To say I was pleased was an understatement. I was overwhelmed by a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment. During an interview with a reporter, my father said, “I’m proud of my son. Look what he’s created. All of these people are here to see his vision. A lesser man would never carry the burdens he does with such dignity.” My father’s words completed the circle for me. I had the attention of the only man I ever loved or needed approval from. Sadly, it had come at such a high price.
A week after the Space Gallery reception, someone from Stanford University’s film department contacted me. They were interested in producing a short film about my work that I would narrate. I agreed to do it, and production started right away.
Soon after I had exhibits of my work at the Four Galleries in San Francisco and at the Centre Pompidou in Paris, France. By the end of that year, the San Francisco Weekly gave me the front page of their publication, “In Pen and Ink,” and ran a detailed five-page article about me, my work, and my journey as an artist.
In just a little over a year I went from the shadows to the spotlight. My work was in demand. Collectors from San Francisco, Los Angeles, Chicago, and New York sought my pieces. Magazines and publications featured my work in their pages. With the new celebrity I experienced the high of success and the low of losing my most prized possessions.
I returned from the yard late in the day. I was tired, and as I placed my yard roll on my bunk, I glanced at the metal shelf and locker that sits just above my sink. Something was wrong, but it didn’t fully register. I went to the sink to wash my hands and that’s when I realized what was wrong. My heart pounded in my chest and my stomach clenched tight. I stepped back and looked on top of my metal shelf and locker. I stood on the toilet so I could search the entire top of the locker, but I already knew my sketchbook was gone.
The sketchbook contained drawings, thoughts, emotions, and ideas from the past twenty years. I had last worked in it the night before. Every picture I’d ever drawn, painted, or created had first been purified there. In the more than five hundred pages was the purest portrait of me that existed, and someone had stolen it. I searched my entire cell, just in case I was wrong. A true part of my soul existed in those pages, and I could feel that it was no longer in the cell with me.
Only a bull could have taken it. When the bull on duty passed by I stopped him.
“Excuse me, boss. Did you search my cell?”
“Nah, Noguera. I just got back from a hospital escort. What’s wrong?”
“My Book of Thoughts is gone.”
“I’ll check the logs and see who searched it.”
He left to check, but I knew it was useless. The bull who took it wouldn’t have left a trail. It had to be a regular in East Block. A new bull wouldn’t know about it. Just about all the regulars knew me and my work, especially about my Book of Thoughts. During searches it was always a major attraction.
The bull came back. “Noguera, according to the log, I was the last one who searched your cell and I’ll admit, I looked at your Book of Thoughts, but that was three days ago. I’ll go downstairs and inform the lieutenant.”
A few moments later a unit meeting was called, but I knew no one would admit taking it. What I couldn’t figure out was how they carried it out. The book was big: twenty by twenty inches, leather bound, and nearly three inches thick. It was priceless to me and obviously some bull thought it was worth the risk to take.
Every time I look into the eyes of one of the bulls I wonder if he was the one who took it. I never created another book, nor will I ever. Every few months I have someone search for it online, hoping someday someone decides to sell it. I’d like nothing better than to open its pages and reunite with the pieces of me I lost.
Sadly, it would happen again, but from those I trusted to protect me and my work. In April 2007, I had another exhibit at the Space Gallery in San Francisco, followed by a screening at the Mendocino Film Festival of the short film created by the student at Stanford. The film was named after my hyper-realistic montage, Ghost in the Material. Everything was moving along well, and I was grateful.
But I knew something was wrong, though I refused to believe what my instincts told me. A few months later, I entered and won the San Francisco Weekly Best of San Francisco Masterminds Grant Competition. When I asked Clayton what the prize was, he told me there wasn’t one. He said the award was in the form of a future exhibit, which I knew was untrue. I knew that the Masterminds Grant Competition awarded five thousand dollars to the winner. Nevertheless, I didn’t challenge him. I began to realize that Clayton wasn’t the artists’ savior he portrayed in the media.
Later, when I asked him when my family would receive a check for the sale of my work, he became angry. He said he would send it as soon as he could, but added that he’d spent over fourteen thousand dollars on my promotion and exhibition costs, and that those costs would be paid for with my work. It’s a simple swindle—an old trick that he would be familiar with from his days as the owner of a record label. Find an artist, pay to give him exposure, and, once he’s in debt, demand that the rights to the work be transferred to the label for payment.
Clayton Tate’s Modern Art Foundation claimed to be a nonprofit that received donations in order to offset the costs of organizing artist exhibitions. During a conversation with him and his art director, Jennifer, I made it clear that his dealings with me were suspicious.
“Clayton, art dealers and galleries normally take forty to fifty percent of sales. I understand this arrangement and it’s fair because the gallery dealer only gets paid if they make a sale. However, you claim to not take any money from artists, yet here you’re charging me for every cost you incur in reference to my work, whether you make a sale or not. That’s not what you advertise. I’d rather we come to terms on a set percentage for you to take only when you sell my work.”
