From A to B and Back Again: The Philosophy of Andy Warhol by. Andy Warhol ( review). Lucia Beire. Leonardo, Volume 10, Number 1, Winter , pp. A loosely formed autobiography by Andy Warhol, told with his trademark blend of irony and detachment In The Philosophy of Andy Warhol—which. Andy Warhol (born Andrew Warhola; –) was an American artist, The Philosophy of Andy Warhol (From A to B & Back Again), written by Pat Linda Bolton, Andy Warhol, London: Franklin Watts, , PDF, ARG.
|Language:||English, Spanish, French|
|ePub File Size:||16.37 MB|
|PDF File Size:||20.56 MB|
|Distribution:||Free* [*Regsitration Required]|
How Andy Puts His Warhol On. You Can't Argue with Your Scrapbook. 1 Love ( Puberty) What I Do on Saturday When My Philosophy Runs Out. A: Just a little . ophy of Andy Warhol: From A to B and Back Again is sufficient to pull me back . The book's title, The Philosophy of Andy Warhol, is meant as blague, as put-. The Philosophy of Andy Warhol - Download as Text File .txt), PDF File .pdf) or read online.
Readers Also Enjoyed. When you want to be like something, it means you really love it. Warhol was certainly a bright guy, so it goes without saying that some of the quotes are quite smart and ones tha I find that I'm most often disappointed by books when I have expectations of them. Like his Monroe, or Mao or Campbell Soup Can prints, Warhol's memoir strives to turn 'triviality' into an art-form - and he's succeeded. And a lot of murderers are good-looking, so that settles it. If you're not beautiful you might not have a pea-brain, so it depends on the pea-brain and the beauty. Maybe, say, you have a permanent beauty problem you can't change, such as too-short legs.
Nothing is perfect— after all, B, it's the opposite of nothing. I had the worst dream of my life last night. The worst nightmare, I mean. I dreamt that I was at a meeting someplace and I had a plane reservation to come home and nobody would take me. They kept taking me to this house instead, to look at an art work for charity.
I had to go up the stairs and look at all the paintings. And there was a man ahead of me and he kept saying 'Turn around! You haven't seen that! That's when I tried to stop an ambulance. I wound up having to go to the party another time. Another man dragged me back to see the painting and he said, 'You haven't seen everything yet. That's not his car, it's his couch. How am I going to get to the airport on a couch? He said it was the longest meeting he'd ever been to.
It's a tax deduction. That's a work of art. That's his piece, putting the fifteen cents into the parking for his couch. So I went to a shingled house near the beach and picked up sea-shells. I wanted to see if I could get inside this broken sea-shell, and I tried, A, I really tried.
I got the top of my head in it and my barrette, through the hole. One strand of my hair and my barrette. I went back to the meeting and I said, 'Could you please put a propeller on this man's couch, so I can get to the airport. Why else would she dream like that? I was sort of involved in a charity to cheer up monsters—people who were horribly disfigured, people born without noses, people who had to wear plastic across their faces because underneath there was nothing. There was a person at the Clinic who was in charge who was trying to explain the problems these people had and their personal habits and I was just standing there and I had to listen and I just wanted it to stop.
Then I woke up and I thought, 'Please, please let me think about anything else. I'm just going to roll over and think about anything else that I can,' and I rolled over and I dozed off and the nightmare was back! It was awful. Look, nothing is exciting, nothing is sexy, nothing is not embarrassing. The only time I ever want to be something is outside a party so I can get in.
I always have my car there early so I can leave if they're disappointing. I love to clean my ears. I really find it exciting if I find a little piece of wax. So now the pimple's covered. But am I covered? I have to look into the mirror for some more clues.
Nothing is missing. It's all there. The affectless gaze. The diffracted grace. I have to take a pee. Almost blue. I have to pee!! The roadmap of scars. The long bony arms, so white they look bleached.
The arresting hands. The pinhead eyes. The banana ears. Oh, A!!! The shaggy silver-white hair, soft and metallic. The cords of the neck standing out around the big Adam's apple. It's all there, B. I'm everything my scrapbook says I am. I'll only be a second. Take a lozenge. I don't really use makeup but I buy it and I think about it a lot.
Makeup is so well-advertised you can't ignore it completely. B went on for such a long time about all her "creams" that I asked her "Don't you like to have people come in your face? It sort of pulls it tighter and makes them younger for the evening. Well, I use my own. It's better that way. That way I can do it at home before I go out for the evening. I shave my underarms, spray them, cream my face, and I'm all set for an evening.
I don't sweat. I don't even shit," I said. I wondered what B would say to that. Nudity is a threat to my existence. Right now I'm looking at the scar on my side from my abscessed breastbone. And now I'm looking at the scar on my leg from where I fell in the garden when I was six.
I think you produced Frankenstein just so you could put your scars in the ad. You put your scars to work for you. I mean, why not? They're the best things you have because they're proof of something. I always think it's nice to have the proof. You had the biggest orgasm of your life. And you started to collect things again. The nuns got you interested in collecting stamps, like you did when you were a kid or something.
They got you interested in coins again too. If someone else talks about it, I listen, I hear the words, and I think, maybe it's all true.
And you kept saying to him not to make you laugh because it really hurt. And you said you thought that coming so close to death was really like coming so close to life, because life is nothing. There were a lot of people there and you were talking on the telephone. You didn't know her too well and she just walked in off the elevator and started shooting.
Your mother was really upset. You thought she'd die of it. Your brother was really fabulous, the one who's a priest. He came up to your room and showed you how to do needlepoint.
