Standing in front of the gas station window I stared at my reflection. My hands were stained with orange and purple and my hair was wild and ungroomed. Small holes were starting to form at the neckline of my black tee shirt and the laces of my shoes were untied. I let my eyes focus beyond my reflection to the owner of the store with his head down on the counter. Without even glancing over my shoulder I raised my right hand and painted an orange circle where my head was. I took a step closer to fill in the eyes and nose, large and turned up. The blue spilling out of my head doubled as my knotted hair and stream of creativity traveling through my heart and soul to reach the world around me. My first self portrait was on the glass at a Bronx gas station.
Al Diaz and I met my sophomore year of high school. I had noticed some of his graffiti on my way home from school one day and finally put the art to the face when he offered me a smoke before homeroom on a chilly November day. We connected immediately. I admitted I had seen some of his art and he told me he liked my style and that was it. We spent the next two years together, painting on old buildings and under tunnels. By the beginning of my junior year, Al had not only become my best friend, he had become my brother.
Our tag became “SAMO” and people quickly started to take notice. Kids at school would ask us what it meant and how we became so good. I had been doing art since elementary school, but all of my time in school was now devoted to sketching and painting.
I had this one teacher, my French teacher. Her name was Ms. Laurence and I despised her. Like really, really hated her. She kept me after class one day to explain to me that if I didn’t start paying attention and handing in assignments I would be in jeopardy of not graduating. I flipped out on her. I’ve been speaking French my entire life, why do I need to learn it in school? What’s the point of me “learning” something I already know? Long story short, I stormed out, painted over her windshield and promptly dropped out of school.
When I told my dad I wasn’t going back to school he almost exploded. He grew up without free education and never had the opportunities I was given. He was pretty furious. He kicked me out of the house at just 17, with a duffel bag of spray paint in my hand and cassette player in my pocket. At first I crashed at Al’s and went out to paint during the day. Eventually, Al got a girlfriend though. Her name was Stephanie and Al started ignoring me and ditching our spontaneous adventures to hang out with her.
I was forced to find a new place to stay and started talking to new people and trying to make new friends. A lot of people had seen my art and really looked up to me like I was some kind of god or something. I usually stayed with people like that for a few nights until they realized I was just using them and kicked me out.
I quickly went from crashing at friend’s houses to officially on the streets. Dumpster diving became my norm and my art started to fade to the back of my mind. Al and I would still hang out, despite him being in school and he encouraged me to start selling some pieces. Selling my artwork had honestly never occurred me. I was a graffiti artist, who was going to buy that? Al helped me get started, buying me shirts and things to paint on and sell. Surprisingly, my small business took off. I was making hundreds of dollars a month and spent every last cent on new spray paints and acrylics. I didn’t mind sleeping on benches or sidewalks if it meant getting to paint all day long.
Unfortunately, my lifestyle started to include things like alcohol and cocaine and I needed more money. Al hooked me up with an old dealer of his and I sold for him for awhile. People came to me for practically every drug under the sun. I did make good money. My art production started to slow down yet again and when people started complaining I forced myself to give up my successful career in dealing and go back to painting.
Eventually, I decided it was time to finally get my life together. I saved up for a small apartment. I was always creating, but things started to take longer once I could afford alcohol and good food (Cheetos and don’t even try to argue with me, they are the best thing God has ever created). My days consisted of waking up at noon, listening to music and playing around with poems and paintings until around six, when I would head out to a club or hang out with a friend. Late nights faded into early mornings and with enough drugs running through my system at all times, the days themselves seemed to disappear. I made some public appearances through the music world, starring in music videos and designing album covers. Other than that, the media saw me as a drunk and a recluse.
My 19th birthday in 1979 was certainly a wild one. Al came over and proclaimed that it had been “too long” since one of our old SAMO adventures. He took me out all around Brooklyn and we had the time of our life. I remember that day vividly. The frigid December air burned my throat every time I inhaled. The pungent smell of cigarettes and beer hung onto my clothes for at least a month. We ran around painting on any bare surface we could find, just like the old days. I painted a few rough artistic pieces along the way, but the lines were never completely straight and the poems always read like the ramblings of a tipsy psychopath. We ended the night on a pier along the river, talking about meaningful things that I can’t remember and reminiscing on old times. I fell asleep that night feeling small and powerless but yet rather content and nostalgic. Al and I were both completely unknowing of the events that were about to unfold.
The next day my face was splayed across newspapers all over the city. The Village Voice had discovered some of the fresh pieces I had left behind in my drunken birthday adventures and published an article literally overnight. It felt like the entire city instantly knew my name. Al ran to my house that morning with at least a dozen copies of the paper in both hands. His name was right alongside mine. Together, we were the SAMO guys, but individually, we had both achieved a level of fame no one expected.
Al and I spent the following weeks managing letters and calls from papers and agencies begging for an interview. We declined everything. I used the time to buy materials and canvases. I was at my most productive state. For over a month I was pumping out at least five or so paintings a day and selling them to eager buyers. By the end of January, Al’s offers had dribbled down and mine had doubled. He stopped coming over as often and people started asking what had happened to the iconic SAMO duo. Al was mad. I suggested he tag some places himself and he refused to talk to me. I like to think it was just jealousy over the fact that I was getting more attention, but there was always something else, something deeper. He straight up ignored my calls and would never say hi when I approached him on the street. The last thing I remember him talking to me about was my ever growing drug addiction. We had a pretty heated argument that ended in both of us being angrier than before and I painted a bold “SAMO IS DEAD” on the side of a random building that night, signalling the official end of our friendship.
