Life with My Sister Madonna by Christopher Ciccone Page B

greetings cards for the gay market—all featuring naked men—offers me a room in his apartment.
    He rents me a room not much bigger than a bathroom and gets me a job at the greeting card company. But the job isn’t in the least bit sexy or glamorous. All I do all day is count the cards: three, six, nine, twelve. Three, six, nine, twelve, and put them in boxes. By lunchtime, I’m dizzy with boredom. When I’m not working, I audition for dance companies but don’t seem to get anywhere because the competition for the few spots is ferocious.
    Meanwhile, perhaps feeling guilty because she has yet again abandoned me, or perhaps because she is aware that I have always loved art, Madonna invites me to come with her to see Jean-Michel Basquiat. She tells me she’s hung out with him a couple of times, then throws me a triumphant look that insinuates she’s also slept with him. As she intended, I’m impressed.
    Basquiat is exactly a month older than me, and already a legend. He’s Haitian, with a blond Mohawk and eyes wild from shooting too much heroin. First a graffiti artist, he started out painting T-shirts and postcards and sold them around the Village. Soon he was drawing violent, cartoonish pictures on lumber and foam rubber and selling them by the dozen for thousands of dollars. These days, he is represented by Mary Boone and has just had a sold-out show at the Fun Gallery that everyone in Manhattan can’t stop talking about.
    I think to myself how clever of my sister to hook up with Basquiat. He is off-the-wall, but he is hip and hot, and for Madonna that’s all it takes. She is “in love” with the idea of this infamous artist. Moreover, he lives on the edge, which is honey to her. And above all, his artistic credibility lends her the street cred she craves.
    So we go up to his massive loft on the Lower East Side, with canvases everywhere, clothes all over a dark room. In the dim lighting I can make out a sink filled with dirty dishes. The place smells of part linseed and part paint cleaner. In a second room, with the door open a crack, I can see Basquiat’s shadow on the wall, painting.
    Madonna yells, “Hey, I’m here.”
    He kind of mumbles hello, without turning to look at us, and keeps right on painting.
    Madonna introduces me to him, he says hello to both of us. He and Madonna don’t kiss or hug. He just goes on painting.
    Madonna and I sidle back into the dingy kitchen. I can’t help noticing a small heap of smack on the counter. I am about to say something, but she shakes her head.
    â€œI never talk when he’s working,” she says.
    That’s a first! I think to myself.
    After around half an hour of watching her watching Basquiat paint, I leave. Still, it’s a step up from counting cards.
    From then on, Madonna and I start hanging out more. Unlike many of my friends, she never drinks late into the night. In fact, she doesn’t drink at all, except for the odd lemon drop—her favorite drink. And her relationship with Basquiat is short-lived because she loathes his drug habits and its attendant behaviors. Like me, Madonna abhors tardiness or unreliability. To this day, we are both punctual and endeavor always to keep our word.
    Her charms must have worked their magic on Basquiat, though, as after their breakup he gives her two paintings, one of which—a small one—she still keeps on a little marble ledge in the bathroom of her New York apartment.
    She is deep into the downtown scene, hustling “Everybody” all over town. “Everybody” was cowritten by Steve Bray, one of her boyfriends from Detroit. At Danceteria on Twenty-first Street, I meet Mark Kamins, the DJ who helped her land the record deal for “Everybody.” She just marched into the club and gave it to him. And, hey, presto, he played it! That easy? I’m not so sure.
    According to current club gossip swirling around the