Recently, I found myself sitting at a small, child-size table at a hotel in Istanbul with a short but well-built 44-year-old American wearing pookah shells. He was a native New Yorker—grew up in Rockland County, spent weekends at his grandparents in Brooklyn—but had lived for many years in Hawaii, on the island of Maui. He told my traveling companion and me that his name was Mike Cappadona, that he'd been traveling for eight months—he was headed next to Cairo—and that he was a basket weaver who lived in a small shack in the rain forest of Hana. We asked how it was that a basket weaver could afford to travel around the world for 12 months. His answer: Jean-Michel Basquiat.

It turns out that Basquiat had spent quite a bit of time in Hana between his first trip in 1984 and his last in the summer of 1988, just a couple of months before he died on Great Jones Street in Manhattan at 27. Mr. Cappadona said he didn't know Basquiat was a famous painter until three years ago.

Eventually, I visited Mr. Cappadona at his "jungle shack" in Hana, where he tends 11 acres of land in exchange for being able to live amidst the exotic rain forest with its coconut, avocado and passion-fruit trees. His wooden shack, which he built himself, is the size of a small room and has a tin roof and open-air screens. Mr. Cappadona lives without a phone, car or electricity; a single solar panel and a small propane fridge are his only sources of energy.

Mr. Cappadona explained how it was that he first came to realize that his friend Jean-Michel was the famous "Basquiat." He showed me an issue of Art in America that he found lying around his friend Bob's up the road. Thumbing through the periodical three years ago, he saw a picture of Basquiat standing with Andy Warhol in a full-page ad for a Warhol/Basquiat show at the Tony Shafrazi Gallery. They were standing in front of a 116-by-160-inch canvas of Felix the Cat—a Warhol/Basquiat collaboration. I know that guy, he said to himself. That's Jean-Michel! But what's he doing standing next to Andy Warhol? Mr. Cappadona was confused: "When I asked Jean-Michel what he did in New York once, he told me he was a painter. I said, 'I paint houses for money, too,' and Jean-Michel smiled and said nothing, so I assumed that's what he meant."

Mr. Cappadona had also assumed, because of Basquiat's appearance—he wandered the streets of the island barefoot and slept in one of the local's fruit stands (not unlike his infamous cardboard digs in New York)—that he was a kind of street person, despite the fact that he must have been at the height of his wealth at the time.

After seeing Basquiat's picture in Art in America, Mr. Cappadona spoke with his neighbor, Carter Tutwiler, who happened to be a contemporary art dealer who deals in Warhols. He showed him the magazine and said, "I know this guy, this 'Basqueee.' He used to come here from New York, and we would hang out. And I have drawings."

"Carter thought I was crazy," Mr. Cappadona explained.

Mr. Tutwiler did think he was crazy—until Mr. Cappadona retrieved a picture of himself and Basquiat taken by Basquiat's then girlfriend, Kelle Inman, along with 14 drawings. He later found three painted cabinet pieces. (He had left Basquiat in his shack one day with a few panels used for cabinets, he said, and when he came back, he found that Basquiat had painted on them. "I was annoyed," Mr. Cappadona said, "but kept them anyway.")

Basquiat had been dead for over 10 years when Mr. Cappadona stumbled across the issue of Art in America. Back in 1988, Mr. Cappadona had heard through the "coconut wireless" that "that black dude who used to visit from New York" had died. While he had yet to learn of Basquiat's fame, he held on to the photo and the various drawings over the years, because "you keep things from dead people." Indeed, prior to hearing of Basquiat's death, he had thrown a number of the drawings out.

In the past three years, Mr. Cappadona has sold seven of his 14 drawings and two of the three cabinet pieces—for debts and travel expenses—mainly on eBay, for prices far below what he may have been able to get for them. (He's in the process of trying to sell the third cabinet piece, with the hopes of investing in some property with his more on-the-grid girlfriend.) Mr. Cappadona has already heard that one of the pieces sold for twice what he initially asked for it.

