Keith Haring Journals (41 page)

Strangely, what struck me most were two photos of Jimmy Carter’s visit to the Peace Museum in 1984. In both pictures Amy (approximately 17 years old at the time) is at his side. The look on her face says it all. It is maybe the archetypal expression of any intelligent, sensitive American teenager upon realizing for the first time the profound reality of our fragile situation. In one picture all you can see is one eye and part of her head, since she is standing behind her father. The terror in her eye is so real and so sincere that it riveted me to tears.

After leaving here we walked through the park in silence. It was not necessary to speak, for everyone understood. We visited some monuments in the Peace Park and the Dome, which is a building left standing (partially) after the bombing as a reminder of the vast destruction.

Across the river from the Dome is the school where I want to paint. Its proximity to the park and its perfect exterior wall that faces the park makes this the obvious choice. Upon seeing it and realizing its importance I try to explain to them that a mosaic-like mural would be more appropriate and more permanent. Everyone agrees. We walk around the school and then go to a meeting at the mayor’s office to explain my proposal. The men we met with there were very resistant and cited every excuse imaginable (including the effect of a mural on the educational process) why I shouldn’t do it there. They suggested, however, that the perfect location would be in the new contemporary art museum, which was near completion. They had already arranged a meeting with one of the museum directors. They didn’t understand why I was more interested in putting my art in a more real-life situation, and cited all the usual reasons.

Anyway, it was not the city’s permission I needed for the school project, and I was interested in seeing the musuem also. We met the director and he agreed to give us a tour tomorrow and show us the walls they’ve already considered. Then we went to see an immediately available site at the YMCA. But doing a piece there, we decided, would dampen the museum’s interest and minimize the city’s interest. So we went and had dinner (Japanese soul food) at a very funky place and visited the “gallery” of one of our hosts—which turned out to be a frame shop. While there I met his 76-year-old mother (a survivor of Hiroshima), who was my big fan. I did a big drawing for her, much to her delight. When we left the shop she came downstairs for final bows and goodbyes, and as we walked down the street (quite a long way) she remained standing, watching. As I turned the corner I looked to see if she was still there, even though I knew she would be. One final bow. Moments like this make me fall in love with this country: the subtleties and nuances of daily life and values that Western people aren’t even conscious of anymore. There is a kind of poetry to all life here and every action seems symbolic.

I wrote a fax to New York and began reading the chapter on Jerry Falwell’s church in
Cities on a Hill
. I slept and had strange dreams.

Wake up at 12:00. Go to buy more luggage for all the stuff I bought here. Kaz and Fran come to pick me up and take me by taxi to the bus station, where I check in and head to the airport. Now I’m on the plane back to New York. Hard to believe this all happened in a week.

NOTES:

A few weeks ago I was invited to Bob Rauschenberg’s studio for a reception to receive representatives of USSR’s artists’ union (the governing organization of all artist activities). I felt honored to even be invited, considering the only other artists were Roy Lichtenstein, Christo, Laurie Anderson and some others. I met the representatives from Russia and we talked about my possible work there. I explained I have been trying to get something organized there, but have not had much luck. Information packages and letters had gone through the U.N. and Yoko Ono, but I had gotten no response. They assured me that they were the only ones who could help me. A man I met there who runs a project in Florida that does multiples with American artists like Lichtenstein, Johns, Rauschenberg, etc., told me he was the one working on Bob’s exhibition in Moscow and he would personally deliver a package of info for me.

I chatted with Roy Lichtenstein for a long time and made arrangements to visit his new studio the following week. When I visited him we traded some prints.

I’m only writing this now because for me it was significant that I was invited and that I’m accepted and treated as an equal by these artists, while much of the art world (at least critics, dealers and museum people) treat me as a curiosity easily ignored. It is times like this that I regain the confidence that is continually being drained by the ignorance of the art magazines, and criticism that pretends I don’t even exist. The acceptance by these artists, who I respect, and who I feel my work fits in historically with, is much more important to me than any critics, museum directors or art dealers. Anyway, I just wanted to write this down so I’d remember it later.

Leave New York after losing my Amex card for the first time in my life. Pick up another card at airport and board the Concorde unabashed.

Flight is smooth and fast. Ahh, technology. At customs we are searched (bags), but much to his dismay he finds nothing.

The hotel is O.K. Close to Champs-Élysées and the Eiffel Tower. We eat, call Lysa [Cooper], and prepare to head to Bains Douches. In the lobby waiting for the address from the concierge we run into Hubert (the owner of the Bains Douches) and he drives us to the club. Outside we ran into the black opera singer Andy introduced me to (Paul Étienne). He says Lucio Amelio is in town also. The club is packed and I immediately remember what I hate about Paris. Or, rather, one of the things I hate about Paris. In crowds people push and step on you and nobody even acknowledges it. After NYC it’s hard to get used to this. The club is too full. We find Lysa and her friends and hang out, but it’s too hard to deal with this crowd. Gil [Vazquez] is tired and I’m ready to go, too. We return to the hotel and talk for hours. Seems like it’s really hard for everyone else to deal with our friendship and everyone seems to keep interfering. It all seems really simple to me. All I know is he makes me feel happier and smarter than anyone I ever met in my life. It sort of brings a lot of things to the surface that are lurking just below. We can talk for hours. We are still up at 6:00 AM so we eat breakfast and try to sleep.