The paintings that still smelled of fresh oil stick were $1,200 or maybe just an even grand. And Dad and I were in that group of New Yorker insiders, with money to spend, yet none of us, nobody… bought one.
The ravages of good times were catching up with Richard.
Warhol died. Basquiat died. Haring died. Hambleton fell from the ivory tower. The party was over.
He didn’t sign his name. He left a trail of inspired silhouettes in his footsteps for a signature and indeed we called him “Shadow Man”
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