Why doesn't he sell the work through an established gallery? First, because $900 is a lot of money for a drawing on a scrap of paper to a guy who lives on $200 a month. Second, there's the question of authentication. Mr. Cappadona initially did submit a piece for authentication and spoke with Gerard Basquiat, Jean-Michel's father and the estate's administrator, but was told that his piece had been denied. Mr. Cappadona thought this was ridiculous: He didn't understand how a piece given to him personally by Jean-Michel couldn't be recognized as a work by "Basquiat." This may be because the Basquiat family and estate are reluctant to authenticate any work not in their possession, which may bring down the value of their holdings. And serious collectors generally don't buy pieces that can't be authenticated. As proof of the provenance of his pieces, Mr. Cappadona sends a letter explaining his relationship with Basquiat, a description of the piece, the picture of the two of them, and then offers to speak by phone. This seems sufficient for his buyers.

Mr. Cappadona is currently working on a written account of his time with Basquiat in Hana, as he says his memories of Basquiat do not square with the childlike, suicidal junkie described in interviews with Basquiat's friends in Phoebe Hoban's biography, Basquiat: A Quick Killing in Art. According to Ms. Hoban's book, much of the impetus for Basquiat's trips to Maui was to kick heroin. Mr. Cappadona said he knew nothing of Basquiat's drug habit and that the artist never mentioned it. He thinks an incident during Basquiat's last trip to Hana could have contributed to a bout of depression that may have triggered his overdose in New York a couple months later. He said that while watching Julian Schnabel's film Basquiat, he noted, toward the end of the movie, that a friend of Basquiat's suggests they escape New York for Hawaii. Basquiat responds, "Fuck Hawaii."

Initially, Mr. Cappadona said, he didn't understand this response, as Basquiat had loved his time in Hawaii. But then he remembered an incident that took place at Hana's local store. He said that he and Basquiat and Ms. Inman were in the parking lot when some "redneck" called Basquiat a "nigger." According to Mr. Cappadona, Basquiat was extremely upset by the remark and kept repeating, "Not here. Not here …. "

Mr. Cappadona believes that hearing that racial slur in a place he had come to regard as a kind of paradise, an escape from New York, had tainted Basquiat's entire experience of Hana. Mr. Cappadona said that Basquiat was a lively, calm, sensitive person who appeared happy most of the time. "I never knew Basquiat the icon," he said. "I only knew Jean-Michel."

—Susan Ryan

Squatting in Versace

"It's very fuzzy what happened. One theory is that the landlord died. Another is that he went bankrupt. One day, he just stopped showing up to ask for rent."

Martin Sullivan, 23, was talking about how he ended up living rent-free in Williamsburg for more than three years. His idyll ended last month, but last November he took me up to see his place.

We rode the L train. With his clean-shaven jaw, black-rimmed Versace spectacles and pinstriped Ralph Lauren suit, Mr. Sullivan certainly didn't look like a squatter. We got off at Lorimer Street and walked three blocks to his apartment. He disappeared into a murky hallway lit by naked bulbs.

We climbed rickety sheet-metal stairs to the third floor. Mr. Sullivan unlocked the door and walked into the living room, where the roof appeared dangerously close to caving in. Breezing past pots strategically placed under large leaks, he took a wire hanger from his closet and hung up his suit jacket.

Unlike the Glass House squatters who clashed with the NYPD in 1994, Mr. Sullivan didn't see himself as part of a movement: He has a well-paying job at an auction house and could have afforded to rent an apartment near the posh clubs and restaurants he frequents. But when the landlord seemed to vanish, three and a half years ago, he and his two roommates decided to see what would happen.

Initially, paranoia set in. "We were anxious that we could be kicked out on a moment's notice," he said. "And we didn't know who we could be kicked out by—the landlord or the police. It was serious business. After a year and a half, the anxiety faded. None of my roommates were terribly spiritual. But if we were, we'd have considered it a gift from above. We didn't toy with it, because it could have gone at any minute. We didn't even talk about it, because we didn't want to jinx it."

