, no no,” counters Basquiat. “Just, you know, typical prints you find in any home in America. Well, some homes in America. Nothing really special.”

If young Basquiat had had any Haitian primitives on his walls-paintings or otherwise-one of them may have been the Haitian painter and Vodou priest Hector Hyppolite, a spiritual forebear.

Legend has it that when Hector Hyppolite was a young man, a spirit came to him in his sleep and told him that one day he would become a famous artist. Born into a family of Vodou priests, Hyppolite was no stranger to the spirits nor they to him. While waiting for this prophecy to materialize, Hyppolite traveled to Cuba to work in the sugarcane fields, then went as far as Ethiopia on a freighter, and later, when he returned to Haiti, apprenticed himself to a shoemaker, painted Vodou temples, houses, and furniture, and sketched colorful postcards that he sold to occupying U.S. marines and then painted the barroom door that would eventually change his life.

In 1943, the American watercolorist Dewitt Peters was driving through the tourist-friendly village of Montrouis with his friend the Haitian novelist Philippe Thoby-Marcelin when they spotted the colorfully painted birds and flowers on the “Ici la Renaissance” saloon door. Peters was about to open an art school and gallery (Le Centre d’Art) in downtown Port-au-Prince and was on the lookout for such talent. Enter Hector Hyppolite, who was offered the opportunity to move to a middle-class neighborhood in Port-au-Prince to concentrate solely on his art, but instead chose to settle in a seaside slum called Trou de Cochon (Pig’s Hole), where he ran a Vodou temple and a boat-building business and in three years produced more than six hundred canvases.

Hyppolite’s early fans and collectors were legend. Andre Breton, the father of French Surrealism, declared that Hyppolite could revolutionize modern art. The Tony Award-winning dancer and choreographer Geoffrey Holder created a ballet inspired by Hyppolite’s life, which the Alvin Ailey Dance Company still performs. A young Truman Capote, in a December 1948 Harper’s Bazaar magazine article, lavished praise on Hyppolite’s work even while calling the artist ugly and “monkey-thin.”

Hyppolite’s looks fared a lot better with the American art collector Selden Rodman, who worked alongside Dewitt Peters and saw Hyppolite often at the Centre d’Art. Rodman could also have been describing young Basquiat when he wrote of Hyppolite, “His wiry hair parted in the middle and shaved around the ears, flared sidewise untrimmed with the effect of a dusty, magnetized crown… [C]ould he be descended from one of those Arawak sand painters who inspired the veve?”

The veve is a ceremonial drawing, an outlined emblem that is meant to call forth spirits. It is often sketched on the ground, with cornmeal, before Vodou ceremonies. Each Vodou spirit or lwa-spelled loa in older texts-is identified with a particular veve. The veve of the goddess of love, Erzulie Freda, is usually a heart. The veve for Baron Samedi, the guardian of the cemetery, is a cross on top of a tombstone. Ogoun, the god of war, is represented by linked squares, which suggest a protective shield. Legba, master of the crossroads, is a crossroad with singularly embellished direction markers. The veve sketches are usually transient-they vanish underfoot at the ceremonies-except when sewn on sequined ceremonial flags that have stepped so far out of their ritual realm that they are now used on trendy designer purses and clothes. Like some of Hyppolite’s early work, a few of Jean-Michel Basquiat’s drawings and paintings bring to mind veves.

Born in Brooklyn, New York, twelve years after Hyppolite’s death, Basquiat’s childhood could not have been more different from Hyppolite’s. Hyppolite was born dirt poor in a rural section of Haiti. Basquiat was born into a middle-class immigrant family in urban America. Where Hyppolite’s exposure to art was mostly limited to the practical and decorative-brightly painted houses, Vodou temples, Masonic lodges, boats, and camions called tap taps-Basquiat often visited museums with his mother and, if Julian Schnabel’s biopic of Basquiat is to be believed, young Basquiat saw his mother cry before Pablo Picasso’s Guernica while a golden crown appeared halolike on his head. Basquiat had his own pass to the Brooklyn Museum at a very young age and was a