I’ve loved Andy Warhol for years, fascinated by his lifestyle, his fabulous friends, his art and, after reading excerpts of his diary in “New York Diaries,” his daily life, so it should be no surprise I followed up that collection of New York diarists with a visit to Warhol’s very own.
From the first entry on Nov. 24, 1976 to the final one on Feb. 17, 1987, just days before his death, I was enthralled. You really get to know the man behind the soup cans via his observations as he walked or cabbed around New York, his often bitchy comments about people in his life (what gal hasn’t been there a time or two?), his almost heartbreaking search for love — and his immense insecurity.
Through is diary entries, dictated by phone almost daily to his friend and confidant Pat Hackett, who edited the book, you see a side of Andy beyond his being one of the most famous modern artists: He takes you behind the velvet rope of Studio 54, into the living room of Halston and into the lives of Liza, Bianca, Truman and Basquiat.
I would have loved to be one of the people in his inner circle, especially as one of the writers working on the Interview side of his empire. I cannot imagine the immense creative high (and other highs, I guess) these people reached sometimes. Or maybe they were just so caught up in the moment, in the times, that they didn’t even know it …
This was a truly great read that I know I’ll revisit again and again, and there were way too many “favorite” lines, ones that made me laugh out loud riding the subway, ones that made my heart ache for his sensitivity, and others that were just so out there you couldn’t help but go, “WTF?”
Andy Warhol is far more than just his soup cans — and I’m so glad to have realized that through his diary.