It’s New York, 1984, and Andy Warhol, once the blasé pontiff of Pop, has gone stale from overexposure, his creative output on cruise control. He’s in need of a transfusion and a fresh kick-start. Into the humdrum pandemonium of his daily routine hurdles Basquiat, a scuffed-up downtown prodigy with energy and ambition to waste. After their first lunch together—as Warhol recorded in his diary—Basquiat hurried home and “within two hours a painting was back, still wet, of him and me together.” Still wet! As if the future couldn’t wait. This exhibition looks at a friendship and partnership in which the conversation was conducted with paint, as artist Keith Haring observed, and an extra accompaniment of intimate Polaroids. —James Wolcott