Keith Haring Journals (45 page)

There were four drawings at four separate parts of the exhibit from the “Deluge” series he did in 1515. They were explained on the placard to be “his last significant artistic expressions” and the “reason for them was unknown.” They all seem to show the effects of a large, overwhelming force of nature—a village at the center of a storm or an almost abstract cloud of billowing currents and crosscurrents. They look frighteningly similar to what has been described as the scene of a nuclear explosion. These drawings, although difficult to pick apart and therefore ignored by most of the lines of viewers, are dense and complicated, almost abstract, dark, prophetic drawings. There was never a storm that could have looked like this at his time, but now there certainly could. I kept going from Deluge drawing to drawing and studying and comparing them.

The other amazing thing in the exhibition was the computer video actualizations of some of his ideas. It made them clear in a way that he would have been envious of. I overheard a man say, “Imagine what he would have done with a computer.” Indeed . . .

After leaving, completely light-headed and floating aimlessly, I walked around a while, watched hordes of skateboarders hanging out under the museum, which had all different kinds of ramps, banked walls, and stairs that looked as if they had been designed specifically for their use. I walked along the Thames toward Big Ben. The sun was just going down and the sky was turning all kinds of colors. Subtle, but beautiful. It was a really great special time to be alone and wander around the exhibition and walk along the Thames afterward at sunset. Sometimes I forget how much I enjoy being alone. It was the first truly enchanting experience I’ve ever had in England.

We fly to Casablanca and change planes and land in Marrakech at 12:30. No change places are open. We find a taxi and go to La Mamounia.

The hotel is incredible, or at least it looks like it used to be. It has been totally redone and lost some of its original charm. The room is O.K.

Christopher Makos wakes me up. I didn’t know he was here. He says he’ll meet us and show us around a little ’cause he’s leaving tomorrow. He’s been given a car and driver. At the hotel he introduces me to this crazy rich Japanese woman who is on her way to have lunch with the king. She is dressed in her “golfing outfit”—pink tights, red platform shoes, a flowered cape, big flowery hat and
tons
of tacky jewelry (all of which is supposed to be real diamonds, etc.). She gives me a bag full of magazines and books. All of them are about her. She’s a walking media mogul. It seems like she lives for her self-promotion. The books have photos of her with every famous person she’s met and every place she’s been. She travels with 50 pieces of luggage—many of which are probably full of these promotional packages. She has a photographer and a man with a video system with her. Our entire meeting is well documented. I autograph her golf bag and she leaves. Andy would love her. She’s like a one-woman show—the ultimate self-promotion maven.

After this we went with Christopher to the home of an 80-year-old friend of his so he could say goodbye to her. She was like an aging movie starlet in her Moroccan hideaway. It’s amazing how beauty shows through, even in a body that has completely aged.

I’m not sure what it was like when Brion was here. He said it had changed drastically, but somehow it must have still been similar. I haven’t gotten any sense of curiosity or inspiration yet. But that again is also making me feel insecure and stupid. I’m not drawing and don’t really feel like drawing. I suppose it is supposed to be vacation, but somehow I feel guilty about it. Sometimes I doubt my entire existence is worth very much. It all seems so fake and as if I am just acting out a role. The problem is I don’t even understand what that role is anymore. It is really hard for me to accept the fact that I’ve totally lost my sexuality. If I had been here a year ago, I would already have had at least two or three Moroccan boys. Now, with KS spots all over me, I am afraid to even attempt to have any kind of contact with them.

I’ve totally lost the ability to seduce and enjoy the art of seduction—the source of much of my inspiration to work and live. It sounds ridiculous that something like sex could hold such high importance in someone’s life who supposedly has “the profound gift of artistic invention,” but it does and always has. Maybe that is the source of some of my guilt about my incompetence. It was always impossible to separate art and life for me and life was inevitably dominated by sexuality. It is probably the driving force behind all of my work. Now, isn’t that pathetic? Or is it? Maybe, just maybe, it is not so uncommon and even quite normal.

The ludicrous situation of traveling with someone who I am desperately in love with who is not, and can never be, my lover is starting to take its toll.

I try to understand and to keep telling myself rationally that this is a healthy relationship somehow, but every day seems like it hurts more somehow. It’s not really his fault. I started the whole thing and I let it continue and build itself up in my mind to the point where I had created the entire picture myself. I feel like I’m getting exactly what I wanted. But how can this be what I wanted? How could I have ever thought I could change myself to the point where I can accept the fact that my life is being run by someone else? Or that my destiny predetermines my existence?

I totally “understand” that I have to love Gil as a friend, and I do. I know that somehow there is something good coming out of this “friendship.” I have tried to accept the fact that sex of any kind is not part of this relationship. Except I’ve never had a relationship without sex before, and I’ve never loved someone so much without the reaffirmation of that love that comes from a physical relationship. I’m sure if I become an old man, I’d have to deal with the same thing, but I don’t feel like an old man yet. I’m turning bald, which helps me realize I’m getting old, but inside I still feel like a kid. I don’t know how to change. Maybe I don’t have any right to complain. I’ve had an incredible life and had enough sex in ten years for an entire lifetime, but it doesn’t work like that. It’s not a rational thing that can be explained away. No matter how I look at it, it comes out the same. Rationally, the time I’m spending with Gil is helping me to adjust to the situation I’ve found myself in since I’ve become sick. He’s encouraging me to take myself seriously and to work at staying in shape physically and mentally. He is good company and a good way to reflect my self to myself. We actually do have a good time together quite often. He seems like a genuine friend; I feel like I’m teaching him something. He is also, and maybe this is the main problem, still incredibly beautiful and almost the exact image of what I always thought I wanted in a partner. He would make the perfect lover.

