Twenty-five years ago today Andy Warhol died.
It came as a bit of a shock. Andy always seemed more like a caricature than someone real. The stories just seemed amazing, and he always could be found in those black and white photos about town in the village voice. I’d read them in the lobby of the public radio station I worked at-they had a subscription for some reason-and then I’d check the apartment prices in the classified.
“What if?” I wondered.
But I’m too much of a chickenshit to leave Iowa and move to New York.
That, and I’ve met enough people, thank you very much.
It fascinated me that people from across the country traveled to New York City and, at any given moment could have walked right into Warhol’s factory and made their introductions.
Sounded like a good time, until that bitch Valerie Solanas messed it all up.
I liked his work.
Several years ago, I got a chance to take my son down to our city’s Czech Museum where they had a bunch of prints of Warhol’s work. I didn’t have a bunch of time to absorb all of it properly; the little shit kept running around.
Years ago, a girlfriend got me The Andy Warhol Diaries. His obsessive behavior was amazing and his notes really demonstrated a human side to him.
But by that point he had gone, so I was never really able to completely separate him from the more powerful caricature.
So for today, I’m content with those stories of the Exploding Plastic Inevitable, Screen Tests and the song that put it all in perspective.
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