But after three years of no maintenance, the apartment looked like something out of Fight Club. "There was no heat, and it got freezing. We had electricity, so we'd plug in space heaters," he said. "Our roof poured like a faucet. We'd be watching TV, and a hole would open up and water would pour down before the TV. Sometimes I'd get a message on my way home saying, 'I'll be home late. Can you change the pot on my bed?' It was just like, 'Can you walk the dog?'"

Carol Abrams of the New York City Department of Housing Preservation and Development said that having a landlord disappear is not uncommon.

"Someone passes away, or ages beyond the ability to truly maintain a property," she said. "Some people just walk away from buildings, which plagued the city in the 70's and the early 80's."

A building can be left in limbo for one or three years, depending on the property. After that, the city's Department of Finance declares the property tax delinquent and notifies the owner that the property will be put in the city's lien sale. In this sale (held every summer), private companies pay the debt to the city and assume the task of collecting the money owed. If the owner still hasn't paid after a year, the company can foreclose and put the property up for public auction.

Throughout this process, tenants rarely know what is happening.

"It's hard for people when their landlord goes missing. There's a lot of uncertainty," said Joanna Perlman of the city's D.O.F. They're not breaking the law by staying, since it's not considered trespassing—one of the charges often thrown at squatters.

Ms. Abrams said, "Some tenants think it's the biggest bonanza on earth. But there are huge dangers when a building deteriorates. Buildings need maintenance on their heating, plumbing and electrical systems. They need to be inspected for fire safety and structural issues. Things like wiring need to be done by licensed electricians—tenants may cut corners. There have been significant tragedies caused by illegal wiring."

While Mr. Sullivan didn't hide his living situation from friends and co-workers, he talked about it as little as possible: "When I told people I squatted, everyone asked almost verbatim: 'How does that work?' Maybe it's just how contemporary Americans speak. But it didn't 'work.' It just was."

Mr. Sullivan was born and bred in Raleigh, N.C., and drove to New York the day after graduating from Duke University. His father is a lawyer, and his mother helps people with vision problems. His older brother and sister call him "Baby Martin"; his roommates call him that, too.

He tends to dress up a bit. "We're Episcopal and went to church every Sunday. I would wear a sports coat," he said. "I feel normal in a suit now. I went out recently with a friend who told me, 'It's intimidating going out with someone in a suit.' I forget how it looks. Sometimes people have a hard time looking me in the eye."

At the auction house, Mr. Sullivan works as a bid clerk, overseeing auctions and arranging bids with clients. "I thought an auction house would be a very academic place to work," he said. "You can touch a Monet or a de Kooning. You can run your hand across the canvas and feel the texture. Everything has a price tag on it—whether it's a series of Warhols of Mick Jagger or beautiful Art Deco jewelry."

Instead of spending paychecks on rent, he splurged elsewhere. "One night, my roommates and I went out to Pastis and had bottles of champagne, veal and lobster," he said. "On the way home, one of them said, 'I don't want to go home.' So we walked down the street and got him a room at the Maritime. He just wanted a nice place to sleep."

In late December, they found out that a new owner had bought the property. "A man came to look the building up and down and told the guy who lived on the second floor, 'I bought the building and am moving in,'" Mr. Sullivan recalled. "He said it would be in all our best interest to organize a move out rather than have him pay lawyer fees and do an eviction. We agreed, and a week later everyone was out.

"It was sad leaving. But there was a lot of tension in the end over money, and that paved over the nostalgia I had for the place," he continued. "Each floor got about $80,000 to move out. There were tense conversations about how to split the money, since my roommates had lived there longer than I had. In the end, they coughed up $1,500. I can't complain, but it's disappointing—to have strangers who fulfilled their dealings, and the last slip-up was among friends."

But who is the new owner? So far, no new deed on the property has been filed with the city.

Mr. Sullivan has moved to a two-bedroom apartment a few blocks away. "I had a week to find a place, so I moved my belongings by car service," he said. "The squat was difficult to give up. I don't live such a tentative lifestyle anymore; I have cable and heat. But I have fond memories at the squat of climbing to the roof in the summer just before sunset. You could see the city—it was a little bit of solace. I'll have to find somewhere new for that kind of peace."

—Kate Torgovnick