Andy Warhol

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To celebrate the 1975 film release of Tommy, a gigantic underground party for 1,000 guests was given at closed-down, cleaned-up New York City subway stop. Bill Murray, an unknown then, managed to sneak in and said the dumbest fucking thing to Andy Warhol.

The party was described by gossip columnist Earl Wilson, who was of such a different era that his title for a time was “Saloon Editor“:

New York, N.Y. — A midnight supper dance in the subway was one of the great evenings of the generation. Though it was a promotion for the film, Tommy, everyone had something to say, such as “Does this party stop at 14th St.?”

“What time do we get mugged?” asked one party guest, Fred Robbins.

“You know what I miss–the graffiti,” declared Milton Goldman the agent because the subway stop’s walls had been washed down scrupulously before the party.

About 900 lo 1,000 people were dancing, eating and drinking after the big opening at the Ziegfeld. “How many tokens is this?” I asked. About $50,000 worth, I was told. The film company paid for the 50 to 100 extra security cops.

“I met one of my husbands in the subway and never went back,” actress Sylvia Miles said.

Ann-Margret and Elton John were of course the ones being protected. They danced together. I tried to cut in. Nobody paid me any mind, Elton John said his real name is Reginald Dwight and he pinched Elton from a musician buddy.

Angela Lansbury paid tribute to the food, said she had joy that was “excruciating,” only regretted that she had to walk through horse manure from the police horses to get from the theater lo the subway station.

They were still at it at 2. “This is like the subway’s 5 o’clock rush hour,” Tommy De Maio said. It was probably true that there were people there who’d never been in a subway and actually wondered what it was like down there.•

From Murray’s new Reddit Ask Me Anything:

Question:

What was the best party you’ve ever crashed?

Bill Murray:

Well, we crashed a famous party called the subway party to celebrate the premiere of Tommy, in the 70s. It was Gilda Radner, Belushi, Harold Ramis, Joe Flaherty, Brian Doyle Murray, and we were all plus 1, probably. It was biggest party ever in NYC at the time. You couldn’t get into this party. It was an inner circle thing. It was at an enclosed subway stop, it was a roar. It was a scream. If you made an airport movie with everyone on the plane is a celebrity, it was like that times 10. We were doing a show in the restaurant cabaret, the guys catering were the same guys who gave us left over french fries, we went into the backdoor to the subway with everyone. Everyone saying hi, hello. And we felt like we didn’t belong at all. It was so fantastic. I have compassion when people say dumb stuff to me. I said to Andy Warhol “I love the soup cans” and he looked at me like “You don’t belong here.” What a time that was.•

eltonann

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We celebrate youth when we most fear death. We seek escapism when there seems no way out.

From a 1977 Interview Q&A Andy Warhol and Bob Colacello conducted with Sissy Spacek:

Andy Warhol:

It’s funny they never write about you in the scandal sheets. I guess it’s because you always play such a young person.

Sissy Spacek:

I’m grouped together with Tatum O’Neal and Jodie Foster. That’s fine with me. You see, you can get by with a lot more that way. People let things slide. That’s good, I guess.

Andy Warhol:

And child actors are getting so big again.

Sissy Spacek:

I wonder why.

Bob Colacello:

I think because everything’s going in an escapist direction because things are getting worse.

Sissy Spacek:

Do you think so?

Bob Colacello:

They don’t seem to be getting better. The news magazines always used to have hard news stories on the covers. Now it’s entertainment stories.

Sissy Spacek:

I see you—you get overloaded by the truth. That’s the nice thing about livin’ in Los Angeles. Anything that happens in the news—great tragedies, scandals—people just think, “What a great idea for a film!” Everything’s thought of in terms of “material.” Remember that thing in Uganda? They couldn’t get the films out fast enough.•

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The Mudd Club was a cabaret institution in New York for a few years in the late-’70s and early ’80s, the edgier little cousin to Studio 54, which wasn’t exactly Disneyland. An excerpt from a 1979 People article which includes a holy shit! quote from Andy Warhol:

“Ever on the prowl for outrageous novelty, New York’s fly-by-night crowd of punks, posers and the ultra hip has discovered new turf on which to flaunt its manic chic. It is the Mudd Club, a dingy disco lost among the warehouses of lower Manhattan. By day the winos skid by without a second glance. But come midnight (the opening time), the decked-out decadents amass 13 deep. For sheer kinkiness, there has been nothing like it since the cabaret scene in 1920s Berlin.

