She floated through as Ever pushed her along in the wheelchair, which diminished none of her magnificence, and showed his e-ticket to one of the many security guards. They joined a gaggle of famous faces, many of whom had been early purchasers of Basquiat’s work before the record was set by Yusaku Maezawa, the Japanese billionaire, who set an auction record of $57.3 million for one of the artist’s series of ten ‘Untitled’ works, then the following year broke his own record, purchasing another Basquiat – Untitled (1982) – for $110 million including the buyer’s premium. Fair warning… fair warning, rang out twice, at Sotheby’s New York, before the gavel came down and his telephone bid was secured. The hope was that this piece would travel here, to the Lorken gallery to take pride of place at what was considered to be the most comprehensive collection of Basquiat’s work ever.

To see one or two – Ever had been fortunate enough to have seen ten in a previous exhibition at the Gagosian – was an extraordinary experience. But he was trepidatious at seeing this many, the emotional overload that possibly upwards of eighty pieces, almost two thirds of his catalogue, would carry.

At first there were drinks, Krug of course, served by an identically-dressed team of men and women with perfect diversity, in the lobby of this architectural monument that had a cold but dramatic metallic feel, softened by giant curls of shining steel. Natural materials represented by wood and grey slate, slate that glistened, as if permanently wet and continually moving. The whole space had the feel of an endless churn of energy on the move; though it was obviously going nowhere.

Ever could see Miss Money-Root, who was far too busy to make any efforts at communication at this stage, dealing, most likely, with those who had donated their works. There were also, apparently, a few pieces that were available for sale, but with a history of his works not dropping below the 30 million mark, Ever didn’t anticipate too much movement in that area this evening. Lomita attracted an enormous amount of attention that went beyond the conscious, sentimental sympathy usually afforded to the wheelchair-bound: she was truly breathtaking. Ever felt it a privilege to be associated with her, albeit in his capacity this evening as Mr Jacob. He should think up a first name, he thought, as her supposed business representative, then dismissed the distraction. She was in conversation, displaying her surprising knowledge, with three people, already reflecting on the validity of Basquiat as a graffiti artist, on his collaboration with Warhol and his addiction, his statement of his desire to be a star. He certainly was burnt and gone before attention was fully paid. So there was no personality to confuse the issue, he was purely a commodity, he had become what he never wanted to be – a gallery mascot.

He would probably have hated this evening.