Back to Basquiat

Normally my parents are pretty Central Texas centric. Reasons to visit Houston are very limited in include Christmas shopping, escaping from or returning to Texas, or to visit their son...particularly if one of the former happen to coincide with the latter. However, this time they came for jazz and art no less!

The Museum of Fine Arts is REALLY pushing the young artistic supernova Basquiat (Afro-Puertoriceño Brooklynder modern art sensation whose life extinguished at the height of his talent at 27 status post unintentional drug overdose). I casually mentioned that the MFA was hosting a jazz evening with some New Orleans transplant the other day to mi madre as I painted a big ole "W" over our front door. I can tell she was conflicted but curious by her usual repeated questions of time and place and aforementioned detail. Furthermore dad, in his frequently ungarnished approach to conversation, simply huffed, "What's this about some jazz tomorrow?" Anyway, the conversation with mom went as follows:

"Well, where is it going to be?" Dr. Webster said as I fastidiously painted the right curve of the 'w' with thin paint and a thick paintbrush.

"I told you already, the Museum of Fine Arts."

"Is that downtown? What time is it happening?

"6pm. I'm leaving at 3."

Fast forward to 3:30 today as I put the last of my things in the car for return to Houston.

"You're not leaving already are you?"

"Jazz starts at 6; you guys coming? You didn't mention anything." (add cynical look here)

Voilà. Dad hopped out of shower, mom sufficiently fussied-up, and we're out by 4pm. Its only fair to note that despite the previous days plans, in un-Webster character we were running around in that last half hour as hurried and ill-planned as Harriet Miers nomination (but not quite FEMA-esque as yet).

So, a couple of weeks ago, I wrote of the last MFA event I went to in homage of Basquiat with DJs, divas, and Dickies, so it was odd to see trumpets, tweed, and jazz tourists. Unfortunately there weren't any more seats left, but no matter, after about 15 minutes the Colonel wanted to take a stroll to see this Basquiat fellow anyway.

Mom' Impression:
She loves the guy. She clearly loves his kinetic pieces and his suggestions toward the African Diaspora (Afro-American music, the Old South, West African griots, etc) "He keeps drawing skulls." This is somewhere between an indictment and an irrepressible attraction. Kinda like an undeniably attractive self-confessed Atlanta gold-digger who, despite your cognizance, still has her hand on your wallet. I assure you this is not from personal experience.

Dad's Impression:
"At least the band is good."

Here's a link to see some more of the works they've commented on.

In any case, I hope we can have more of these fun evenings. I only hope I didn't scare him away with the experimental 1980s New York modern artists. Let's hope not.