In just six months the Mudd has made its uptown precursor, Studio 54, seem almost passé and has had to post a sentry on the sidewalk. The difference is that the Mudd doesn’t have a velvet rope but a steel chain. Such recognizable fun-lovers as David Bowie, Mariel Hemingway, Diane von Furstenburg and Dan Aykroyd are automatically waved inside. For the rest, the club picks its own like some sort of perverse trash compactor. The kind of simple solution employed by U.S. gas stations is out of the question: At the Mudd, every night is odd. Proprietor Steve Mass, 35, admits that ‘making a fashion statement’ is the criterion. That means a depraved version of the audience of Let’s Make a Deal. One man gained entrance simply by flashing the stump of his amputated arm.

The action inside varies from irreverent to raunch. Andy Warhol is happy to have found a place, he says, ‘where people will go to bed with anyone—man, woman or child.’ Some patrons couldn’t wait for bedtime, and the management has tried to curtail sex in the bathrooms.”

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Valerie Solanas was apparently never told that you don’t shoot the messenger. I was completely unaware until watching this video that she shot Andy Warhol the day before Sirhan Sirhan assassinated RFK. In the clip, Warhol and Candy Darling, who, it is written, came from out on the Island, preen for friends and media on a docked boat chartered by Jane Fonda. The line about Warhol’s Superstars “almost living” is striking. Isn’t that what we all dedicate a good portion of our lives to now, with our icons and our selfies and our reality stars? It’s great that everything is freer, but isn’t it surprising what we’ve done with the freedom, the endless channels? It’s life, yes, and it’s almost life.

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Andy Warhol, that cyborg, was the messenger who got shot. He lived long enough, however, to participate in the early moments of the computer explosion, commissioned by Amiga to create a digital portrait of Debbie Harry. The fascinating visual artist Cory Arcangel has recovered some of Warhol’s other Amiga art. From Jonathan Jones at the Guardian:

“Thanks to the curiosity of Cory Arcangel – one of today’s most important artists working with digital technologies – a forgotten hoard of Warhol artworks has been rescued from old Amiga disks by students who ingeniously hacked into the defunct software.

The works Warhol created to commission in 1985 to help launch the Amiga 1000 computer are not earth-shattering in themselves. He essentially recreated some of his paintings as digital images.

But the meeting of Andy Warhol and a computer at the dawn of the digital age is hugely suggestive. Warhol, after all, is the man who flirted with being a machine. He wore a metallic silver wig and made paintings on a production line, with assistants silkscreening found photographs onto canvas.

This computer-like style was eerie. Yet it was not the real him. In reality, Andy Warhol was a talented draughtsman, a secret Catholic and a compassionate historian of his times. He pretended to be a machine because that was the best way he found to capture the way the world was changing. From canned soup to instant pictures, Warhol took the pulse of the age as America became a society of consumers and celebrity watchers. He portrayed reality so truly he seemed to invent it – as if one artist could create the celebrity age.

Warhol was a reporter who simply told the truth.”

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Incredibly cool 1965 CBS Evening News report presented by Walter Cronkite about underground filmmaking in NYC. Features footage of “a musical group called the Velvet Underground” and interviews with Jonas Mekas, Stan Brakhage, Andy Warhol and Edie Sedgwick.

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Andy Warhol had far more lasting cultural import than the recently deceased critic Robert Hughes allowed. He sold low on the Pop Artist in a 1982 New York Review of Books piece. The opening:

To say that Andy Warhol is a famous artist is to utter the merest commonplace. But what kind of fame does he enjoy? If the most famous artist in America is Andrew Wyeth, and the second most famous is LeRoy Neiman (Hugh Hefner’s court painter, inventor of the Playboy femlin, and drawer of football stars for CBS), then Warhol is the third. Wyeth, because his work suggests a frugal, bare-bones rectitude, glazed by nostalgia but incarnated in real objects, which millions of people look back upon as the lost marrow of American history. Neiman, because millions of people watch sports programs, read Playboy, and will take any amount of glib abstract-expressionist slather as long as it adorns a recognizable and pert pair of jugs. But Warhol? What size of public likes his work, or even knows it at first hand? Not as big as Wyeth’s or Neiman’s.

