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ISBN-13: 978-0-306-81272-9
ISBN-10: 0-306-81272-X
$26.00 US / $31.50 CAN
 Praise for Warhol: The Biography

"This new biography will satisfy Warhol fans, detractors, and gossip
hounds alike .... It is a personal, chronologically organized story of one
of the most controversial, influential, and enigmatic figures of recent
years." -Library Journal

"By far the most revealing parts of Bockris's book (I doubt if there will
ever be a better one, given that Bockris has been hard working, ques-
tioning, and a friend) concern Warhol's origins in industrial Pittsburgh.
The origins of so much that was to come-the star worship, the insu-
larity, the snobbery, even the soup cans-can be traced to those tough
early years .... [This book] makes increasingly clear that far from being
a weirdo-outcast Warhol was in fact a pretty accurate personification of
his country.... Warhol emerges as a shy, nervous, vulnerable man who
hid behind a carefully constructed facade of cool detachment."
-Guardian

"[Warhol] tells me the things I want to know about the artist, what he
ate, what he wore, whom he knew (in his case ... everybody), at what
time he went to bed and with whom, and, most important of all, his
work habits." -Independent

"Superbly done .... Here Warhol and the courageous and weird person-
alities around him speak without fear." -London Sunday Times

"An impressive and entertaining work, one which wiU be very hard to
beat." -Financial Times
ALSO BY VICTOR BOCKRIS
Rebel Heart: An American Rock 'n' Roll Journey
(with Bebe Buell)
What's Welsh for Zen: The Autobiography of John Cale
(with John Cale)
Beat Punks
Patti Smith: An Unauthorized Biography
(with Roberta Bayley)
Transformer: The Lou Reed Story
Keith Richards: The Biography
Uptight: The Story of the Velvet Underground (with Gerard Malanga)
Making Tracks: The Rise of Blondie (with Debbie Harry and
Chris Stein)
With William Burroughs: A Report from the Bunker
Ali: Fighter, Poet, Prophet
Warhol
The Biography
75th Anniversary
Edition

Victor Bockris

DA CAPO PRESS
A Member of the Perseus Books Group
Copyright © 1989, 1997, 2003 by Victor Bockris

This Da Capo Press edition of Warhol is an unabridged and expanded

republication of the edition first published in London in 1989. It is
reprinted by arrangement with the author.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means,
electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without
the prior written permission of the publisher. Printed in the United States
of America.

Cataloging-in-Publication data for this book is available from the

Library of Congress.

First Da Capo Press edition 1997

Second Da Capo Press edition 2003
ISBN 0-306-81272-X
ISBN-10: 0-306-81272-X ISBN-13: 978-0-306-81272-9

Published by Da Capo Press

A Member of the Perseus Books Group
http://www.dacapopress.com

Da Capo Press books are available at special discounts for bulk purchases
in the U.s. by corporations, institutions, and other organizations. For
more information, please contact the Special Markets Department at the
Perseus Books Group, 11 Cambridge Center, Cambridge, MA 02142, or
call (800) 255-1514 or (617) 252-5298, or e-mail
[email protected].
 CONTENTS

Acknow legements
Introduction

The Honolulu Incident 1956 11

Hunkie Roots 1928-32 15
Slaves of Pittsburgh 1932-44 29
The Education of Andy Warhol 1937-45 49
Class Baby 1945-49 59
Kiss Me with Your Eyes 1949-52 78
The Odd Couple 1952-54 96
Everything Was Wonderful 1954-56 112
So What? 1956-59 121
The Birth of Andy Warhol 1959-61 135
The Campbell's Soup Kid 1961-62 144
Like a Machine 1962-64 161
Sex 1961--63 173
Violent Bliss 1963-64 188
Andy Warhol Uptight 1964--65 202
Femme Fatale 1965 216
Andy Warhol's Exploding Girls 1965-66 237
The Chelsea Girls 1966 253
The Original American Genius 1967 265
The Most Hated Artist in America 1967 277
You Can't Live if You Don't Take Risks 1968 285
The Assassination of Andy Warhol 1968 29 6
From Fuck to Trash 1968-72 31 3
An International Superstar 1970-72 334
The Death of Julia Warhola 1971-72 35 0
To Appreciate Life You Must First Fuck Death in the
Gallbladder 1973-74 366
Andy Warhol Enterprises Takes Off 1974-75 376
Bad 1976-77 396
Dancing Under Fire 1977-78 40 7
Screech to a Halt 1978-80 422
A Bourgeois Maniac 1980-83 435
Too Much Work 1980-84 449
Andy Warhol's Last Loves 1982-85 460
Everything Is Boring 1985-86 471
Goodbye 1986-87 480
Afterword to the 75th Anniversary Edition 495
Afterword 54 1
The Last Interview 1987 547
Appendix:
Exhibitions 548
Films 55 2
Books 554
Andy Warhol the Writer 55 6
Coda 561
Source Notes 562
Index 576
 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