I'd taught him how in the lobby! For some reason the idea of B and me needlepointing. Because if there's nothing there, clothes are certainly not going to make the man. It's better to always wear the same thing and know that people are liking you for the real you and not the you your clothes make.
Anyway it's more exciting to see where people live than what they wear. I mean, it's better to see their clothes hanging on their chairs than on their bodies. Everybody should just have all their clothes hanging out. Nothing should be hidden except the things you don't want your mother to see. That's the only reason I'm scared of dying. Nobody will ever top the original bluejeans.
They can't be bought old, they have to be bought new and they have to be worn in by the person. To get that look. And they can't be phoney bleached or phoney anything. You know that little pocket? It's so crazy to have that little little pocket, like for a twenty-dollar gold piece. Levi Strauss. With the little copper buttons. Studded for evening wear. The only person who irons them is Geraldo Rivera. Of Levi and Strauss. I wish I could invent something like bluejeans.
Something to be remembered for. Something mass. If you were President, you would have somebody else be President for you, right? You would videotape everything. You would have a nightly talk show—your own talk show as President. You'd have somebody else come on, the other President that's the President for you, and he would talk your diary out to the people, every night for half an hour. And that would come before the news, What the President Did Today.
So there would be no flack about the President does nothing or the President just sits around. Every day he'd have to tell us what he did, if he had sex with his wife. You'd have to say you played with your dog Archie—it's the perfect name for the President's pet—and what bills you had to sign and why you didn't want to sign them, who was rotten to you in Congress. You'd have to say how many long-distance phone calls you made that day.
You'd have to tell what you ate in the private dining room, and you'd show on the television screen the receipts you paid for private food for yourself. For your Cabinet you would have people who were not politicians. Robert Scull would be head of Economics because he would know how to buy early and sell big. You wouldn't have any politicians around at all.
You'd take all the trips and tape them. You'd play back all the tapes with foreign people on TV. And when you wrote a letter to anyone in Congress you would have it Xeroxed and sent to every paper. You wouldn't take up too much space, you'd have a tiny office like you have now. You'd change the law so you could keep anything anybody gave you while you were in office, because you're a Collector.
And you'd be the first nonmarried President. And in the end you'd be famous because you'd write a book: Just think, if you were President right now, there'd be no more First Lady. Only a First Man. A B would come in a little early to clean up. And then the other Bs would file down to Washington to see you just like they file in to see you at the Factory.
It would be just like the Factory, all bulletproof. Visitors would have to get past your hairdressers. And you'd take your extra-private hairdresser with you. Can't you see her in her inflatable jacket, ready for war at any moment?
Do you realize there's no reason you couldn't be President of the United States? You know all the bigwigs who could get you in, all of society, all the rich people, and that's all anyone's ever needed to get to be President.
I don't know why you don't declare yourself in the running right away. Then people would know you weren't just a big joke.
I want you to say every time you look at yourself in the mirror, 'Politics: Washington, D. Forget about those long trips to Montauk in the Rollses. Think about a little helicopter to Camp David. What a camp it would be. You'd have such a camp. Do you realize the opportunity of the White House?
A, you've been into Politics since the day I met you. You do everything in a political way. Politics can mean doing a poster that has Nixon's face on it, and says 'Vote Mc-Govern. We can get the Indians back on the reservations making rugs and hunting for turquoise. And we can send Rotten Rita and Ondine out to pan for gold. That's America.
That's what should be in the White House. And you would serve Dolly Madison ice cream. A, see yourself as others see you. We've been talking for so long I still haven't taken my wings off.
Your airline bag was loaded with candy bars, cookies, chewing gum. And they laughed. You used to eat nothing but sweets. You really have the sweetest tooth of anybody I've ever known. Now you have gall-bladder problems and have to take those large white pills before every meal. I keep telling you to have it out. I haven't done it yet today. When we talk on the phone, I'm always hearing some other B yelling, in the background, 'I'm going to throw out the Clairol 07!
When you stay home from the Factory I think it's because your wig is out being dry-cleaned or dyed. It's always the same in back, that fluffed-up back that I always want to pat down. Sometimes I'd like to pull your wig off but somehow I can't ever do it. I know how it would hurt you. Love Puberty. I like your apartment. It's nice, but it's only big enough for one person —or two people who are very close. You know two people who are very close?
At a certain point in my life, in the late 50s, I began to feel that 1 was picking up problems from the people I knew.
One friend was hopelessly involved with a married woman, another had confided that he was homosexual, a woman I adored was manifesting strong signs of schizophrenia. I had never felt that I had problems, because I had never specifically defined any, but now I felt that these problems of friends were spreading themselves onto me like germs. I decided to go for psychiatric treatment, as so many people I knew were doing. I felt that I should define some of my own problems—if, in fact, I had any—rather than merely sharing vicariously in the problems of friends.
I had had three nervous breakdowns when I was a child, spaced a year apart. One when I was eight, one at nine, and one at ten. The attacks—St. Vitus Dance—always started on the first day of summer vacation. I don't know what this meant. I would spend all summer listening to the radio and lying in bed with my Charlie McCarthy doll and my un-cut-out cut-out paper dolls all over the spread and under the pillow. My father was away a lot on business trips to the coal mines, so I never saw him very much.
My mother would read to me in her thick Czechoslovakian accent as best she could and I would always say "Thanks, Mom," after she finished with Dick Tracy, even if I hadn't understood a word. She'd give me a Hershey Bar every time I finished a page in my coloring book. When I think of my high school days, all I can remember, really, are the long walks to school, through the Czech ghetto with the babushkas and overalls on the clotheslines, in Mc-Keesport, Pennsylvania. I wasn't amazingly popular, but I had some nice friends.
