Andy Warhol (1928–1987)

Andy Warhol’s book ’Fame’ is part of the Penguin Modern Classic series and is the #47 installment. The book contains three pieces that were selected by the editors of his autobiography, ‘The Philosophy of Andy Warhol’. These pieces are titled ‘Love (Senility)’, ‘Beauty’, and ‘Fame’, which give us some insight into the mind of Andy Warhol.

Personally, I find his prose quite repetitive and lacking in terms of valuable substance. Most of the entries felt like something that was scribbled down in his diary and later published without revising much, if any, of it.

In conclusion, the book is rather short, consisting of 56 pages, which makes it easy to finish the book in one sitting. I do find some of his thoughts interesting, such as how the anticipation and the idea of love and sex can be better than the actual reality of them. That thought can, in my opinion, be applied to anything outside of love and sex as well.

It’s a decent and quick read; you may as well read it if it’s lying around.… (mere)

Well, it's Andy Warhol, so it's pretty much what you'd expect. Generally speaking, his secretary Pat Hackett did a fine job of turning Warhol's recollections into a readable book, but she made him sound nicer than he was. Even in the sympathetic biographies (like Victor Bockris's), Warhol doesn't come off as the harmless, almost goody-two-shoes voyeur he tries to be in POPism, so take this portrayal with a grain of salt.

It's never directly stated, of course, but this book isn't about the 1960s: that's just the incidental garnish. It's actually about an ambitious eccentric who, via his art and considerable luck, made contact with stratospherically rich people who collected paintings and enabled him to become a celebrity (and to indulge his crueler instincts). Did some part of Warhol--who came from a desperately poor background--hate these people? Probably. But another part of him yearned to join their ranks, and he made it. By the end, he had nothing like a human personality ("I don't think that there is any person there," William S. Burroughs once remarked to David Bowie)...but that, too, aligned with Warhol's desires. Or so he said. Certainly, he was famous for being a nonpersonality--a real-life cartoon character--rather than for his art. (If you've ever wondered what Pop looked like when painted by people with actual artistic talent, check out the work of Tom Wesselmann or Alex Katz.)

POPism underscores the fact that what went on at the Factory was far more interesting than Warhol's artistic output. (Does anyone really care about 100 Brillo Boxes or 40 Gold Marilyns at this stage of the game?) He and the wealthy, manipulative art crowd survived, but many of the people who gave this narrative its drama--Fred Herko, Danny Williams, Andrea Feldman, Eric Emerson--did not. The story about a drunken Judy Garland singing "Over the Rainbow" with a mouthful of spaghetti is funny, sort of, but it's also mean-spirited. Much of the book is just spiteful without being even slightly funny, and the smarmily casual tone fails to disguise the intent.… (mere)