Except that he would make the worst lover because he would never love me entirely. He will always prefer women and even if we were lovers he’d still return to women. So, again rationally, it makes more sense to me to keep unattached emotionally because there is no pretty ending. No matter what happens it can’t be a happy story. The fact that it kept on this long and got to this point shows me something about how ignorant and how vulnerable I’ve become. Maybe it also shows me the power of love, even love like this. There is a certain kind of beauty in this relationship because it is based on some kind of respect. It is genuine. Sometimes I feel like it’s just my immaturity that won’t let me accept my life and appreciate the goodness. I am, after all, just a big baby. I want to be loved and I don’t know how. I am desperately determined to make some sense out of all this. I think I owe it to myself to at least feel good about myself.

YES! I’m out of that depressing mood! I’ve spent the last couple of days trying to see more of Marrakech’s surroundings and enjoying it.

We drove up to the mountains the other day. The colors here seem more vivid because of the light. At sundown—everything glows. Most of the colors are based on the mud-red from the earth that all of the buildings are made from, so whenever a contrasting color is put into that scheme, it really pops.

There is a whole different sense of “time” here. As soon as you leave the hotel, you enter another dimension of time. People are governed by different things and different values. You see people sitting, contemplating, enjoying quiet moments alone—quite often. Even in the city (although it is hardly a busy cosmopolitan city) there is a relaxed feeling of “desert” time. Maybe it’s the heat. That would be enough to slow anybody down.

I’ve done very little of anything since I’ve been here. I don’t read, draw, write, call anyone—I just think a lot and eat and sleep and smoke hash. I guess that’s why they call it vacation.

We drove up to a place near the mountains to have lunch yesterday. It was really beautiful and peaceful.

I got a plane reservation to Paris for Monday and changed my reservations for the hotels.

We ate dinner last night with Nicola [Guiducci] in a tacky but awesome Moroccan restaurant. They had belly dancers, musicians, and bad food. The decor is good enough to make up for the food. Every inch is covered with intricate mosaic geometric patterns. The ceiling, walls, pillows, pillars, doorways, etc., etc., are a wild mish-mash of shapes and colors. Many of the colors used here are bold and aggressive, so your eye is being lured in every direction. Because of the architecture, the spaces feel intimate even in a large room through the careful use of pillars and varying ceiling heights to give the illusion of separate “spaces.”

It seems like the perfect place to take mushrooms and sit for hours contemplating the universe. With the least bit of stimulation (hash, tea, etc.) your eyes are set into motion. It seems to encourage meditation and introspection. It would be easy to imagine a relationship between these surroundings and the subconscious. They invite you to look inside yourself. The casual decorator’s misuse of these powerful images in hotels like La Mamounia (and tons of other tourist-based enterprises) does much to discredit and remove the potential magic from these objects. When something is redone, attempting to “improve” on the original manifestations, without an understanding or sensitivity to the original’s intended function—the result is usually awful. The only interesting things in my room at La Mamounia are the doors to the bathroom. They are intricately painted and carved, probably the only original thing left in the room after the redecoration a few years ago. They have all these little interlocking and overlapping lines that are starting to reveal themselves to me the more time I spend there. I think one could find a multitude of ideas within these patterns. I’ve used these kinds of lines before, often, and am starting to pick apart certain ones and deciphering them. People take borders here
very
seriously.

I’m going to work out now. We’ve worked out every single day of this trip and you can actually see the results. I should try to continue this at home. We’ll see . . .

LATER

Yesterday driving to the mountains I was randomly thinking and daydreaming and wondered to myself about Robert Mapplethorpe. I imagined finding out how he had died. I think I imagined reading it in a newspaper. And I wondered to myself—or imagined—his funeral with his coffin being carried by six huge muscular black men and then I thought no, maybe he wouldn’t be buried—he’d be cremated.

Tonight I opened the
Herald Tribune
and read his obituary.

It seems like every time someone I know dies, I know it or feel it subconsciously while it is happening.

This happened with Yves, also. Gil and I had been talking about him and I was remembering stuff we had done together. Later, we found out that this was almost exactly the same time he died. Denise, Yves’ friend from London, told us she had an incredible nosebleed that night at the same time. She hadn’t had one in years. Things like this happen.

I swear, I had imagined even the way the obituary looked on the page of the
Herald Tribune
. Now, looking back, it seems as if I had imagined this whole moment (now) yesterday.

The color here is so remarkable! Every day when the sun starts to go down, everything starts to come alive. The colors at sundown seem to jump at you and compete for your attention. No matter where you are, everything is beautiful at this time of day.

We woke up, hung out in the hotel and flew to Paris.

George was home and we went to see his new apartment/ studio and went to dinner nearby with Claude and Sydney Picasso. It was hysterical and inspirational as usual.

We went back to the apartment and looked at paintings and listened to music for a while. My mind is traveling a million miles a minute.

Get up and call François Benichou. He wants to work on the lithos. I agree to go directly to the printer and make drawings. Since I haven’t really worked since Barcelona, the drawings come out very easily and are pretty interesting. I use the sketches I did in Morocco of the interlocking lines and borders to work from.