To most of the people who have heard of him, he is a name handed down from a distant museum-culture, stuck to a memorable face: a cashiered Latin teacher in a pale fiber wig, the guy who paints soup cans and knows all the movie stars. To a smaller but international public, he is the last of the truly successful social portraitists, climbing from face to face in a silent delirium of snobbery, a man so interested in elites that he has his own society magazine. But Warhol has never been a popular artist in the sense that Andrew Wyeth is or Sir Edwin Landseer was. That kind of popularity entails being seen as a normal (and hence, exemplary) person from whom extraordinary things emerge.

Warhol’s public character for the last twenty years has been the opposite: an abnormal figure (silent, withdrawn, eminently visible but opaque, and a bit malevolent) who praises banality. He fulfills Stuart Davis’s definition of the new American artist, ‘a cool Spectator-Reporter at an Arena of Hot Events.’ But no mass public has ever felt at ease with Warhol’s work. Surely, people feel, there must be something empty about a man who expresses no strong leanings, who greets everything with the same ‘uh, gee, great. Art’s other Andy, the Wyeth, would not do that. Nor would the midcult heroes of The Agony and the Ecstasyand Lust for Life. They would discriminate between experiences, which is what artists are meant to do for us.”

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“First thing I would do is put carpets in the streets”:

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Andy Warhol refuses to speak during an appearance on Merv Griffin’s talk show in 1965. How healthy Edie Sedgwick looks.

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Andy Warhol and Bianca Jagger interviewing young Steven Spielberg, 1979.

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Andy Warhol explains why he would be a better President than Richard Nixon.

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If Salvador Dali and Whitey Ford could team up to shill for Braniff Airlines, why not Andy Warhol and Sonny Liston?

The opening of The Devil and Sonny ListonNick Tosches beautiful, bruising biography of the boxer, who died young and mysteriously: “The corpse was rolled over and lay face down on the metal slab. It was then that the coroner saw them; the copper-colored whipping welts, old and faint, like one might imagine those of a driven slave.

To say that Charles Liston had been a slave would be to render cheap metaphor of the life of a man. And yet those scars on his back were as nothing to deeper scars, the kind that no coroner could ever see, scars of a darkness far less imaginable than those from any lash. Charles Liston, the most formidable of men, the most unconquerable of heavyweight boxers, had been enslaved by the forces of that darkness: enslaved, conquered, and killed by them.

Born with dead man’s eyes, he had passed from the darkness of those scars on his back to the darkness of the criminal underworld, to a darkness beyond, a darkness whose final form was the last thing he ever saw.”

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At the 1985 product launch for the Commodore Amiga.

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Here’s a classic 1992 homage to the mundane in which Andy Warhol chows down on Burger King. It’s a passage from Jørgen Leth’s 66 Scenes From America. The interminable post-meal period when Warhol prepares to speak was improvised by the Pop Artist.

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"Stickball cap of Warhol Superstar Candy Darling."

WARHOL MEMORABILIA – $20000

“Stickball cap of Warhol Superstar CANDY DARLING. Yellow in color, dated 1956 and reads” LONG ISLAND STICKBALL” and has “JIMMY SLATTERY” written on the underside of the bill. $20,000 firm or will consider something of equal non-cash value.

$100 bill autographed by Warhol Superstar HOLLY WOODLAWN. Has a still from the Warhol produced film “TRASH” of Holly collaged over Ben Franklin and a BRIGHT RED LIPSTICK KISS by Holly. $8,000 firm or will consider something of equal non-cash value.”

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Mmm mmm good.

William P. MacFarland was a product marketing manager at the Campbell Soup Company during the 1960s, when Andy Warhol’s silkscreened portraits of the iconic soup cans caused a sensation throughout the art world and entered into the popular consciousness. You might almost expect a big corporation to be tone deaf about the situation and get lawyered up. But instead MacFarland sent Warhol an admiring letter and some free cases of tomato soup. Below is the transcript of the correspondence, but you can see the actual missive at Letters of Note. (Thanks to boing boing for pointing me toward this post.)

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Campbell SOUP Company

CAMDEN 1, NEW JERSEY

May 19, 1964

Mr. A. Warhol
1342 Lexington Avenue
New York, New York

Dear Mr. Warhol:

I have followed your career for some time. Your work has evoked a great deal of interest here at Campbell Soup Company for obvious reasons.