I was't very close to anyone although I guess I wanted to be, because when I would see the kids telling one another their problems, I felt left out.
No one confided in me—I wasn't the type they wanted to confide in, I guess. We passed a bridge every day and underneath were used prophylactics. I'd always wonder out loud to everybody what they were, and they'd laugh. I had a job one summer in a department store looking through Vogues and Harper's Bazaars and European fashion magazines for a wonderful man named Mr.
I got something like fifty cents an hour and my job was to look for "ideas. Vollmer was an idol to me because he came from New York and that seemed so exciting. I wasn't really thinking about ever going there myself, though.
But when I was eighteen a friend stuffed me into a Kroger's shopping bag and took me to New York. I still wanted to be close with people. I kept living with roommates thinking we could become good friends and share problems, but I'd always find out that they were just interested in another person sharing the rent.
At one point I lived with seventeen different people in a basement apartment on rd Street and Manhattan Avenue, and not one person out of the seventeen ever shared a real problem with me.
They were all creative kids, too—it was more or less an Art Commune— so I know they must have had lots of problems, but I never heard about any of them. There were fights in the kitchen a lot over who had bought which slice of salami, but that was about it. I worked very long hours in those days, so I guess I wouldn't have had time to listen to any of their problems even if they had told me any, but I still felt left out and hurt. I'd be making the rounds looking for jobs all day, and then be home drawing them at night.
That was my life in the 50s: The things I remember most about those days, aside from the long hours I spent working, are the cockroaches. Every apartment I ever stayed in was loaded with them. I'll never forget the humiliation of bringing my portfolio up to Carmel Snow's office at Harper's Bazaar and unzipping it only to have a roach crawl out and down the leg of the table.
She felt so sorry for me that she gave me a job. So I had an incredible number of roommates. To this day almost every night I go out in New York I run into somebody I used to room with who invariably explains to my date, "I used to live with Andy.
After the same scene happens a few times, my date can't figure out how I could have lived with so many people, especially since they only know me as the loner I am today. Now, people who imagine me as the 60s media partygoer who traditionally arrived at parties with a minimum six-person "retinue" may wonder how I dare to call myself a "loner," so let me explain how I really mean that and why it's true.
At the times in my life when I was feeling the most gregarious and looking for bosom friendships. I couldn't find any takers so that exactly when I was alone was when I felt the most like not being alone. The moment I decided I'd rather be alone and not have anyone telling me their problems, everybody I'd never even seen before in my life started running after me to tell me things I'd just decided I didn't think it was a good idea to hear about.
As soon as I became a loner in my own mind, that's when I got what you might call a "following. I've found that to be absolutely axiomatic. Because I felt I was picking up the problems of friends, I went to a psychiatrist in Greenwich Village and told him all about myself. I told him my life story and how I didn't have any problems of my own and how I was picking up my friends' problems, and he said he would call me to make another appointment so we could talk some more, and then he never called me.
As I'm thinking about it now, I realize it was unprofessional of him to say he was going to call and then not call. On the way back from the psychiatrist's I stopped in Macy's and out of the blue I bought my first television set, an RCA inch black and white.
I brought it home to the apartment where I was living alone, under the El on East 75th Street, and right away I forgot all about the psychiatrist. I kept the TV on all the time, especially while people were telling me their problems, and the television i found to be just diverting enough so the problems people told me didn't really affect me any more. It was like some kind of magic. The building was a five-floor walk-up and originally I'd had the apartment on the fifth floor.
Then, when the second floor became available, I took that, too, so now I had two floors, but not two consecutive ones. In the years after I'd decided to be a loner, I got more and more popular and found myself with more and more friends. Professionally I was doing well. I had my own studio and a few people working for me, and an arrangement evolved where they actually lived at my work studio.
In those days, everything was loose, flexible. The people in the studio were there night and day. Friends of friends. Maria Callas was always on the phonograph and there were lots of mirrors and a lot of tinfoil. I had by then made my Pop Art statement, so I had a lot of work to do, a lot of canvases to stretch. I worked from ten a. This is when I started realizing how insane people can be. For example, one girl moved into the elevator and wouldn't leave for a week until they refused to bring her any more Cokes.
I didn't know what to make of the whole scene. Since I was paying the rent for the studio, I guessed that this somehow was actually my scene, but don't ask me what it was all about, because I never could figure it out. The location was great—47th Street and Third Avenue. We'd always see the demonstrators on their way to the UN for all the rallies. The Pope rode by on 47th Street once on his way to St. Khrushchev went by once, too.
It was a good, wide street.
The Velvet Underground had started rehearsing in one part of the loft, just before we got a mixed-media roadshow together and started our cross-country in It seemed like everything was starting then. The counterculture, the subculture, pop, superstars, drugs, lights, discotheques—whatever we think of as "young-and-with-it"—probably started then.
There was always a party somewhere: People were always getting dressed up for a party. The Velvets played it and Nico sang it. In those days everything was extravagant. You had to be rich to be able to afford pop clothes from boutiques like Paraphernalia or from designers like Tiger Morse. Tiger would go down to Klein's and Mays and buy a two-dollar dress, tear off the ribbon and flower, bring it up to her shop, and sell it for four hundred dollars.
She had a way with accessories, too. She'd paste a ditsy on something from Wool-worth's and charge fifty dollars for it.
