Andy Warhol. Superstar. Painted patsy of the 60s. Flaky skin falling off like a bad waxwork, all in white. Soup.
Where Are you Andy Warhol?
Where Are you Andy Warhol?
It was a Monday we found him, sitting in a little old people’s flat. Blanket covering his legs, no wig at all. He was shivering and staring out the window onto the people outside the blindfolded curtains.
The 60s weren’t roaring all about him, more like moaning delicately. A picture of a superstar in the corner- blowing up slowly. A couple of prints hung up on flower covered walls that had one too many nights out and far too many vodkas. The wallpaper’s kind of dark- the entire flat it. It’s submersed in the depths of suburbia, I can tell you that much.
“Who are you?”
We try and introduce ourselves as well as one can when really one just walked into his flat. The man isn’t disturbed, just looks on, in Andy Warhol’s Patented mock expression of boredom. Maybe he really is bored?
He asks us if we want some tea. I don’t drink tea I say, but my partner says she’ll have some.
So he kind of stumbles up and shuffles around (brown tartan slippers), and goes into his little old people’s kitchen- motel kitchens. So tiny they look like they’re made for a child, a foetus even.
Well, I heard some strands of some music coming of there. An old radio, maybe. Record player. Just propped up on the coffee table- all glossy brown mock-wood surfaces, looking like it came from an advertising firm in the 70s- just propped up, is a copy of “The Velvet Underground and Nico” with the sticker still on it.
“Peel off and see” says Andy behind us. His voice is like the absent minded 5 year old professor/fish monger grown up. I’ll admit that it’s kind of creepy. Like if the wind was a 80 year old child- that’s Andy Warhol’s voice.
“Well, if you don’t want to you don’t have to guys. But boy oh boy it’s fun”.
I tell him that his record could fetch a lot of money.
“Oh. Ok. Why don’t you do it anyway, huh?”
He shuffles back into the room- tick tock- and sort of slumps down. His glasses are still the same as they were last time everybody saw him.
So we peel the sticker- me and her, I mean. Andy’s still on the couch, watching the two T.Vs that are muted at the back of the room, beside some horrid pot plant that was all shrivelled and simply beyond dead.
And peeling the sticker, well, it’s a great feeling. Illicit. Illegal. And Andy sort of just half-smiles.
The record player’s playing “I like Traffic Lights”. The song goes: “I Like Traffic Lights, I Like Traffic Lights”- just some old fart standing there singing that by himself. Then a chorus joins in “He likes traffic lights…he likes traffic lights”. It’s like a pack of farmers travelling the London are singing it, admiring the new fangled technicolour traffic lights.
“Isn’t it great?” says Andy. And he means it.
At whim I say “Where are you Andy Warhol?” and he says, “Right here. Wanna play ball?”
And there’s Andy Wahol, exploding at a spectacularly slow speed like a supernova of pop.
And there’s us- me and her. Andy asked us to stay the night- lonely old man. So we did.
And he’s still out there drinking his cup of tea, content to watch the 6 o’clock news (“isn’t the news interesting?”).
She’s a red haired fire-queen with a slow easy confidence. I’m me. We’re sitting on the bed admiring our situation- in Andy Warhol’s house.
In his fucking house.
On the bed.
Throughout the house Velvet Underground is playing, and we start to fuck.
In comes Andy Warhol, and takes photos with his digital camera. His rubber- wax hands click the trigger. And again. Again. Again.
His eyes sit unmoving, his body a portrait a statue. Blink. Blink.
His wig sits upon his head. Click.
He pushes the trigger again.