| |
|
I love Warhol, not least because I often find him infuriating. Working in the art world as a researcher, I often find myself writing extensively on his works. This is often, at first, a depressing prospect-- another 400 words about ANOTHER bluddy late Warhol. But then I start to write, and the fascinating layers of paradox exert their enchantment. He is like a dumb (but not in the sense of stoopid) mirror, in a sense, held up to the viewer, to capitalism, to artists, to everyone. And we all see both what he wants and what we want. And then we look further... And we see death and subversion, and then an honest love of celebrity, and then a rebellion against its fickleness and fatuousness, and then a raucous adoration of those same qualities...
Part of the brilliance of his work is that the meanings shift the more you hold them up to scrutiny. They do not shift in a withering-under-scrutiny sense, but instead open up, introducing an infinite complexity that leaves one able (as I am proving here...) to write or talk or think about him almost without end. Warhol's work, in short, is as deep as a piece of string is long. And yet... it is all about the surface.
I highly recommend his book, From A to B and back again, even just to dip into. It is his collected philosophical musings, and includes such gems as:
`American money is very well-designed, really. I like it better than any other kind of money. I’ve thrown it in the East River just by the Staten Island Ferry just to see it float.'
He really is endless fun! And a prophet who saw the writing on the wall-- then, perceiving the irony of such an act, framed it and sold it. |
|
|