She had an uncanny talent for being able to tell which people who came into her shop were actually going to buy something. I once saw her look for a second at a nice-looking well-dressed lady and say, "I'm sorry, there's nothing for sale for you here. She would buy anything that glittered. She was the person who invented the electric-light dress that carried its own batteries. In the 60s everybody got interested in everybody else.
Drugs helped a little there. Everybody was equal suddenly— debutantes and chauffeurs, waitresses and governors. A friend of mine named Ingrid from New Jersey came up with a new last name, just right for her new, loosely defined show-business career. She called herself "Ingrid Superstar. At least, I invite anyone with "superstar" clippings that predate Ingrid's to show them to me. The more parties we went to, the more they wrote her name in the papers, Ingrid Superstar, and "superstar" was starting its media run.
Ingrid called me a few weeks ago. She's operating a sewing machine now. But her name is still going. It seems incredible, doesn't it? In the 60s everybody got interested in everybody. In the 70s everybody started dropping everybody. The 60s were Clutter. The 70s are very empty When I got my first TV set, I stopped caring so much about having close relationships with other people.
I'd been hurt a lot to the degree you can only be hurt if you care a lot.
So I guess I did care a lot, in the days before anyone ever heard of "pop art" or "underground movies" or "superstars. But I didn't get married until when I got my first tape recorder. My wife. My tape recorder and I have been married for ten years now. When I say "we," I mean my tape recorder and me. A lot of people don't understand that. The acquisition of my tape recorder really finished whatever emotional life I might have had, but I was glad to see it go.
Nothing was ever a problem again, because a problem just meant a good tape and when a problem transforms itself into a good tape it's not a problem any more.
An interesting problem was an interesting tape. Everybody knew that and performed for the tape. You couldn't tell which problems were real and which problems were exaggerated for the tape. Better yet, the people telling you the problems couldn't decide any more if they were really having the problems or if they were just performing. During the 60s, I think, people forgot what emotions were supposed to be. And I don't think they've ever remembered.
I think that once you see emotions from a certain angle you can never think of them as real again. That's what more or less has happened to me.
I don't really know if I was ever capable of love, but after the 60s I never thought in terms of "love" again. However, I became what you might call fascinated by certain people. One person in the 60s fascinated me more than anybody I had ever known. And the fascination I experienced was probably very close to a certain kind of love. Love Prime. Should we walk? It's really beautiful out. Taxi was from Charleston, South Carolina—a confused, beautiful debutante who'd split with her family and come to New York.
She had a poignantly vacant, vulnerable quality that made her a reflection of everybody's private fantasies. Taxi could be anything you wanted her to be—a little girl, a woman, intelligent, dumb, rich, poor—anything. She was a wonderful, beautiful blank. The mystique to end all mystiques. She was also a compulsive liar; she just couldn't tell the truth about anything. And what an actress. She could really turn on the tears. She could somehow always make you believe her—that's how she got what she wanted.
Taxi invented the mini-skirt. She was trying to prove to her family back in Charleston that she could live on nothing, so she would go to the Lower East Side and buy the cheapest clothes, which happen to be little girls' skirts, and her waist was so tiny she could get away with it.
Fifty cents a skirt. She was the first person to wear ballet tights as a complete outfit, with big earrings to dress it up. She was an innovator—out of necessity as well as fun—and the big fashion magazines picked up on her look right away. She was pretty incredible. We were introduced by a mutual friend who had just made a fortune promoting a new concept in kitchen appliances on television quiz shows. After one look at Taxi I could see that she had more problems than anybody I'd ever met.
So beautiful but so sick. I was really intrigued. She was living off the end of her money. She still had a nice Sutton Place apartment, and now and then she would talk a rich friend into giving her a wad.
As I said, she could turn on the tears and get anything she wanted. In the beginning I had no idea how many drugs Taxi took, but as we saw more and more of each other it began to dawn on me how much of a problem she had. Next in importance for her, after taking the drugs, was having the drugs. Hoarding them. She would hop in a limousine and make a run to Philly crying the whole way that she had no amphetamines.
And somehow she would always get them because there was just something about Taxi-. Then she would add it to the pound she had stashed away at the bottom of her footlocker.
One of her rich sponsor-friends even tried to set her up in the fashion business, designing her own line of clothes. He'd bought a loft on 29th Street outright from a schlock designer who had just bought a condominium in Florida and wanted to leave the city fast.
The sponsor-friend took over the operation of the whole loft with the seven seamstresses still at their machines and brought Taxi in to start designing. The mechanics of the business were all set up, all she had to do was come up with designs that were basically no more than copies of the outfits that she styled for herself.
She wound up giving "pokes" to the seamstresses and playing with the bottles of beads and buttons and trimmings that the previous manager had left lining the wall. The business, needless to say, didn't prosper. Taxi would spend most of the day at lunch uptown at Reuben's ordering their Celebrity Sandwiches—the Anna Maria Alberghetti, the Arthur Godfrey, the Morton Downey were her favorites—and she would keep running into the ladies room and sticking her finger down her throat and throwing each one up.
She was obsessed with not getting fat. She'd eat and eat on a spree and then throw up and throw up, and then take four downers and pop off for four days at a time. Meanwhile her "friends" would come in to "rearrange" her pocketbook while she was sleeping. When she'd wake up four days later she'd deny that she'd been asleep. At first I thought that Taxi only hoarded drugs.
I knew that hoarding is a kind of selfishness, but I thought it was only with the drugs that she was that way. I'd see her beg people for enough for a poke and then go and file it in the bottom of her footlocker in its own little envelope with a date on it. But I finally realized that Taxi was selfish about absolutely everything. One day when she was still in the designing business a friend and I went to visit her.
