ADDED: The New Yorker article is "Keith Haring, the Boy Who Cried Art/Was he a brilliant painter or a brilliant brand?" Excerpt:
Nabokov has a short, vivid scene about a bouquet of flowers. The bouquet sits in a shop that makes copies of old curios. A boy strolls in and touches the petals, expecting them to be lifeless, only to find that they’re the real deal, camouflaged by a roomful of fakery. Brad Gooch’s new biography, “Radiant: The Life and Line of Keith Haring” (Harper), often gives you the sense that Haring was, in essence, that bouquet: an utterly genuine person in a profession full of artifice. Even as a child, in small-town Pennsylvania, he had a gift for embracing mass culture with total, solemn fervor, whether it was supposed to be solemn or not. In the fourth grade, he fell hard for the Monkees and filled a notebook with cutout pictures of Davy Jones; in junior high, inspired by Billy Graham and maybe “Godspell,” Haring found Jesus and rated all hundred and fifty of the Psalms on a scale from “good” to “ugh!”
५ टिप्पण्या:
I have a button from the pop shop. He was the bees knees to my club kid friend in high school…
Why am I supposed to care about Keith Haring? Oh, he's an artist.
If being widely viewed is a sign of success he was all that. Seems for awhile about one in ten vehicles in SoCal had Haring's iconic dancing figures on their back window. I think my buddy Dan still does.
He did some fun drawings but clearly knew dick about music.
The Beatles were all big Monkees fans, especially Lennon, who considered them the best comedy team since the Marx Brothers.
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