For inspiration, support, ideas and belief in this book I want to thank
above all Andrew Wylie, Jeff Goldberg, Bobbie Bristol, Miles, Gerard
Malanga, Stellan Holm, Steve Mass, John Lindsay, Ingrid von Essen,
and Elvira Peake.
For sharing their experiences with me I want to thank everybody
interviewed in the book who gave so generously of their time, particu-
larly Paul Warhola, George Warhola, James Warhola, John Warhola,
Margaret Warhola, and Ann Warhola, Billy Linich, Ondine, John
Giorno, Nathan Gluck, and Ronnie Tavel.
For emotional support, lodging and aid through the five and a half
years it took to complete the book, I want to thank Price Abbott, Susan
Aaron, Legs McNeil, Rick Blume, Jeffrey Vogel, Otis Brown, Jo Fiedler,
Kym Cermak, Gisela Freisinger, Debbie Harry, Chris Stein, Duncan
Hannah, Beauregard Houston-Montgomery, Karen Mandelbaum, Rose-
mary Bailey, Stewart Myer, Christopher Whent, Claude Pelieu, Mary
Beach, David Rosenbaum, Terry Sellers, Terry Spero, Miriam Udovitch,
Maryann Erdos, Suzanne Cooper, Helen Mitsios, and Liza Stelle.
For advice I wish to thank William Burroughs, Dr James Fingerhut,
Vincent Fremont, Allen Ginsberg, Lou Reed, Raymond Foye, Albert
Goldman, and Paul Sidey. .
Jeff Goldberg played a vital role in helping to organise and edit the
manuscript during its fourth year.

Photo research: Gerard Malanga.

Heroin: copyright 1967, Oakfield Avenue Music Ltd, used with permission.
 INTRODUCTION:
HOW I WROTE WARHOL:
THE BIOGRAPHY

