A Panel of Experts

Tell me about the first time you met Basquiat. Not this request again ...

So: Kobe has the ball, Staples Center, they’re up by eight

against the 76ers. Two rows behind Jack Nicholson and the lady

he is with, who keeps adjusting her bra. Phil Jackson calls a timeout.

I’m not used to American money, so when the popcorn vendor

offers me my change I say, keep it. Some kid asks Basquiat for an autograph.

He’s not even paying attention. He’s waiting for the timeout to end

so he can watch men stand on the edge of the earth’s lip and return

to being birds. There’s red paint on his Comme des Garçons suit.

Before combing his Ray-Bans into his dreads he asks me for a pen

like he knows me, while still watching the game as if it were a Spanish

tragedy. Time is a real cannibal: the rest of the day plays like the Zodiac Suite

on loop. By track five it’s Saturday, 3 am. Breakfast is a powerful piece

of technology. So, I order two omelettes and some OJ. We talk for hours

about Joyce—the act of endless beginnings, but the world can’t simplify

itself. A TV screen is witnessing a small catastrophe. Basquiat isn’t scared

of the hi-tech wolf. So, we climb right into the canvas like a galaxy shivering

and he says, don’t be fooled by the never-ending pattern of abstraction. It’s the only way

we can become particles of light. As time becomes a direction he has to leave. I barely

remember, but I think the Lakers won. Of course, the transitions were much

slower. I think he had the remote. Hey! Does that answer your question?