By Christian Viveros-Fauné
By Miriam Felton-Dansky
By Tom Sellar
By Tom Sellar
By Jessica Dawson
By Tom Sellar
By R. C. Baker
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It's a bright, cool January day, but you wouldn't know it, since not much sunlight makes it in here. We're at the Greenhouse, a decrepit, brown warehouse building in Soho where Martinez has been living for free with another local artist, Jerry Foust. (Two years ago Foust spent two months sleeping out in front of this building, under his paintings, until the building's owner, Sue Stein, unlocked the warehouse door and allowed him in. He turned the space into his homeand a galleryand a year ago invited Martinez to move in too.) The warehouse is covered, wall to wall, in Foust's artwork. In the center of the room is a fantastical labyrinth, a massive walk-in piece of art intended to evoke the feeling of a childlike fortress that Martinez helped construct. In the rear of the space is one of Martinez's pieces: a life-size model of a motorcycle built, like everything else in the Greenhouse, from recycled materials.
Martinez, who constructs his own firearms, is attempting to explain to me what the shotgun he's working on will look like when it's finished: "I'll probably cut the barrel apart, widen it, and move it over here..." He gesticulates with his dirt-caked hands for emphasis, like a teacher. He's 37 years old, smells like a pet store, and looks imposing even while sitting on the floor: about six foot two, 320 pounds, thick black hair, a goatee, and some dried blood under his right nostril. His clothingblack army coat, black pants, and black bootsadds to the menacing image. While in prison, from 2002 to 2004, Martinez got down to 175 pounds, starving himself for 56 days in protest against the prison warden, who refused to let him paint. The warden thought that some of his paintingsmainly those of alarmingly lifelike gunswould incite the other prisoners to riot; he even thought Martinez might be a terrorist. His other work from that perio d is astonishing: self-portraits of an emaciated Martinez, strapped to a bed, stuck. There's desperation in those paintings, exacerbated by the media he worked with: coffee beans, acrylic floor wax, Kool-Aid, and homemade paper constructed from letters sent by friends from the outside. When Martinez finished a painting, he would fold it up in an envelope and send it to New York gallery owner James Fuentes. In 2004, while Martinez was still in jail, Fuentes mounted a successful show entitled The Unites States of America vs. Alfredo Martinez.
Martinez leaves his gun parts on the floor and joins me on the couch. "Jail was a publicity stunt," he says, sotto voce. "I was tired of being a forger and decided it's either time to cut bait or fish. It wasn't just Basquiats I forged, but Keith Harings too. I was either going to steal a lot of money and move somewhere really far away with an attractive female population, or just make a huge dust-up." Martinez was set up by the FBI, a sting operation. Martinez claims some of his friends in law enforcement tipped him off before it went down, but he went along with it anyway.
"The funny thing is, I never liked Basquiat's work much," Martinez says. "When I first saw his stuff, like Haring's work too, I just knew instinctively it was something I could forge. I could make perfect copies as well as make originals in their style, passing them off as if they were authentic. It was such an easy way to make a quick 20 grand. I met Basquiat a few times, but we didn't really know each other. He would have paid more attention to me if I was a big-titted blonde." He laughs until he breaks into a hacking cough.
Martinez ran away from his Brooklyn home when he was 16, and hasn't spoken to his family since. He describes his father as a Puerto Rican Archie Bunker and his mother as a manic depressive. "Birth is accidental," he says. "I'm not tied to them at all." One of his siblings, a brother, died in a fire when he was 13. When he tells me this I express my condolences. "Why?" he says. "You didn't kill him." He smiles to soften his response. "While I was in jail," Martinez continues, "the psychiatrists were out to prove I was crazy. That way they could do anything they wanted to me. They never did, though."
In the background, Foust, perched atop a loft, screams: "Where the fuck are my cigarettes! Alfredo, I need some whiskey! The Artist cannot create without whiskey!" The Doors song "The End" plays over the stereo. "Jerry over there," Martinez says. "Jerry is like my own personal Tyler Durden," the dark antagonist from Fight Club born out of the protagonist's sub-conscious.
Martinez has always been a big reader. Everything he knows about guns he learned from books. He loves J.G Ballard and William S. Burroughs, and is also a movie buff. "I've been watching all these apocalyptic movies lately," he tells me, "like Children of Men. I keep thinking that's what my neighborhood's going to wind up looking like." He pauses for a second as his cat, Bijoux, jumps on my lap. "I think I'm just going to do a series of ruins," he continues, "and a series of suicide notes too." Martinez giggles. "Yeah, suicide notes, about 30 or 40. They'll be handwritten with little diagrams. The diagrams will show how that person committed suicide."