There were scraps and scraps of velvets and satins all over the floor and my friend asked if she could have a piece just large enough to make a cover for a dictionary she owned.
There were thousands of scraps all over the floor, practically covering our feet, but Taxi looked at her and said, "The best time is in the morning. Just come by in the morning and look through the pails out front and you'll probably find something.
I didn't bother to say anything. What was the point? But the next day I asked her, "What happened to that clear plastic change purse you had yesterday that was stuffed with money?
Taxi hoarded brassieres. She kept around fifty brassieres —in graduated shades of beige, through pale pink and deep rose to coral and white—in her trunk.
They all had the price tags on them. She would never remove a price tag, not even from the clothes she wore. One day the same friend that asked her for the scrap of material was short on cash and Taxi owed her money. So she decided to take a brassiere that still had the Bendel's tags on it back to the store and get a refund.
When Taxi wasn't looking she stuffed it into her bag and went uptown. She went to the lingerie department and explained that she was returning the bra for a friend—it was obvious that this girl was far from an A-cup. The saleslady disappeared for ten minutes and then came back holding the bra and some kind of a log book and said, "Madame. This bra was purchased in Taxi had an incredible amount of makeup in her bag and in her footlocker: She'd spend hours with her makeup bags Scotch-taping little labels on everything, dusting and shining the bottles and compacts.
Everything had to look perfect. But she didn't care about anything below the neck. She would never take a bath. I would say, "Taxi. Take a bath. I'd yell, "Are you in the tub? But then I'd hear her tip-toeing around the bathroom and I'd peek through the keyhole and she'd be standing in front of the mirror, putting on more makeup over what was already caked on her face.
She would never put water on her face—only those degreasers, those little tissue-thin papers you press on that remove the oils without ruining the makeup. She used those. A few minutes later I'd peek through the keyhole again and she'd be recopying her address book—or somebody else's address book, it didn't matter—or else she'd be sitting with a yellow legal pad making the list of all the men she'd ever been to bed with, dividing them into three categories— "Slept," "Fucked," and "Cuddled.
After an hour she'd come out of the bathroom and I'd say, gratuitously, "You didn't take a bath. Yes I did. Someone was after her and she didn't want to sleep with him, so she crawled into bed in the next room with me.
She fell asleep and I just couldn't stop looking at her, because I was so fascinated-but-horrified. Her hands kept crawling, they couldn't sleep, they couldn't stay still. She scratched herself constantly, digging her nails in and leaving marks. In three hours she woke up and said immediately that she hadn't been asleep. Taxi drifted away from us after she started seeing a singer-musician who can only be described as The Definitive Pop Star—possibly of all time—who was then fast gaining recognition on both sides of the Atlantic as the thinking man's Elvis Presley.
I missed having, her around, but I told myself that it was probably a good thing that he was taking care of her now, because maybe he know how to do it better than we had.
Taxi died a few years ago in Hawaii where an important industrialist had taken her for a "rest. Love Senility. Why didn't you show up last night? You've been in a funny mood lately. It's just—I can't meet new people. I'm too tired. Well, these were old people and you didn't show up. You shouldn't watch so much TV. Oh I know. Is that a female impersonator?
Of what? The most exciting thing is not-doing-it. If you fall in love with someone and never do it, it's much more exciting. Love affairs get too involved, and they're not really worth it.
But if, for some reason, you feel that they are, you should put in exactly as much time and energy as the other person. In other words, "I'll pay you if you pay me. There should be a course in the first grade on love. There should be courses on beauty and love and sex. With love as the biggest course And they should show the kids, I always think, how to make love and tell and show them once and for all how nothing it is. But they won't do that, because love and sex are business.
But then I think, maybe it works out just as well that nobody takes you out of the dark about it, because if you really knew the whole story, you wouldn't have anything to think about or fantasize about for the rest of your life, and you might go crazy, having nothing to think about, since life is getting longer, anyway, leaving so much time after puberty to have sex in.
I don't remember much about puberty. It was probably a good thing that I waited, because I can't imagine how it could ever be more exciting than it was then.
Which gave me the idea that instead of telling kids very early about the mechanics and nothingness of sex, maybe it would be better to suddenly and very excitingly reveal the details to them when they're forty. You could be walking down the street with a friend who's just turned forty, spill the birds-and-the-bees beans, wait for the initial shock of learning what-goes-where to die down, and then patiently explain the rest. Then suddenly at forty their life would have new meaning.
We should really stay babies for much longer than we do, now that we're living so much longer. It's the long life-spans that are throwing all the old values and their applications out of whack.
When people used to learn about sex at fifteen and die at thirty-five, they obviously were going to have fewer problems than people today who learn about sex at eight or so, I guess, and live to be eighty. That's a long time to play around with the same concept.
The same boring concept. Parents who really love their kids and want them to be bored and discontented for as small a percentage of their lifetimes as possible maybe should go back to not letting them date until as late as possible so they have something to look forward to for a longer time.
Sex is more exciting on the screen and between the pages than between the sheets anyway. Let the kids read about it and look forward to it, and then right before they're going to get the reality, break the news to them that they've already had the most exciting part, that it's behind them already.
Fantasy love is much better than reality love. Never doing it is very exciting. The most exciting attractions are between two opposites that never meet. I love every "lib" movement there is, because after the "lib" the things that were always a mystique become understandable and boring, and then nobody has to feel left out if they're not part of what is happening.
