PAYING RESPECTS
THE TRUE STORY OF A MYSTERIOUS ENCOUNTER AT ARTIST JEAN-MICHEL BASQUIAT’S GRAVE
We weren’t expecting to see many people at the cemetery that day. It was deserted because of the stifling August heat, humidity, and forecast for rain. Not a soul stirred besides us, amid the approximately 575,000 graves, except for a few guards and one creepy guy we’d seen standing high on a hill early in our visit. In fact, the uncrowded state of the cemetery made us feel safer — the pandemic still raged and we wanted to avoid crowds of the living.
Along a nondescript row of generic tombstones, one grave was strewn with offerings: a can of blue spray paint, a tiny jade Buddha, polished rocks, regular rocks, a small bottle of whiskey, a matchbook, pine cones, a seashell, a feather, a graphite portrait of a man’s face on paper that was secured by a rock, a tiny cactus wrapped in purple metallic foil, garish artificial flowers, a card with the words “Work Smoothly, Lifetime Peace” on it, a small gold plastic brain that read “Graduate Studies”, and a piece of plywood with an emoji-like face and three crowns spray-painted in blue. If it weren’t for this menagerie of graveside ephemera, the tombstone might have been hard to locate, as one simple and plain small tombstone in an endless row of similar ones, amid the spectacular and grandiose graves of Victorian-era Green-Wood Cemetery.
We were visiting this particular grave on our way out of the 478-acre cemetery, after walking more than five miles. The August heat and humidity has left us, already sunblock and bug spray-smeared, red-faced, exhausted, and dehydrated. I hadn’t seen my two good friends in real life in 17 months, because of the Covid-19 pandemic’s harrowing deadly grip over New York City, beginning in March of 2020. By mid-August of 2021, we were all fully vaccinated and finally mentally ready, so steeled ourselves to venture out for a get together. It seemed safest to meet outside, so we selected the fascinating but macabre location near where one of us lives: the cemetery. After so much life had been lost through the pandemic in New York City, it almost felt to me that a visit to the cemetery would be, in a symbolic way, a fitting act of reverence and remembrance.
That afternoon, we’d taken great interest in the extravagant tomb of Charles Feltman, inventor of the hot dog. No offerings had been left to him that day, though. We’d spotted poignant graves for firemen and family pets, magnates and mothers. An aura of peacefulness permeated the afternoon. The trees at Green-Wood are reason enough to visit. We walked through the cascading tunnel of trees known as the Weeping Beech Tunnel, which, according to Green-Wood’s map is a visitor favorite.
Once the heat got to be too much, we wound our way along the cemetery’s avenues, on Grape Avenue and Sassafras Avenue, with a final destination in mind: the grave of artist Jean-Michel Basquiat. It was here that we found the offerings, still there mere days after the anniversary of his August 12, 1988 death. We paid our own respects, quietly observing his tombstone and thoughtfully discussing his brief yet profoundly impactful life. While we stood by his grave, two unexpected visitors showed up, offering us glares that meant we weren’t welcome.
In sharp contrast to our heat-melted, sweaty selves in sneakers, t-shirts, and shorts, the two women were dressed to the nines. Their faces were laden with heavy makeup including black eyeliner and thick false eyelashes, harsh red lip liner and lipstick. They both had equally elaborate coiffed and curled hairstyles, reminiscent of women’s hairstyles from the 1940s. The taller woman, who looked like she would win a bar fight, wore a ruffled all-black lace shorts ensemble. Her low-cut top tied at the midriff and her shorts exemplified the meaning of the word shorts. Her feet were clad in tall black platform sandals. The smaller woman wore an ivory blouse that featured delicate lace at the collar, with high-waisted red shorts that had attached red suspenders. She wore tall red platform sandals. Both women had bright red manicures and pedicures.
My friends and I paused. We hadn’t been quite ready to leave. The two women stood impatiently waiting, looking at us. It was clear they wanted us to leave. Even though I didn’t feel in danger, I felt scared. The harsh appearances and glares of the two women chilled the hot afternoon considerably. Time itself seemed to freeze for a moment.
“Let’s go,” whispered my friend.
As we walked slowly away, I turned back to look.
The women (were they ghosts?), in reverential stances, were leaving quarters on Basquiat’s grave.
Further away, we asked each other, “Were they burlesque performers?”
“Dancers?”
Thoughts went unsaid.
“Witches?” someone said.
“Ghosts? Were they really there?” I said.
“What does it mean to leave quarters on a grave?”
Perhaps it was an offering of money to buy Basquiat passage to the afterlife. But, Basquiat died in 1988, so he’d probably already traveled wherever one might go, when and if one goes. Coins are often left on military graves, to mark a visit from the living and as an act of honor. Sometimes, coins are left as a traditional voodoo offering at graves.
Perhaps the quarters were a thank you to Basquiat’s spirit for some kind of help. Or maybe the women were asking for something. Did they summon him? What might one request of Jean-Michel Basquiat at his grave?
What sadness, dreams, and longings did the two women have that they brought to Basquiat’s grave, just for a moment, before they slipped away as ghosts or memories like the rest of us, in time?
