Art is the discussion of the lack of discussion. I can remember reviewing an artist, whose work to me was a disastrous mess of black paint (not a racial reference, but might be; I would have to go back and check, but I wrote the piece in Hawaii, where there really aren’t enough blacks to prejudice against them and also because whites are a scourge, so there is an inherent respect for the black plight, but they also look like the political majority, which is not to say race is as serious, since it’s a class issue, not a financial opportunity), but one I found myself feeling angry about, as in “How can this person call this art?” I was convinced as was she that I hated her work. Her mother found my review revealing exceptions. He says this and that, she said. Often if you just describe what the work is doing to you, you realize it’s about you. How can something that describes you so well be anything but art? The process of addressing Basquiat and why he wasn’t worth the historians’ time is the story of why Basquiat’s work is important. Art is the study of truth. Basquiat came forward and allowed himself to be put out. Why wasn’t he included? Why did they attack Robert Mapplethorp? Why did they attack Andres Serrano?