For instance, single people looking for husbands and wives used to feel left out because the image marriage had in the old days was so wonderful. Jane Wyatt and Robert Young.
Nick and Nora Charles. Ethel and Fred Mertz. Dagwood and Blondie. Being married looked so wonderful that life didn't seem 'livable if you weren't lucky enough to have a husband or wife. To the singles, marriage seemed beautiful, the trappings seemed wonderful, and the sex was always implied to be automatically great—no one could ever seem to find words to describe it because "you had to be there" to know how good it was.
It was almost like a conspiracy on the part of the married people not to let it out how it wasn't necessarily completely wonderful to be married and having sex; they could have taken a load off the single people's minds if they'd just been candid.
But it was always a fairly well-kept secret that if you were married to somebody you didn't have enough room in bed and might have to face bad breath in the morning.
There are so many songs about love. But I was thrilled the other day when somebody mailed me the lyrics to a song that was about how he didn't care about anything, and how he didn't care about me.
It was very good. He managed to really convey the idea that he really didn't care. I don't see anything wrong with being alone it feels great to me. People make a big thing about personal love. It doesn't have to be such a big thing.
The same for living— people make a big thing about that too. But personal living and personal loving are the two things the Eastern-type wise men don't think about.
I wonder if it's possible to have a love affair that lasts forever. If you're married for thirty years and you're "cooking breakfast for the one you love" and he walks In, does his heart really skip a beat? I mean if it's just a regular morning. I guess it skips a beat over that breakfast and that's nice, too. It's nice to have a little breakfast made for you. The biggest price you pay for love is that you have to have somebody around, you can't be on your own, which is always so much better. The biggest disadvantage, of course, is no room in bed.
Even a pet cuts into your bed room. I believe in long engagements. The longer, the better. Love and sex can go together and sex and unlove can go together and love and unsex can go together. But personal love and personal sex is bad. You can be just as faithful to a place or a thing as you can to a person.
A place can really make your heart skip a beat, especially if you have to take a plane to get there. Mom always said not to worry about love, but just to be sure to get married. But I always knew that I would never get married, because I don't want any children, I don't want them to have the same problems that I have. I don't think anybody deserves it. I think a lot about the people who are supposed to not have any problems, who get married and live and die and it's all been wonderful.
I don't know anybody like that. They always have some problem, even if it's only that the toilet doesn't flush. My ideal wife would have a lot of bacon, bring it all home, and have a TV station besides. I was always fascinated when I watched old war movies where the girls get married by proxy over the phone to husbands across the sea and they'd say, "I hear you, my darling! I guess they wanted the monthly check, though.
I have a telephone mate. We've had an on-going relationship over the phone for six years. I live uptown and she lives downtown.
It's a wonderful arrangement: I'm uptown in the kitchen making myself peppermint tea and a dry, medium-to-dark English muffin with marmalade, and she's downtown waiting for the coffee shop to deliver a light coffee and a toasted roll with honey and butter—heavy on the light, honey, butter, and seeds. We while and talk away the sunny morning hours with the telephone nestled between head and shoulders and we can walk away or even hang up whenever we want to. We don't have to worry about kids, just about extension phones.
We have an understanding. She married a staple-gun queen twelve years ago and has been more or less waiting for the annulment to come through ever since, although she tells people who ask that he died in a mudslide. The symptom of love is when some of the chemicals inside you go bad.
So there must be something in love because your chemicals do tell you something. I tried and tried when I was younger to learn something about love, and since it wasn't taught in school I turned to the movies for some clues about what love is and what to do about it.
In those days you did learn something about some kind of love from the movies, but it was nothing you could apply with any reasonable results. I mean, the other night I was watching on TV the version of Back Street with John Gavin and Susan Hayward and I was stunned the whole time because all they kept saying was how wonderful every precious moment they had together was, and so every precious moment was a testimonial to every precious moment.
But I always thought that movies could show you so much more about how it really is between people and therefore help all the people who don't understand to know what to do, what some of their options are. What I was actually trying to do in my early movies was show how people can meet other people and what they can do and what they can say to each other. That was the whole idea: And then when you saw it and you saw the sheer simplicity of it, you learned what it was all about.
Those movies showed you how some people act and react with other people. They were like actual sociological "For instance"s. They were like documentaries, and if you thought it could apply to you, it was an example, and if it didn't apply to you, at least it was a documentary, it could apply to somebody you knew and it could clear up some questions you had about them.
In Tub Girls, for example, the girls had to take baths with people in tubs, and they learned how to take baths with other people. While we were doing Tub Girls. They met in a tub. And the girl would have to carry her tub to the next person she'd have to take a bath with, so she'd put her tub under her arm and carry her tub.
We used a clear plastic tub. I never particularly wanted to make simply sex movies. If I had wanted to make a real sex movie I would have filmed, a flower giving birth to another flower. And the best love story is just two love-birds in a cage. The best love is not-to-think-about-it love. Some people can have sex and really let their minds go blank and fill up with the sex; other people can never let their minds go blank and fill up with the sex, so while they're having the sex they're thinking, "Can this really be me?
Am I really doing this? This is very strange. Five minutes ago I wasn't doing this. In a little while I won't be doing it. What would Mom say? How did people ever think of doing this? The other type has to find something else to relax with and get lost in. He wasn't cool really, and just as impressed with celebrities as the rest of us he didn't mind being a bit of a freeloader off them though. He didn't take drugs apart for many years apart from pain killers from the Valerie Solanus stabbing, and the unsuccessful operations that followed.