It all began with a visit to Muhammad Ali's training camp, Fighter's

Heaven. Andy Warhol was commissioned to paint Muhammad's portrait.
He took me along in the fleet of dark blue Lincoln limousines that cruised
down the Pennsylvania turnpike that crisp early morning, August 16,
1977, as Elvis lay dying in Memphis. I had written a book about Ali's
poetry, thus incurring the champ's lasting friendship, and Andy knew
that he would need somebody to bridge the gap between him and the
most famous man in the world. I must have done my job because when
he published his first book of photographs, Exposures, two years later he
dedicated an entire chapter to this visit, writing in it, 'Victor Bockris is a
brilliant young writer who only writes about three people: William Bur-
roughs, Muhammad Ali and me. Victor Bockris also has more energy than
any person I know. He types like Van Cliburn plays the piano. He's
always tape recording and taking pictures. I can't keep up with him.'
Between 1977 and 1981 I wrote a number of magazine articles about
Andy. He usually liked them. Once he did ask to see a taped interview we
had done together before it was published and told me to 'take out some
of the stuff about piss and shit.' He also said it was 'too English.' I wrote
the first draft of one of his books. I wrote his lines in the dreadful movie
we acted in together, Cocaine Cowboys. In fact, we made a bunch of tapes
together with William Burroughs, and although I often made mistakes
(he never forgave me for the disastrous Jagger-Burroughs dinner!), over
the years he encouraged, inspired, and advised me. I learned a lot about
writing from Andy, and in 1981 I dedicated my book With William Bur-
roughs to him. I see now how each piece was a step toward this book.
Only Andy Warhol, who was virtually attacked every time he walked
out the door, could fully understand how ironic it was that Truman
Capote was crucified for writing Answered Prayers. 'What did they think I
was doing there?' Truman cried. 'I was a writer.' Andy knew that writers
were always on duty, because he was a writer-in the sense that more
people knew his pictures like the Campbell's Soup Can and Sleep from their
titles than from seeing them, and during his lifetime he did publish 15
books and, at its peak, Andy Warhol's Interview was the best magazine in
the world. He was primarily a conceptual artist, an author of concepts
whose philosophy will in time stand him in as good stead as his painting.
And when I started visiting the Factory in 1973, Andy knew that I was
there as a writer; he knew that one day I would write a book about him.
Anybody who doubts that only has to peruse the Exposures quote. It can
almost be seen as a challenge to write the book.
I had been expelled from the Factory in 1980 after 'interviewing' Andy
for German Playboy. From the moment I asked him, I could see that Andy
didn't want to do this assignment. He shot me the patented glances that
could slice you open to the bone and then, reverting to the language of
the angry child, concluded, 'Anyway, I always get into too much trouble
when I do things with you!' (He was referring to an interview we'd done
in a hardcore gay magazine Blueboy in which Andy and William Bur-
roughs talked about premature ejaculation, the sex habits of the English,
etc., which had annoyed Andy's minders who were trying, for their own
purposes, to keep him immaculately in high society.) It was then that I
made the classic celebrity's-acquaintance-mistake. Playboy was offering
$5,000 plus future assignments and I needed the money, so I pushed him.
Andy's average time span with somebody like myself-a good worker
bee but not a 'lifer'-was two years. My time was up and Andy seized
upon the opportunity to put in the boot. He always got rid of people in
the same way. He would set them up by agreeing to do something and
then not do it, which would create a chain reaction. In this instance he
agreed to do the interview 'next week.' I told the German editor I had
the green ltght and we settled on a delivery date. Then, for the next three
weeks, Andy kept making excuses. Finally on my fourth attempt he
upped the ante. 'Oh' he said, 'why don't you ... uh just ... uh ... make
it all up and then we'll read it and ... uh ... if it's O.K. you can ... pub-
lish it.'
'Oh,' I responded, 'Oh, gee, ... uh ... O.K.!!' (Everybody at the Factory
ended up talking like Andy. His voice and timing were hypnotic.) Over
the next two weeks I worked away like a squirrel on amphetamine, tran-
scribing every tape I had ever made with Warhol, cutting and pasting.
Finally I took the whole thing to a professional typist, then delivered
Andy a sparkling 55-page transcript that I thought was pretty neat.
Unfortunately, unbeknownst to me, Andy was breaking up with Jed
Johnson, his boyfriend of the previous twelve years, and doing some-
thing he rarely did during his entire life-drinking. He could hold his
booze like a stevedore, but one of the gems I had discovered in my tape
archive was a 1974 interview in which Andy had encouraged everybody
to drink, a lot, and my transcript was littered with requests for' another
drink,' which had sounded funny back then but now took on a hollow
ring. The manuscript was returned to me with every page crossed out.
When I told him I'd already delivered it to German Playboy, the editor
loved it and intended to publish it not only in Germany but in several
international editions, Andy got uptight.
 'Kiddo,' he told me, 'if they publish that piece you're in a lot of trou-
ble.' Then he laughed. Andy was like your tough Uncle-The rich Uncle
of Donald Duck' somebody called him. Later he had somebody tell me
