SAMO© ESTA EN ALGO. Basquiat in my suitcase.

Autumn nineteen hundred and seventy-nine, eighteen he is, twenty-one
me, he poems, I poems, he makes noise music, fake-punk-jazz me, a blind window has our chamber in New York’s Lower East Side. He played with a synthesizer, borrowed from Michael Holman, a saxophone, not borrowed, I. We played with words and ideas and read to each other. He writes SAMO© ESTA EN ALGO in my suitcase, as a farewell, so that he would always be with me. There will not be a reunion, as promised to each other. Spanish by a young New Yorker. Being from Düsseldorf I doesn’t know Spanish. Thirty-two years later I see a picture painted by him long after we parted. The title of the picture SAMO© ESTA EN ALGO, Jean-Michel Basquiat. Years later I found out that SAMO© ESTA EN ALGO is an enigma. And also the reason why he smudged the two-line MAN MADE with his saliva. 2011 the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung reported about our past in 1979, when he was not yet the painter. Photos Thomas Ruff, 2010.