The Radiant Baby, painted by Keith Haring on his childhood bedroom wall, has been ripped from its tender, intimate and original context to become an art world commodity. Dead and gone, he doesn’t even have a say in what becomes of such a personal creation. This brutal intrusion captures the sadness of a genius cut short. If there had been no Aids, Haring would be in his early 60s now and, I suspect, an even greater, possibly very different, artist than the youthful icon we celebrate.
There is an abundant energy and intelligence to Haring’s drawings and paintings of identical gyrating human figures, pop-eyed monsters and cartoon animals that’s not only miles ahead of most street art, but has the fluidity and curiosity of an artist who would have continued to grow. It is tragic that we must freeze Haring in time, rip his baby off the wall or call his style “iconic” when it was in reality a fast-moving talent’s unfinished symphony.