not to come up to the Factory again until I had straightened the situation
out. The upshot of this prank was the end of my relationship with Play-
boy, when I told the editor the interview was a fake, and the loss of
$35,000 in promised fees for the international editions. Now, six months
later in the summer of 1981 with my book With William Burroughs just
out, I ran into Andy in another guise, sitting in the back of a sports car at
a red light on New York's gay strip, Christopher Street.
It was a hot Sunday afternoon and I was sulking over a piece of writ-
ing I could not pin when I alerted Warhol's in-house photographer
Christopher Makos sitting at a traffic light in his brilliant aquamarine
blue Italian sports car. The handsome, tanned Chris with his shiny gold
hair and Germanic features was the last person I wanted to see. Hug-
ging the wall I was zipping around the nearest corner, shoulders
hunched against intrusion when I was hooked by a stentorian bellow-
'I REALLY LIKED YOUR BOOK!'-that was so commanding I couldn't
help but spin around and stare. I could not see who was in the backseat
yelling but trotted over to the car and found myself squinting down at a
grinning, wigless Warhol, a white handkerchief knotted at the four cor-
ners of his head, perched in the tiny backseat with the legs of his last
boyfriend, the athletic Jon Gould, athwart his lap. 'I really liked your
book,' he enthused. 'I read it twice. I read it. Then I read it backwards. It
was so fabulous. How did you do that? Did you do it all by yourself? I
mean God! It was so great. It was the best!' After a difficult silence in
which he asked what I was doing and I mumbled 'trying to write,' the
light changed and the car, with all of its occupants laughing their heads
off, roared away.
*
In 1983, Bantam Books in New York offered me a $100,000 advance to
write a biography of Andy Warhol. It was a unique opportunity. After a
dull period in the early eighties, during which he had been written off
again and again in the United States as a charlatan, Warhol was on the
verge of yet another massive global comeback.
Biography was catching on big too, and the hunt for good life stories
was on. Between then, although in quite different ways, Albert Goldman
and Kitty Kelley had resuscitated the form and dramatically increased its
market. In 1977, Goldman was paid half a million to write Elvis. Sud-
denly Warhol, who I had been unable to get $25,000 for three years ear-
lier, was worth $100,000.
I was now at the definitive end of my Warhol period and clearly on the
way out. I had two choices: I could take my walking papers from the Fac-
tory and leave, drenched in that feeling of failure Warhol injected into
anybody he expelled, which was like withdrawal from a drug but lasted
longer and was more complex because not chemical. It could take a long
time to adjust to life after Andy, I reflected, recalling the deaths, just since
I had known him, of Warhol players Andrea Feldman (suicide), Eric
Emerson ('hit by a truck') and Tinkerbelle (suicide), Candy Darling,
Jackie Curtis, Tom Baker ... to mention the recognisable.
Furthermore, hardly anybody who left the Factory had ever really
made it on their own. Then the words of one exception, Lou Reed, came
back to me. 'The only way to go through something is to go right into the
middle,' he said during his time at the Factory in 1966. 'The only way to
do it is to not kid around. Storm coming-you go right through the cen-
tre of it and you may come out allright.'
Summoning up my courage I made an appointment to see Warhol at
the Factory. As soon as I brought up the idea of writing a book about
him, however, Andy scurried into the office kitchen and began fussing
over the sink like a little old lady. I ran in after him, grabbing the oppor-
tunity to pin him down alone and gave my brief, nervous pitch. 'Oh, but
there are so many other great kids,' he whined encouragingly. 'Couldn't
you ... uh ... do somebody else?'
'Oh ... no ... no ... oh yeah ... I mean ... uh sure ... I'LL BE WRIT-
ING ABOUT ALL THE KIDS!' I sputtered. Suddenly, business like, he cut
out of the kitchen snapping, 'Well, let me think about it!' Pursuing him
now into Vincent Fremont's office where he sat cringing in a comer hold-
ing a large pumpkin on his lap, I yelled, 'But, if you're going to think
about it at least let me tell you what I have in mind!'
'Oh, no, no, no,' he shot back. 'No no no, don't want to know anything
about it.' And his face instantly turned into the color of the pumpkin.
Andy was in truth such an other worldly character that I would not have
been surprised if he had turned into Washington Irving's Headless
Horseman. MOVE. Later that afternoon as I sat with him at the alfresco
Riviera Cafe in Greenwich Village, where he was enjoying afternoon cof-
fee with Makos and the painter Keith Haring, crowds stopped in the
street to stare at him. Andy kept moaning, 'Nobody will buy a book
about me. Why don't you write a biography of Genet? He's so great and
he's much more famous than I am.'
Instantly everybody told Andy that he was much more famous than
Genet. 'A lot of people are interested in your life story, Andy,' I told him.
'It'll be great.'
'No, they aren't,' he said.
'Well, I'm going to do it,' I said.
'It's a stupid idea,' he replied.
There was a pregnant silence. Then, while Warhol stared at the sky,
Makos leaned forward, 'Victor,' he said, 'if you write the book you won't
be able to come to the Factory anymore and Andy won't be able to talk to
you, but afterward if it's a good book we'll all love you just the same.'
*
Over the next three years I only saw Andy occasionally, but I visited his