At one time I had hoped to be able to acquire one of your Campbell Soup label paintings – but I’m afraid you have gotten much too expensive for me.

I did want to tell you, however, that we admired your work and I have since learned that you like Tomato Soup. I am taking the liberty of having a couple of cases of our Tomato Soup delivered to you at this address.

We wish you continued success and good fortune.

Cordially,

(Signed, ‘William P. MacFarland’)

William P. MacFarland
Product Marketing Manager

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Obetrol: "Use with caution in individuals with anorexia."

According to Nicholas Rasmussen’s book, On Speed: The Many Lives of Amphetamine, the meth-laced diet pills Obetrol were Andy Warhol’s weight-loss tablet of choice. The medication was produced by a Brooklyn drug manufacturer, but meth’s usage as a diet aid waned during the 1980s. This 1970 ad features an illustration in which a ski instructor mocks a student whose obesity is causing him to sink. The instructor barks: “Either lose 45 pounds or wait for six more inches of snow!” The ad contains the following precautions:

“Use with caution in individuals with anorexia, insomnia, asthma, psychopathic personality, a history of homicidal or suicidal tendencies, or emotionally unstable individuals who are known to be susceptible to drug abuse.”

More Old Print Ads:

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Documentarian Ondi Timoner is no stranger to volcanic egos, having chronicled a couple of feuding rock bands in her excellent 2004 doc, Dig! But even she couldn’t have been completely prepared for the unrestrained and unstable hubris that was Web 1.0 entrepreneur Josh Harris, when she was asked to film his exhibitionistic Manhattan commune during the final month of December 1999. That project and others perpetrated by Harris are the subject of the fascinatingly repellent doc We Live in Public.

The poster child for the extreme excess of Silicon Alley in the late ’90s, Harris was a misanthrope with a sadistic streak who cashed in a couple of early web businesses for the disposable income to hatch disturbing “art projects” that investigated his personal issues with voyeurism, exhibitionism and mind control.

The first one, called “Quiet: We Live in Public,” housed 100 volunteers in a Manhattan bunker that was filled with free food, a firing range with a massive cache of weapons and ubiquitous surveillance cameras to capture every last instant of the participants’ lives. People had sex, showered, went to the bathroom and sat for humiliating interrogations before the lenses. Harris was no Warhol but he created a Warholian police state, until the NYPD shut down an increasingly ugly scene.

Harris followed up this wacky project with other similar ones, until he had burned through tens of millions of dollars and disappeared himself from the public eye (and his creditors). Before his retreat, he foresaw the increasing invasiveness and exhibitionism of our media-drenched world: social networking web sites, the explosion of reality TV and the information-collecting of search engines.

But getting there first isn’t necessarily a distinction worth having, since he behaved like a creep when he arrived. Surveillance can no doubt alter human behavior, but you have to believe Harris is no charmer even when no one’s watching.•

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I got my designer jeans on, ladies. Let's go boogie at Studio 54.

During a grungier era in New York, Rolling Stone published an issue dedicated to the city. The October 6, 1977 edition bore a cover with a Warhol silkscreen treatment of pioneering female politician Bella Abzug. (It was Abzug who first said “You have to be a little crazy to live in New York.”) Writers fixated on Abzug’s hats the way they do with Hilary’s pantsuits. With female politicians, it always seems to be about the clothes.

There’s an interesting article titled “Elliot Murphy’s New York,” in which the singer-songwriter, novelist and journalist lists some of his favorite places of the moment. Murphy was raised in the city by the family that owned Aquashow. a water ballet arena that was located on the former World’s Fair grounds. During Murphy’s childhood, big-band concerts by Duke Ellington, Count Basie and others took place there.

One of Murphy’s favorite places of the moment was Fiorucci, a designer clothes outlet right near Bloomingdale’s that sold skintight jeans suitable for Studio 54 to Madonna, Cher, Marc Jacobs, etc. (It closed in 1984.) Murphy writes: “I have seen 50-year-old women walk into Fiorucci and ask one of the dancing salesmen (disco music is omnipresent) what is the latest thing. I have seen these same women walk out in gold láme hot pants. When you buy jeans at Fiorucci they fit them as tight as they can. I think this is a form of Italian birth control. Fiorucci clothing is usually very well-made though with the way fashion changes these days, by the time it makes it through the third wash it’s out of style anyway.”

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