Andrew Warhola Jr
Some years ago, whilst exhibiting across the pond, I was made aware that an Andy Warhol piece hung elsewhere in the same gallery. In the adjacent room, in fact. Then, whilst chatting to visitors to the show, I was asked how I felt about this.
Initially, I thought it was rather nice, to be exhibiting so close to a ‘name’ artist, but after that brief emotion passed, I realised I didn’t really care. In the scheme of things, being in close proximity meant very little. I mean, standing in front of a piece of art that speaks to one in a deep, primal way, is one thing. That is something that continues to warm me deep within my soul, such as when I first saw Bernini’s Ecstasy of Saint Teresa, John Singer Sargent’s Carnation, Lily, Lily, Rose, and Van Gogh’s Wheatfield with Crows, I felt a tangible thud in my solar plexus and was lost in some sort of benign trip.
I may wander along in a gallery, and I have done so many times, and perhaps only half a dozen pieces will cause me to stop and look much closer. It’s that initial impression that draws me in; an invisible hand that grabs me, and then looking closer my appreciation becomes more refined. This is not to say I don’t appreciate the pieces I pass by, no, not at all. I look at every single piece, but only a handful normally draw me in.
Being ‘close’ to a Warhol was just the way it was. It didn’t mean I was in any way connected to that piece, nor did I wish to be. My feelings towards Warhol’s work have always been ambivalent and continues to be. Although praised by many, Warhol’s work and legacy are polarising due to questions of whether his work can be considered art or a product. In my view Warhol's prices are tied to the fact that works of art have become financial instruments whose value is pegged to an artist's fame. And he fits into the same bracket as many others, as one could perhaps suggest that pieces that fetch such high prices have broadly speaking become products.
Personally, I have always been fascinated by products, the sort one may usually refer to such as the Heinz Tomato Ketchup bottle. The old, glass one. It’s iconic, and much loved. A bugger to get the sauce out of but loved none the less. Packaging in general is this curious thing; we marvel at the creativity of the creator, or the functionality, but some packaging is just art on a big scale. Spirit bottles upcycled into candle holders, PG Tips tins with the additional collectors’ cards- are they not works of art in themselves? Perhaps, perhaps not, but if one broadens one’s fascination with more creative forms one can open doors usually closed to them.
Fame gives items what could be referred to as a "relic value" and buying them causes collectors to feel close to the fame of those they are associated with. Relic value derives from the fact that Medieval collectors would pay quite a tidy sum for relics. One can only imagine what some one would pay for a piece of the cross that bore Jesus’ body, for example.
I concur a little with the relic value theory. I own a book of poetry one belonging to Marilyn Monroe, and occasionally hold it, running my fingers over the annotations she added in her own hand, and imagine the scenario as she read it back in 1960. I am drawn into a scene, as she lays on her sofa, sipping a glass of champagne, scribbling little snippets of observations onto the books dusty pages, and strangely feel a connection whilst knowing, of course, that this is just the result of a fertile imagination.
I feel that one thing Warhol did know was the unquestioned authority of fame. His passive aggressive approach to creating was, in my opinion, miles short of the metaphysical. I can view some of his pieces with curiosity, but that curiosity becomes jagged, like a de-pixelated television screen. In other words, I cannot decide if I ‘like’ them, or not, yet appreciate their existence. Warhol’s life, however, is a complex series of chapters keenly pored over by many. To me, he is a conduit to many creatives who have been on my radar throughout my adult life. Debbie Harry, Velvet Underground, Patti Smith, Edie Sedgewick, and Jean Paul Basquiat to name just a few.
So, what am I trying to say? Not much, other than in my universe art in all its forms is the landscape and every so often something pops out and broadsides me. And when it does it really enriches me in a way I can barely quantify. And it is my hope that everyone has their own way to be broadsided by such creativity, for in being affected in such a way it reminds us that the world we are lucky enough to live in, and the life we are fortunate to live is one that can amaze us. Admittedly, Warhol does not do that for me, but I appreciate his place in the story, and to draw him was a pleasure, knowing the drawings new owner lives in close proximity to Studio 54, once the definition of decadence, now a theatre in its site at 254 West 54th Street in Midtown Manhattan. I walked past it a couple of times, in 2016 and 2017, and each time it made me shiver.