Remembering Keith Haring On World AIDS Awareness Day

LONG ISLAND, NY — The headlines today tell us that after six years of decline, the rate of new HIV cases in New York State climbed in 2021, according to the New York State HIV/AIDS Surveillance Report, released on Wednesday. New HIV diagnoses in Nassau and Suffolk were up 17 percent in 2021 over the previous year, the report shows.

The report came a day before World AIDS Day, Dec. 1.

As a student at the School of Visual Arts in the 1980s, I remember sitting in a classroom when Dr. Matilde Krim, the founding chairman of amfAR, came to talk to our journalism class about a new scourge that was sweeping those gritty New York City streets. AIDS, she said, was an emerging threat not just to the gay community, but to everyone.

At the time, so young, so naive, it seemed all so far away. This was college, the 1980s, when everything was new and exciting. I'd shown up to SVA, a girl from Brooklyn more apt to be found in silver spandex at a disco than surrounded by punk rockers with spiked hair, studs, and so much attitude. I was out of my element at first, in that college like no other where art, glorious, sweeping art, covered every wall and floor, crept into every bathroom stall.

The art, it was blinding in its intensity. One of our teachers, Richard Goldstein, the longtime editor at the Village Voice, introduced us to graffiti artist Keith Haring, who had also attended SVA. He brought us to the Tony Shafrazi Gallery, where Haring had an exhibit. On the way into the show, he stopped us. "That's him," he said. "Keith Haring."

Once inside, I was mesmerized by Haring's iconic figures, the barking dog. The Radiant Baby. The symbols, much like hieroglyphics, that communicated messages of outright joy, love, acceptance through a universal language. The strong positions Haring took, against apartheid, hatred — crack, in a city ravaged by the drug, where haunted eyes peered out of gutted apartment buildings and the next fix was a siren song for the doomed.

I remember walking down 23rd Street toward the R train, the groaning, creaky old subway car that would transport me back from the pulsating, vibrant canvas of New York City in the 80s to the regular world I came from, a world where families worked hard, went to church on Sundays, saved up for their week at the shore, and ate dinner with Eyewitness News on at night. It was a fine world, the world I knew and yes, loved, but that other life . . .it held the promise of something more.

There was a poster at SVA that said, "To be good is not enough, when you dream of being great." I bought that poster for my wall.

On that same walk to the subway every day, I saw one of Keith Haring's Swatch watches, with a red band, a yellow face, and his signature, dancing, always dancing figures, depicted on front. I think it cost about $40, but I was in college, had three jobs, and couldn't imagine anything extra.

How sorry I am today, that I never bought that Swatch.

Later, as a senior at SVA, I was working at my first real, full-time internship, writing for the "West Side Spirit" newspaper. Young, game for anything that hinted of fun, they assigned me to the party beat, covering the high-end, glittering New York City social scene of the 80s. To this day, there has never been anything like those star-studded nights. Supermodels, movie stars, and extravagant parties, decadent in their excess.

At one of those fundraisers, an event for amfAR hosted by Elizabeth Taylor at the Javits Convention Center, in April, 1986, a constellation of the most celebrated luminaries turned out for an event dubbed "The World's Largest Photo Session." Calvin Klein was there. Brooke Shields. So many, many names that have graced magazine covers and headlines. I was tasked with interviewing these larger than life legends, and stammering, my notebook and pen in hand, I did my best to be a "serious" professional, the famed paparazzi photographer who freelanced for us, by my side. But then, tucked into a corner, I saw Andy Warhol and Keith Haring, deep in conversation, two friends passing the night as they had so many others, at an A-list event in Manhattan.

I walked up, introduced myself, and got quotes from them both for my story. Looking back now, in hindsight, I wish I'd been the fangirl I was deep inside, told Keith Haring what he meant to me, how he'd opened my eyes to art and joy and to the idea that it was okay to dream big. That art was for everyone — even a regular girl from Brooklyn.

That party was held in April, 1986. Four years later, in February, 1990, Keith Haring died of AIDS-related complications. He was just 31 years old.

I was just outside the subway station at Union Square when I picked up the "New York Post" and read the headline, that he had died. Working at my first job as an editor at a magazine company, I couldn't be late for work, so I kept up with the New York City pace and rushed to the office, my eyes blurred with tears.

Suddenly, AIDS wasn't just a distant, dark fear. It was real and agonizing and so unfair. It had stolen Keith Haring before he'd ever had a chance to grow old. As it had so many, many others, all left frail and broken during the years they should have been dancing, creating — daring to be great.

For the rest of my life, Keith Haring has stayed with me, in my heart, my work, in the way I taught my own son about art. I've spent hours scouring the city for his last remaining murals, taken photos of a reproduction of his famous work in Barcelona, and written about the dismantling and auction of his Grace House mural.

I wonder, all the time, what Keith Haring would have become, how his art would have continued to transform, if he'd had a chance to live on, to love, to create.

Yes, I love Keith Haring's artwork. It's a part of me now. I always tell my son that if I, a grown woman who should probably not even consider it, ever get a tattoo, it will be a tiny Radiant Baby on my ankle. Because his light and energy live on, inside of me.

And because, despite the agonizing ending, Keith Haring's life was so much more. It was a dazzling, defiant, color-streaked kaleidoscope of talent and truth.

Like so many others lost to AIDS, Keith Haring still had a story to tell. I'll keep telling his, forever. And as HIV numbers start to rise, I'll carry his mantle, his message — and raise awareness that HIV, it isn't gone. While there have been tremendous advances, HIV still exists. Because one thing is certain: If Keith Haring were still here with his sweeping gift, he'd be spreading the word: Stay safe.