I Love My Psychiatrist

I have known her for over 24 years and before the east village became counter culture mainstreet USA. When rents were cheap, alphabet city was still dangerous and we were loisidas. When I first met Jean Michel Basquiat she was on his arm and when Jean needed a place to crash for a few months she came with him. For many years Suzanne Mallouk was Basquiat's companion, confidant and lover. They were a sharp and stunning couple. Actually, she has written a very good book about her experiences called "The Widow Basquiat" and it is available through Canongate Publishing. We witnessed a lot of history together and manged to survive all the vicissitudes of the 80's. I just barely survived having overdosed on a Frankfurt bound L-1011 at Kennedy airport in 1989.

In 1981 Jean, Suzanne and I travelled to Italy together while he was creating work for Emilio Mazzoli in Modena. We wandered through ancient plazas carrying a beatbox and listening to Brian Eno and Jon Hassel's "Possible Worlds" over and over. Chemistry, Miles, Coltrane and Talking Head's "Life in the Bush of Ghosts" became the soundtrack for our adventure. Jean, in his rumpled paint splattered Armani suit, was on the eternal search for a good smoke. In those days he appreciated good pot as well as a well crafted glass of wine. The desire for smack would come years later.

We would walk through dusty and seemingly non populated areas on these quests. Everything seemed to have an Italian western type drama to it. The noon sun would illuminate us as our trio wandered from one empty square to another. I suppose all sensible Italians were starting their siestas or sitting down to their three hour lunchs. Occasionally we would see shadows moving within the shadows along the perimeter of the plaza. A connection would be made and we would return to the studio stopping along the way for a tall glass or two of fresh squeezed blood orange juice. Basquiat was at the beginning of his career and was painting eight very large canvases in a hanger like studio supplied by Emilio.

He must have been paid near $100,000 cash for those paintings. This posed a problem when we were leaving the country as there are laws about taking large sums out of Italy. Somehow it was decided that we would each carry a third of the money and just brave customs hoping for the best. We were running late for our flight that day. I dropped them on the TWA departures curb and raced off to return our rented red convertable.

Once done I raced back to the TWA desk. There I saw Jean in his wrinkled designer suit and with his dreadlocks tucking out from his fishing hat. He was waving and had big smile. Suzanne was dressed in perpetual NY city black, was not smiling and seemed nervous. Suzanne is a Persian beauty, very smart and back then she had an elegant punk edge to her. Standing next to Jean was a man in a trenchcoat and standing behind them were two airport police with sub machine guns at the ready. They were just waiting for me to complete the party. We were ushered into a back area of the airport where there was a long aluminium table before us and baggage handling going on in the periphery. Our baggage was on the table and the search began. Basquiat's baggage consisted of a few cardboard boxes tied with heavy rope. I had placed my share of the money in the vest pocket of my suit. Hide it in plain sight was my philosophy. Eventually they started patting Suzanne down and had her remove her new cowboy boots. They shook the boots and money spilled out on to the table. Not good.

We were then escorted deeper into parts of the Milano airport that few people ever see. At one end of the long institutional and flourescent lit hallway of Interpol headquarters we were separated and interviewed. The police could not believe that the money was not drug related and that this young eccentric black man was an artist who had made the money legitimately. Phone calls were made and eventually everything was sorted out. Through some miracle our flight had been delayed for the few hours that we were being processed. The maintenaince crew was just putting away their spot welding tools as we settled into our seats for the flight back to New York. This was a TWA flight and the stewardesses looked old and tired. The fiberglass molding next to my seat was loose. I looked down near my foot and there was an empty Pepsi can.

Suzanne called me the other day to invite me to her X-mas party and to see her new apartment on the northern border of central park in Harlem. We had fallen out of touch but it was great to see her again. Rather late in life, she went to medical school and is now a doctor of psychiatry and just finishing her internship. Back in the day she was a muse...today she is an inspiration.