“We’re a nonprofit and that arrangement violates the rules of a nonprofit. We couldn’t possibly do that.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it, because what you’re doing is exactly that. The only difference is that we’re not agreeing on a set percentage, which benefits you. You’re simply taking most of the profits, if not all of them, and calling it payment for costs, whether you sell or not. What happens if nothing is sold? My debt to you continues to rise, and at the end, how do I pay you?”
“Well, the debt must be paid.”
“Funny that you never mentioned that before, or to all of the magazines and publications that have interviewed you. I suppose you’d take some of my work as payment for my debt?”
“I’m sure we can work something out, my friend.”
“Listen, forget the exhibit you’re trying to set up. I’m not going to pay for anything else until we agree on a set percentage for sales. Right now, I’m the one taking on all of the responsibilities and costs. The way I see it, your organization has never received the attention it’s getting now. Correct me if I’m wrong, but it’s because of me. When was the last time you were given a front page or a feature article prior to me signing with you? Years? This has to be settled before we go on or we won’t be doing anything else together.”
Later that night, I called Jennifer. I believed we’d become friends and I thought I could trust her. During our conversation I told her of my plans to leave the Foundation, and she told me she had decided that she could no longer work with Clayton either. She knew he was lying to me, and to other artists too.
I asked point blank, “Is Clayton attempting to take all of my work?”
“Clayton is a snake and has stolen from other artists. He plans to do the same to you unless you stop him.” She said she planned to establish her own organization, and she asked if I’d consider being her first client.
“What will your standard artist agreement be? What percentage will you take from sales?”
“My gallery will be a for-profit enterprise and I will only take forty percent of sales. Nothing else. Everything you consign to my gallery will be on t
his scale. I give you my word. You’ll never have to worry about your work with me as your dealer.”
“This sounds good. Tell me, is Clayton ever going to give my family the proceeds from the sale of my work? Because as of yet, they haven’t received a dime.”
“After speaking with you earlier today, Clayton said he sent your family roughly thirty percent of what he sold. But the thirty percent is only what you know he sold. What you don’t know is that he’s been selling prints of your work. Since it’s impossible for you to prove how many he’s sold, he’s keeping one hundred percent of the profits from the prints. I’m so sorry, William.”
I was speechless and couldn’t believe how stupid I’d been.
“I know you don’t have any reason to believe what I’ve said, especially since I never told you what Clayton was doing, but it’s easy to prove if I’m being truthful or not. In July, we have your solo exhibit at the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, as well as the film screening of Ghost in the Material. This is a great venue for you. But if you choose to cancel it because of what I’ve told you, I’d understand. However, if I were you, I’d take the exhibit, and right after, tell Clayton you have placed all of your work in your family’s name. If his response is positive, then I’m wrong. But if he gets angry, then you’ll have your answer, and proof I’m telling the truth. You see, you have no defense against Clayton because you’re in prison. But your family is a different story.”
Jennifer also told me that Clayton had been sued by many other artists for exactly the same thing: stealing and copyright infringement of intellectual property rights. I hung up the phone still reeling from the sucker punch. Luckily, all of my pieces were at Jennifer’s apartment, and she assured me that Clayton would not be allowed to take them, and she was the one who was in charge of setting up the upcoming exhibit. I decided to be patient and follow her advice to take the exhibit and film screening since a venue like that would benefit my portfolio. But as soon as it was finished, I would confront Clayton.
In the weeks leading to the exhibit, I didn’t call Clayton and only spoke to Jennifer. I communicated everything through her. I couldn’t stomach talking to him.
After the exhibit, once I confirmed with Jennifer that my work was back at her apartment, I dialed Clayton’s number. He answered on the second ring, accepted the call, and as usual went into his dog-and-pony show.
“William, my friend, I’m so happy you called. How are you?”
I could play his game too, so I followed suit. I didn’t want him to suspect anything. I wanted his responses to be spontaneous.
“I’m doing well. I just read the article in the San Francisco Chronicle about the exhibit. I’m pleased with it.”
“This is only the beginning. I’m going to make you a star. I believe truly that you’re the next big thing. I hope you’re also pleased the exhibit didn’t cost hardly anything since the Center did us a favor.”
“I am happy about that and also about the money you gave my family. Thank you.”
“Of course. I’m happy to handle your career. I also spoke to my lawyer about setting up a trust for your family which I’ll be happy to handle too since I know about these things and have handled other artist’s affairs in the past.”
“That sounds good, but how would that work? Would my work belong to my family?”
“Yes, of course. They’ll solely benefit from your work. But so no one can steal from you, we’ll place all of your work and rights in the Modern Art Foundation’s name. That way you and your family will be protected.”
“It’s always been my intention that ownership and rights to my work be held by my family in case something happens to me. That’s why, a little over a month ago, I signed ownership and all rights of my work over to my family and had all of the documents notarized. They now own it all.”
“What? Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“It’s my work and my intention has always been for it to benefit my family when I’m gone, so I just made it official.”
“You son of a bitch, pissant motherfucker. I made you what you are. You owe me.”
I let him put the noose around his neck. He kept yelling and screaming and I just listened. When he slowed down, he realized he’d lost his temper and made a mistake. That’s when I cut into the conversation.
