Well. I actually liked this book quite a bit. I should point out right away that you won't learn anything about Basquiat's work reading it, but I didn't truthfully expect to. That's not why I picked it up. The book is strictly about the artist's life and times, both of which were a hot mess. From everything recounted here, the eighties art market in New York sounds completely deranged (not that it's much different now, I suspect).
The portrait of Basquiat that emerges is not pretty, but judging from the number of sources, it's probably pretty accurate: impossibly childlike, uncontrollable, completely incapable of coping with the tasks of day-to-day life or of reining in his appetite for drugs, women, and alcohol. From the start of his career, he was a "functioning addict." By the end he was just an addict. The later parts of the book read like every episode of VH1's Behind the Music ever: "Unfortunately, the drugs, booze and out-of-control womanizing had begun to get in the way of the music" or in this case, the art. This is a painter who lived (and died) like Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, or Janis Joplin.
For me, the most interesting parts of the Basquiat story are sociological. The book is full of tales of art dealers showing up at Basquiat's studio with duffel bags full of untraceable cash which they traded for paintings which were barely finished. They must have known, given how much coke and heroin Basquiat would leave lying around, where that cash was going. They just didn't care because they also knew how much money they stood to make off of the paintings. While he was still hot, of course.
As damning as the portrayal of art dealers is (and it's damning, especially when Hoban comes to Vrej Baghoomian, a bottom-feeder who swooped in to exploit what was left of the artist when Basquiat already had one foot in the grave), Basquiat himself doesn't exactly come out clean. He was ruthlessly exploited by a deeply cynical (and almost entirely white) art world, which used him up and then grew tired of him and cast him aside. But he was complicit in his own exploitation. He allowed himself to be used because, in the beginning, he so badly wanted what was offered: fame, adulation, money. And as his addiction took over, he just couldn't help himself anymore.
There are also plenty of behavioral signs that he hated himself, his aspirations, and even his own success -- listening to his headphones throughout a dinner with important collectors who admired his work, painting on a dealer's expensive mattress rather than the canvases provided out of spite, etc. I suspect that Basquiat did this kind of thing because he hated the hands that fed him and hated himself for being unable to kick himself loose. This sort of behavior would have gotten a less fashionable, less potentially-lucrative artist kicked out on his ass. Instead, everyone around him ignored it or enabled it, and cashed in later.
And the race issue is right underneath everything. Basquiat said he didn't exploit his ethnic background or the, uh, "racially charged" perception of the black artist as "primitive" or "instinctual." I'm not so sure, but he certainly knew that his dealers viewed him that way and marketed him that way. The knowledge that he was capitulating in exchange for fame and money couldn't have been easy to take. And if it made him feel like destroying himself, the drugs were his for the asking. This is a profoundly sad life-story.
The work is the work, of course. And far from fading out, Basquiat has been posthumously canonized by the art-historical establishment. He's in every textbook that deals with the eighties. But for me, and I think for Hoban, it's extremely difficult to separate the work from the context that made him a star. There's no question that the paintings, the "early" paintings, have juice. Fresh, surprising, energetic, raw, powerful. Plenty of talent, and the kind of unteachable confidence and conviction that an artist needs. But for me, the thought of what he might have done, had he lived in a saner, more loving world, is unavoidable.