My first art crush was Andy Warhol.
My friend Matt introduced me to David Bowie in high school. (Thanks Matt!)
I made my way through Ziggy and Heroes and so on, and eventually found my way to Changes, where I found a curious song about Andy Warhol.
Who was this strange fellow that had so captivated Bowie? I did what we did back then and went to the library to find out.
It was there I discovered Andy and Edie and Lou and Nico and the Velvets and Paul Morrisey and the Factory and so on. I fell in love with everything Andy. I bought records. I subscribed to Interview. I dressed as Edie for Halloween. I moved to New York.
And I read The Philosophy of Andy Warhol: From A to B and Back Again, which I just started re-reading.
This book is a mainline shot of sweet nostalgia for me. Time stops. I’m in my teenage bedroom, learning about a world 3000 miles away from my small town. It’s funny and crass and boring and intriguing and charmingly old-fashioned. It’s patently true and blatantly false. It’s everything. That is all.
I posted these to IG while at the salon getting a pedicure. I think A.W. would have approved.