by Michael Forrester
He’s not there. I look in the reflective surfaces of Silver Clouds,
the camouflage of Joseph Beuys, and he’s not there. Strapped into
an Electric Chair or pasted flat against the Mao wallpaper, I
can’t find him. Was it his hand that signed the Mick Jagger?
Or lassoed Annie Oakley in neon? I can’t tell. He’s not in the Brillo
box, or even a distraction at the Birmingham Race Riots. The work
by another (Charles Lutz) disguised as his own offers no more information about
Andy. I look for him in the eyes of others, but their affected poses bear
no witness. Maybe he’s trapped somewhere beyond the frame, behind the camera.
In the Polaroid stares, the flashbulb moments, Andy is missing.
The absence leaves me cold. But then I sense a presence in the faces of
Edie Sedgwick and Lou Reed. The Screen Tests are a flicker of
life. The silent, black and white films show the ingénue and the rocker
in the Factory spotlight, motionless, fixed in a gaze. Where is Andy?
The role of the artist is succeeded by technology; these two may as well
have been alone. Their performances for the camera, equally searching
(Edie) and penetrating (Lou), capture the viewer’s attention. I was
reminded of artist Marina Abramovic’s staged interactions (The Artist Is Present, MOMA, 2010) and the emotional responses
produced by intimate looking. Is this sustained connection what Andy was
seeking? Hidden behind the Queen, was Andy longing for this kind
of intimacy?
I’ll never know. His persona was so well cultivated, so guarded, that the
real Andy Warhol doesn’t exist for me. And perhaps it’s none of my
concern. In the present culture of magnified exposure, gluttonous reveal,
and unashamed selfies, is there any room for a man like Andy
Warhol?
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