“You’re taking this pretty personally. It seems you never intended for my family to benefit from my work—you were counting on benefiting. Thank you for being so honest about it and also about all the prints you’ve sold and never told me about.”
“I have costs and you owe me.”
“Clayton, from this moment on, you no longer represent me, my work, my family, or anything to do with me. I’ll send you a letter today to this effect, terminating everything.”
I hung up the phone and never called Clayton Tate again, nor had anything to do with him or his organization. In the coming weeks, Jennifer also left the Foundation to form her own organization, Phoenix Art Agency. I became the first artist she represented. To settle the debt Clayton claimed I owed him, Jennifer arranged for me to give him Samo, an original portrait of Jean-Michel Basquiat. At first I was against giving him anything since he had already stolen from me, but eventually I agreed. What I didn’t know then, and wouldn’t know until it was too late, was that I’d be bitten again by an even bigger snake.
Chapter 41
Adolescence, 1982
I was pulled down into the fog. The darkness surrounded and threatened to drown me. The more I struggled to get free, the deeper I sank. I heard laughter and knew they were laughing at me. In an instant I was no longer a powerful young man, but a small, helpless child.
The next instant I stood at a distance watching the child struggle. At my side stood my beasts, Rage and Pain. I knew if the child didn’t win the fight he’d be dead. I couldn’t let that happen. The longer I watched, the more the familiar red haze clouded my vision, and I needed to help him.
I closed my eyes and willed myself into his place. Suddenly, it was me who fought the darkness, the moving black-and-white images tinted red with rage. It grabbed at me, wrapping me in greedy arms to pull me down and consume me.
I screamed and fought to free myself, and, when I finally woke, I tore at the tubes in my arms that my unconscious mind mistook as a threat. I screamed my frustration, and then realized Vanessa held me down, and she was the one screaming.
“He’s awake. Someone help me. He’s going to hurt himself.”
I stopped. The fragrance of her perfume brought me around to understand that I was safe. But I was still in the grip of fear.
“Vanessa? Where am I? What happened?”
“Oh Bill, you’re awake. You’ve come back.”
I tried to sit up, but the pain stopped me. I realized I was in a hospital. Still confused, I tried to understand what I was doing there and what had happened. Vanessa was still crying and calling for someone to help, which added to my confusion.
Finally a nurse arrived. I tried sitting up, but my right leg felt as if it had been ripped off and sewn back on.
“Mr. Noguera, you’re in the hospital. You’ve been in a coma for the past few days and you must calm down or you’ll tear the stitches in your leg and possibly open up your artery. You nearly died. You’ve suffered a great trauma and need to heal.”
I was tired, the exhaustion overwhelming. I pushed back the sheets to look at my leg. What I saw nearly made my heart stop. The inside of my upper right thigh looked like it’d been slashed with a piece of glass and sewn back together with a thick cord. The wound was eleven inches long. I gasped at the sight of it.
Then it all came back to me. The club, the kid, the knife, Vanessa crying as I faded away, and Javier’s laughter.
I was still so tired I couldn’t think straight. Exhaustion dragged me back down, and I closed my eyes and slept.
When I woke again, my throat was on fire with thirst. I attempted to sit, but then remembered my wound. Vanessa was asleep in a c
hair next to the bed. I didn’t want to wake her, so I tried to reach for the pitcher of water and cup. I must have made too much noise because she opened her eyes and smiled at me.
“Vanessa,” I tried to talk. “My throat is dry.” God, I felt like hell. She poured me a cup of water and I drank slowly.
“How long have I been here?” I asked.
“It’s Thursday. You came in Saturday, so five days.”
Just then the doctor came in.
“Mr. Noguera, welcome back. How are you feeling?”
“Sore, but I’ll live. Who used the can opener on me? My leg looks like Dr. Frankenstein worked on it.”
“That would be me. I’m Dr. Benson. You had a lot of damage to your artery. The wound was large and you lost a lot of blood. We lost you a couple of times during the surgery. I’d say you’re very fortunate to be among the living.”
“So what’s next? When can I get out of here?”
“We’ll have to see how your progress comes along. Please understand this is no small matter. It’s going to take months, maybe longer, for you to walk again. A lot of muscles were damaged and cut in the attack. You’ll have to go through therapy and learn to walk again. For now, be grateful you’re alive.”
“Wait a minute. What do you mean months? Give me a week or so and I’ll be fine.”
“If you’re not patient, you could do more harm to yourself. Let me be candid. The damage you sustained is substantial. I’ve been told you’re a martial artist and fighter. Quite frankly, being in the shape you’re in is what saved you. It’ll take you a few months to walk again, and even then you’ll have a noticeable limp. Too many muscles have been damaged for you to compete at the level you once did. You also sustained cuts to your right hand, which severed some tendons. I’m sorry, Mr. Noguera. You need to be patient. Although, who knows, you may prove me wrong.”
Another week passed before I was discharged from the hospital. I was eighteen, depressed, and extremely vulnerable.
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