I met Andy Warhol in 1982, less than two years after Al and I parted ways. I hosted six solo exhibitions that year alone in various countries around the world. I had looked up to him for years prior, so meeting him and hearing about how much he loved my work was really surreal. He quickly became my mentor and best friend. We worked closely together on some of the projects I’m most proud of. I took him to my favorite clubs and he taught me how to roll my own cigarettes. He taught me how to survive the world of pretentious art critics and wannabes, showing me how to dress and what things to say during interviews. Without him, the bulk of my career may have never happened.
My career exploded within the span of five years. I had to adjust to seeing my name on headlines and in front of world renowned museums. My low key rave nights turned into doing cocaine in the basement of banquet halls with some of the art world greats. I met women that were actually interested in my art and appreciated the time I took for each piece.
Madonna and I ran into each other in California and hit it off right away. We were both young and constantly being watched by the press, a pressure that surely took a toll in both of our lives. She was someone I could tell anything and had full confidence in. When I moved in with Larry Gagosian she came with me and we officially started dating. The press ate it up. The founder of contemporary art dating the Queen of Pop was certainly the headline of the year. We were unusually close and perhaps that's what lead to our demise. She showed me that I don’t know how to compromise and may never be able to put someone else’s vision ahead of mine.
The later 1980’s weren’t all that eventful. Warhol and I spent a lot of time together, touring the world and creating every chance we got. Fashion and music started to slip into my lifestyle, followed by heroine. While cocaine had been more of a pass time, heroine took over my life and I quickly became addicted. My art certainly started becoming more abstract and “modern”, but my social life was crumbling. I was barely conscious as my biggest milestones flew by.
February 22nd, 1987. The sky was still dark as I pulled myself out of bed. The unforgiving wood froze the soles of my feet as I rushed to dress myself. A sketchbook gets thrown in my back pocket and a stick of graphite finds its way to my jacket. The early air was stiff and heavy and it hurt to breathe. For whatever reason, my brain jumped back to my birthday with Al. I hadn’t thought about him in years, and yet the universe gave me a sign that this was about to be the end of another era.
I took a cab to the New York Hospital. I was supposed to be bringing Andy home after a surgery and I was excited to see my dear friend again. My hands were sweaty in my pockets and my cheeks were flush. The hospital was eerily quiet. The waiting rooms were empty and nurses and doctors seemed oddly calm. I walked up to the reception lady and asked for his room assignment. She looked up at me with big brown eyes and I think I knew what she was going to say before she even said it.
I left that day feeling empty and useless. I stumbled around in a daze for weeks after, no longer fighting to keep creating. There was no reason. My best friend was gone yet again. A brother a lover and a father, all taken from me too soon. My life no longer had purpose.
Everything seemed to come full circle as the year drew to a close. I started going back to my favorite clubs and shooting up heroine whenever I could find a clean needle. I lived through those months dazed and confused, consistently waking up on street corners and dredging back home to put on my suit and attend a show. My friends were the walls of my apartment and my outlet of expression was sketching depressing pictures of faces I once knew or happened to pass on the street. My days were grey and dull and meaningless.
I snap the notebook closed, making the bartender jump. I laugh at him a little and put my beloved memoir in my back pocket after standing up. A man I know I know but can't remember comes up to me.
"Jean-Michel, let me take you home, you're drunk."
"I know. I can walk. I'm close."
"No, come on, I don't want people to see you like this, let me just take you home."
"Ok." Tim, or maybe its Tom, takes my hand and leads me out of the club, shoving his way through sweaty kids in bright colors and white shoes. I follow him diligently, my mind too far gone to think for myself. The late summer air is stuffy and moist and I struggle to breathe. He lets go of my hand and the rush of sudden freedom washes over me. I stumble. My head spins. Everything seems to hurt.
My new found guardian watches me struggle and takes hold of me once again. He warps one arm around my shoulders and another firmly on my arm. I wince but honestly don't mind the small amount of human to human contact. His warmth is strangely comforting.
Together, we face the many flights of stairs up to my apartment. He takes my key from my pocket and lets me into my own home. Helpless, I let him fix me a glass of water and some aspirin. I slump down onto my bed. Tom sits next to me and he glares at me with eyes filled with pity.
"Please don't mess up your life like this Jean. You're talented. Don't let heroine control your life, you're so much better than that." And then he's gone. My head is still foggy, but Tim or whatever has inspired my next project. I pass out within minutes, but the second the sun rises the next day I'm awake, ready to work.
I decide that my final painting will be a self portrait. My figure is all black and brown with hollowed out eyes and empty circles for a brain. For a moment, I'm almost sad about the man that I've become. Nonetheless, I continue, mounting myself on the skeleton of a horse, trying to represent the fact that my journey is over. I finish it in less than an hour and step back to admire an empty canvas featuring an empty man. As I look, I silently accept that this is my fate, this is the way I'm meant to go. I leave the painting on a hook on my wall and look at it for the rest of the day, content with the finished product. That night, I turn on some jazz and open my windows to let in the damp air. I shoot up for the last time and smile as my soul melts into the heartless world around me.
