is strange. But by fearful, at the Milan Triennale, where it is stuck on walls all that remains of Jean Michel Basquiat. There is the
his gaze, his
hand,
his time, an incalculable amount of time, spent a scar surfaces and colors to mix and record his name in capital letters on the walls History. In his paintings, what is known: heads, bones, rings, ladders, crazy machines and the traffic light colors, you are stuck there, a bit ', and let you pass, not without a storm of thoughts in mind, not no rust and the breakdown between the thoughts of the world. In the middle of the square, there are photos but also videos, small pieces of life printed on some films, Basquiat and there to walk, and put in spray entire neighborhoods, with long sentences, quick, sharp and paradoxical. It is not that he wrote all over the sentences. There were places that were more throat. The intact walls of art galleries, for example. He knew that sooner or later would have ended there, in that nest protected in that den of speculators. Meanwhile, although no one knew his name, left his mark, his mortgage on the future. And the photos, movie clips, with all that movement, strives to bring a lot in life. But if you want to hear
still JM Basquiat, you must go to the pictures and burn your visit there before, even though the back and short legs allow. So we come back, we walk in the middle, between the pictures I see references, and connections, and the purity and timeless flashing blue, yellow, red, black. But I'm not the only one in the halls. Other people buzzing in there, field glasses, are stepping forward to look better, and then pull back all their own, not only to see the detail in a wide range, but to escape
contamination, not to be touched by rust and by the disintegration of the world. It is a feeling that is added to the fear of entering where it is attached to the walls, Basquiat. And the feeling is more strong and solid, as I observe letters painted on almost every picture: every picture a word or letters trembling voice or decided, or names and disc titles. What is really explosive is that you seem to be
the street, when a museum that holds you with its forms and its elegance el'immacolato white surface. And not just in the street, graffiti spray touching huge buildings, but also in the process of any place where someone, despite the smell, took a pen and began marking the walls, the door, in a manner that is obscene, no academy behind. Jean Michel Basquiat, sure, he knew everything. And for a long time, himself, before ending up in galleries, trendy among the parties and canapé in the mouth to the speculators on Wall Street, had left its mark on trains, subways, buildings, wherever he could return to scratch art primitive and prehistoric energy, with zero final collections: only the glory petite to see your name, your figures, carved somewhere on the grayness of the world. That thing, he must be left in the lead up to the end. And I feel full, while Basquiat is attached to the wall. As I heard, the first time, an exhibition of Andy Warhol, but Warhol was working on the imaginary obscene and not degraded roads, but on the bright glare of publicity, television, products for the masses. They poured through the streets and the lights of the world, the periphery and the center of the world, in museums, those two. They're done to break down, once and for all, the idea that museums are an Indian reservation, a place where genius and safeguard sgregolatezza to use & consumption of the art market. As small white candy boxes, museum institutions, glittering in the mud of daily life. Only Basquiat and Warhol, with their works, they sent the mud inside the favors, and debris that seem beautiful, and we believe that moving ruins. Have given a clear - aesthetically valuable, certainly recognizable - the ashes and glitter of the world: and this was their ability
. And I, in the midst of their works, I feel just that. The same concern when I am alone on the street. The same attraction and pain - for me, for everyone - when I look at the advertising, television, and all the intelligence necessary to make the golden light and the TV and advertising. But all this, Jean Michel Basquiat,
perhaps no one has ever thought of. He only became evident. And his paintings are there for us.
is strange. But by fearful, at the Milan Triennale, where it is stuck on walls all that remains of Jean Michel Basquiat. There is the his gaze, his hand, his time, an incalculable amount of time, spent a scar surfaces and colors to mix and record his name in capital letters on the walls History. In his paintings, what is known: heads, bones, rings, ladders, crazy machines and the traffic light colors, you are stuck there, a bit ', and let you pass, not without a storm of thoughts in mind, not no rust and the breakdown between the thoughts of the world. In the middle of the square, there are photos but also videos, small pieces of life printed on some films, Basquiat and there to walk, and put in spray entire neighborhoods, with long sentences, quick, sharp and paradoxical. It is not that he wrote all over the sentences. There were places that were more throat. The intact walls of art galleries, for example. He knew that sooner or later would have ended there, in that nest protected in that den of speculators. Meanwhile, although no one knew his name, left his mark, his mortgage on the future. And the photos, movie clips, with all that movement, strives to bring a lot in life. But if you want to hear still JM Basquiat, you must go to the pictures and burn your visit there before, even though the back and short legs allow. So we come back, we walk in the middle, between the pictures I see references, and connections, and the purity and timeless flashing blue, yellow, red, black. But I'm not the only one in the halls. Other people buzzing in there, field glasses, are stepping forward to look better, and then pull back all their own, not only to see the detail in a wide range, but to escape contamination, not to be touched by rust and by the disintegration of the world. It is a feeling that is added to the fear of entering where it is attached to the walls, Basquiat. And the feeling is more strong and solid, as I observe letters painted on almost every picture: every picture a word or letters trembling voice or decided, or names and disc titles. What is really explosive is that you seem to be the street, when a museum that holds you with its forms and its elegance el'immacolato white surface. And not just in the street, graffiti spray touching huge buildings, but also in the process of any place where someone, despite the smell, took a pen and began marking the walls, the door, in a manner that is obscene, no academy behind. Jean Michel Basquiat, sure, he knew everything. And for a long time, himself, before ending up in galleries, trendy among the parties and canapé in the mouth to the speculators on Wall Street, had left its mark on trains, subways, buildings, wherever he could return to scratch art primitive and prehistoric energy, with zero final collections: only the glory petite to see your name, your figures, carved somewhere on the grayness of the world. That thing, he must be left in the lead up to the end. And I feel full, while Basquiat is attached to the wall. As I heard, the first time, an exhibition of Andy Warhol, but Warhol was working on the imaginary obscene and not degraded roads, but on the bright glare of publicity, television, products for the masses. They poured through the streets and the lights of the world, the periphery and the center of the world, in museums, those two. They're done to break down, once and for all, the idea that museums are an Indian reservation, a place where genius and safeguard sgregolatezza to use & consumption of the art market. As small white candy boxes, museum institutions, glittering in the mud of daily life. Only Basquiat and Warhol, with their works, they sent the mud inside the favors, and debris that seem beautiful, and we believe that moving ruins. Have given a clear - aesthetically valuable, certainly recognizable - the ashes and glitter of the world: and this was their ability . And I, in the midst of their works, I feel just that. The same concern when I am alone on the street. The same attraction and pain - for me, for everyone - when I look at the advertising, television, and all the intelligence necessary to make the golden light and the TV and advertising. But all this, Jean Michel Basquiat, perhaps no one has ever thought of. He only became evident. And his paintings are there for us. 
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