He was a committed Catholic and went to church every day and was a good son and uncle. Not really like his publicity, but he had only himself to blame - or thank - for that. His ending was sad. He always said he would never go into hospital again to have his health problems addressed, mostly caused by the stabbings and adhesions that had developed inside from the multiple operations. He said he knew if he went in again, he would never come out alive. He was right.
View all 16 comments. Sep 24, Eddie Watkins rated it really liked it Shelves: Back when I was really serious about finding profound meaning in life, and thought for some reason that that meaning would somehow emanate from something outside myself, that the world itself should be steeped in it, I hated everything Warhol stood for as I perceived it - shallowness, flippancy, etc.
View all 11 comments. Dec 24, Stacy rated it it was amazing Shelves: View all 3 comments. Self indulgent and tedious nonsense. View 2 comments. Nov 21, William2 rated it really liked it. Very droll. View all 6 comments. Jul 05, Rebecca McNutt rated it liked it Shelves: Definitely an interesting testament to the philosophy behind the pop culture art of Andy Warhol, but I found it very pretentious and weirdly patronizing.
Jul 13, Amber rated it really liked it Shelves: I read a year later that Andy Warhol didn't even write this. Two staff members of his Interview magazine did it based on things Andy said and the way he was. But I loved and related to a lot of the ideas in the book or at least thought they were brilliant in their eccentricity. I really like the part about there are two kinds of people- people who are totally into having sex and are just so into it and the people who can't ever get into because they are so caught up in the idea of "I am having s I read a year later that Andy Warhol didn't even write this.
I really like the part about there are two kinds of people- people who are totally into having sex and are just so into it and the people who can't ever get into because they are so caught up in the idea of "I am having sex". I think this is a pretty fair and correct assessment.
And I'm not sure if it was in here or in Holy Terror written by one of the ghost-authors of this where he talks about using a new perfume every 6 months and then discarding it so that scent reminds him of all of the things that happened in that period and whenever he smells it, the memories from that time will come back.
I love it. View 1 comment. Jan 29, Andy rated it really liked it Shelves: The Philosophy of Andy Warhol is essential reading for Warhol fans because it's filled with Warhol's views on life, money, art, film, fashion and most importantly, himself.
Portions of the book are about as close as we're going to get to a full-blown autobiography, Warhol Diaries notwithstanding. He goes back in time to when he was a kid in school and picked on for his bad skin and awkward looks, which explains his cool detachment in general as a defense mechanism.
Also poignant are his recollect The Philosophy of Andy Warhol is essential reading for Warhol fans because it's filled with Warhol's views on life, money, art, film, fashion and most importantly, himself. Also poignant are his recollections of being a successful commercial artist.
For all the talk about Warhol being an enigma it's a genuine surprise to read Warhol's confession of being a very shy, withdrawn person. His accounts of The Factory Years shows him being somewhat smothered by scores of nutty kids who spent more time there than he did.
While he punched in from 10 am to 10 pm every day many "workers" moved in and wouldn't leave, according to him. But if the book does have anything shocking up its sleeve it's Warhol's candor in discussing his being shot, recalled several times during the book. Unfortunately, two-thirds into the book Warhol runs out of philosophical gems and simply transcribes several long-winded and tedious conversations that would tire out a speed freak, so he loses a star or two.
Highly recommended for Warhol fans. Jan 30, Anima rated it it was amazing. Andy Warhol, a well known Pop artist, advanced art in the market culture. His book,"The Philosophy", tells us a little bit more about the man who stretched art values in the quotidian life. I deeply enjoyed reading the first 4 chapters about love and beauty, and I had lots of fun reading the entire book.
One person in the 60s fascinated me more than anybody I had ever known. And the fascination I experienced was probably very close to a certain kind of love. Taxi could be anything you wanted her to be—a little girl, a woman, intelligent, dumb, rich, poor—anything. She was a wonderful, beautiful blank. The mystique to end all mystiques. Let the kids read about it and look forward to it, and then right before they're going to get the reality, break the news to them that they've already had the most exciting part, that it's behind them already.
So there must be something in love because your chemicals do tell you something. Maybe, say, you have a permanent beauty problem you can't change, such as too-short legs. Just say it. I decided to read this book because I am interested in Andy Warhol and his influence upon the current world and the commercialist mindset. I recently watched a documentary on him and he seemed like a very interesting and possibly neurotic kind of person, and I really enjoy delving into the minds and ideas of people who live in an altered reality.
This book completes the "diary, biography or autobiography" category in wider reading. Although it is not strictly any of these things, it contain 1. Although it is not strictly any of these things, it contains biographical information and reports about things that have happened in his life. I enjoy reading this category because I love to see the world through the eyes of another, in particular people who are regarded as highly intelligent and innovative.
An idea I found particularly interesting in this book was Warhol's idea of consumerism. He indulged in spending and buying things he did not particularly need, only to throw them away at the months end. I found this interesting because it directly conflicts with my beliefs that consumerism will be the downfall of us all and is ruining the economy and greatly widening the gap between rich and poor. Warhol believes that because the rich and poor are both buying the same products, such as Coca Cola, it doesn't really make a difference.
Everyone is drinking the same coca cola, and no coca cola is better than any others, therefore everyone is coming closer together through consumerism.
I found this very interesting because it puts a new spin on a topic I am interested in. A quote I found interesting in this book was "Sometimes people let the same problem make them miserable for years when they could just say, 'So what. This shows Warhol's idea of getting on with life and not letting small things bother you.
