Jean Michel Basquiat was a graffiti artist in the 80s. He roamed with the New York crowd, the Warhol and those, Deborah Harry. He was black and beautiful and seemed loved by all. He died, of course. The 80s were the secret Plague of our time. Anyhow, there’s a great recent documentary release called Downtown 81 that covers him and the scene and stuff like that, but it’s not really a documentary so much in the format. It’s more like a story.
Honestly, the acting is so raw that it all seems like bad porn actors, only no one gets laid. But the music and everything is so interesting, as you know this is fairly indicative of what was going on. I appreciated the film for that.
A wonderful woman in our loft/factory/condo place had us over. She called her place Cinema Macaroni, and that included putting a little sign on the door, etc. She shot the movie onto the wall using a projector she bootlegged from school. Her big fat tiger cat lounged center-stage below the screen. There were a half dozen or so folks. I brought my wonderful Brahms/Mount personal blanket. It’s the one on the left:
And anyhow, I really had a great time. For a treat, I brought them blueberries. There was watermelon already there. It was magic, except that I wanted Kat to be there. Softie.