I think that this is important to remember because if you let things that happened in the past get you down, you're going to forget to live your real life and have fun with what you're doing. Something that I learned from this book is that consumerism is not always a bad thing, and can sometimes help the world become more equal.
I think this is important because otherwise you could find yourself becoming more and more obsessive over stupid things, and it's more important just to get out there and live your life. Aug 17, Jacobmartin rated it it was amazing Shelves: This review has been hidden because it contains spoilers.
To view it, click here. This book scared the hell out of me and I'm going to tell you why. Andy Warhol predicted a hell of a lot that's happened in today's culture in this book, and even highlights some of the things gone terribly wrong with his own time.
The final chapter hints at truths we would not see again until the days of Chuck Palahniuk - and some of the dialogue in this book is almost word for word the kind of stuff Chuck would write for his characters to say. This is Andy Warhol's philosophy - but it is also pa This book scared the hell out of me and I'm going to tell you why.
This is Andy Warhol's philosophy - but it is also partly his biography - detailing his mindset from A, the nickname he gives himself, to B, the person designated as "anyone who will listen".
This is the work of a very disconnected from normal social contact - since he got swept up into the world of celebrities he probably didn't have many people he could trust - and people who barely knew him allegedly spat on him simply because he was Andy Warhol. Some even tried to kill him, twice. If you want to get an idea of what the hell Lady Gaga means, read this book. It will explain Lady Gaga perfectly - because she isn't the first glamour conscious person who ever strutted her stuff, as this book shows.
Even her fashion is a bit Warholian, if a bit more focused on the rich celebrity culture than being Andy, a son of poor immigrants who rose from obscurity to somebody who changed the face of art.
Read it from beginning to end, it's not just a book of quotes, it's a morally ambiguous guide to the American Nightmare. The book ends with these words, which I will paraphrase: Because diamonds are forever Forever what? Jarring and creepy as hell. You will probably like it if you are used to stuffy art theory books, because this is nothing like a stuffy art theory book. Five Stars. Dec 17, Joey rated it really liked it. A quick, witty read that offers a glance into Warhol's head and world, as he would like us to see it.
Really enjoyed it. Nov 23, Kristina rated it it was amazing Shelves: To be honest I thought I would hate this, dont know why, just did. But omg I felt like I just read someones entire tumblr start to finish and I bloody loved it!!! Oct 02, Rachel Eldred rated it liked it. Andy Warhol makes me laugh. I'm not sure that was his intention, but I always reach for his books when I need a quick pick-me-up. And sure enough, after a few pages I fell asleep and had the most blissful night's rest.
The last thing I read was talk about semen as a rejuvenating facial cream! I always dismissed it as a bit light on, and not worth too much of my attention. That includes me, which is very unusual, since I have no time for the celebrity intrigue of the modern age, and if Warhol lived today, I would probably ignore him, too.
He has advice for people who want to lose weight: Then, …, I insist that the waiter wrap the entire plate up like a to-go order, and after we leave the restaurant I find a little corner outside in the street to leave the plate in, because there are so many people in New York who live in the streets, with everything they own in shopping bags.
I love the commentary on the s: They never seemed to be wearing anything washable. Everything always had to be dry-cleaned — the satins, the sewn-on mirrors, the velvets — the problem was that it was never dry-cleaned. He is the antithesis of me. Warhol is quoted as having said: For fans only.
I was an early subscriber to Interview Magazine and as such, I was able to place an advance order for a copy of this book. When it arrived, I opened it and found that Andy Warhol had personally inscribed it to me, and had also done a quick sketch of a Campbell's soup can on the inside cover.
Over the years, my oldest daughter has taken this book from my bookshelves many times, and I have always managed to steal it back. Included within its pages, not only will you find Andy's famous description I was an early subscriber to Interview Magazine and as such, I was able to place an advance order for a copy of this book. If I had to make a list of the books that I live my life by, this would definitely be in the top ten.
Aug 13, Sabin rated it liked it Shelves: Two phone conversations, one trip to Italy, one to Macy's department store for some underwear, and a few short quips and aphorisms in which we are served a helping of the author's thoughts on love, money, work, fame and, somehow, underwear.
That's mostly it. The persona that emerges from these pages is a very thick shell housing an introverted personality whose peculiar habits are borne out of the way in which his artistic sensibility reacts to the outside world. Fascinating in retrospect, but m Two phone conversations, one trip to Italy, one to Macy's department store for some underwear, and a few short quips and aphorisms in which we are served a helping of the author's thoughts on love, money, work, fame and, somehow, underwear.
Fascinating in retrospect, but makes for a very dull read. Mar 31, Sharon rated it it was ok. When I was going through my arty phase, I loved this book! Now, that some time has passed I can't stand it. Warhol's ideas about money and what's American are still entertaining and apart of me, but the book has a lot of boring and lengthy passages about NOTHING.
There were parts that I would not have been reading for example, the detailed cleaning routine of one of Andy's friends if they weren't by Warhol. Jan 22, Corinna rated it liked it. This book went from midly interesting to boring at times. The last 2 chapters are a yawn. I don't know whether to believe any of it, especially the constant rant of wanting to be alone most of the time.
I do wish he was alive to live in the 21st century, he would have loved all the digital art that is being made today. And it would have been interesting to see what he would have produced. It's Andy Warhol, of course it's going to be a good book. Thank you Beth for buying me this!
Jan 25, Emily rated it it was ok. Warhol's persona here is at times enjoyable, at times pithy, at times profound, at times absurd, at times concerned with triviality underwear brands , etc.