hometown Pittsburgh five times, got to know his family, schoolteachers,
and acquaintances, and interviewed many people he'd known from the
1940s to the 1980s. I was constantly digesting information about him, try-
ing to put together the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that would make his life
visible as an overall picture. Meanwhile, Andy would occasionally ask
mutual friends, 'How's my book coming? Is everybody saying horrible
things about me?' Or, throwing up his hands he would cry, 'Well, he's
talking to everybody! I mean, he can't be my friend anymore if he's doing
that book!'
Within a year of taking on 'that book,' I realised I was in deep trouble.
It took me many years to understand that any biographer who takes his
task seriously subconsciously chooses to write about a subject which
causes him distress. In order to overcome his fear and confusion, the
biographer escapes with his subject into the interior universe of his imag-
ination where they dwell alone interfacing for the duration. There is no
escape. Depending on the strength of his character, the biographer will
die before the eyes of his subject or come up. It is in many ways the ulti-
mate challenge. On several evenings at nightclubs and parties, Andy and
I had silent staring matches across dark rooms. One night in 1986, he
posed next to me for Stellan Holm who photographed us at New York
nightclub Area in front of a fake Jasper Johns painting of an American
Flag. We both looked ravaged and wrecked. Neither of us looked at each
other or said a word. It was the last time I ever saw him.
Andy Warhol was, among so many other things, a great teacher. In ret-
rospect, I believe that he was fully aware of what he was doing by
expelling me from the Factory in order to write the book, that in fact it
was an enormous gift and challenge. In the sixties, Warhol's factory fore-
man, Billy Name, told me, 'The Factory was a testing ground. If you were
capable of dealing with these people who were destroyers, taking away
your facade and insisting on seeing your true self, if you were capable of
projecting yourself as a star and taking care of yourself you could come
and have your place. It was a reality but it was so crucial and critical
everyone was constantly in a crisis, constantly being destroyed, because
with Andy you lived and screamed with him. You were all in that burn-
ing hellhole of electricity and thunderbolts.'
It was when I accepted this challenge that I began to rise to the occasion.
During the 1984-1986 period while I was crossing the anvil of the biog-
raphy hacking through my interior jungle, Andy was suffering a miracu-
lous re-birth, transforming himself from the globetrotting friend of the
Reagans, Pahlavis, and Marcoses into a black leather jacketed art hero
again, hanging out once more with crazy young kids on drugs like he did
in the sixties, and rediscovering his paintbrush. During this period, he
finally became recognised, even in America, as a living legend. This re-
birth, which had a definitive effect on the downtown scene, inspired me
once again to continue chasing his myth and battling the hydra of biogra-
phy, but the truth is by the beginning of 1987 I had a book that was a
mess. It was all there-the birth, the education, the metamorphosis, the
success, the controversy-but it was the deadest writing I had ever done
in my life and it was killing me.
Death: The Warhol Kiss of Death they used to call it, death by associa-
tion. There was a period of Andy's life, particularly after he was shot,
1968-1972, when he appeared to be the Angel of Death, and many of the
brightest people around him, including his mother, died. It was always
difficult to tease out the line between the extent to which Andy obviously
manipulated the power of negativity-the same power the Rolling
Stones had dipped into to lift themselves out of the pop pack up to
superstardom-and the extent to which death simply was the theme and
subject of his greatest work. Of course it ends up being a mixture of both,
but I always felt that Andy knew death better than the rest of us and was,
like Keats, half in love with it.
The most striking aspect of the Andy Warhol I saw was how frightened
people could be of him, spooked perhaps by the nightmare images of his
legend. In the sixties his disciples dubbed him Orella, the amalgam of
Dracula and Cinderella. These most powerful of myths perfectly delin-
eated the conflicting sides of his personality, the aura was so strong, and
inside it his intelligence was so agile. He was' so strong physically; he had
much more stamina than anybody else. But he was also more sensitive
than anybody else to every little nuance of every breath he took. Andy
was so alive, but ever since the shooting he had been insisting that he
was dead. It was, I think, this ability not only to constantly contain con-
tradictions but to take on the personas and appearances of several figures
sometimes within the span of minutes, like some figure out of a night-
mare, that could make Andy at times such a frightening character.
Very few people knew that Andy was ill during the last months of his
life. We expected him to outlive all of us, like Picasso to work into his
nineties. His death was the biggest surprise of my life. Nothing more dra-
matic can happen to a biographer than to have his leading character drop
dead on him just as he is getting ready to wrap his book. For the next few
months, from February to April 1987, I gazed back at him, bathed in
death on the front pages of the tabloids, emerging in a panorama of pho-
tographs, memoirs, and film clips from all his eras. During this time,
however, my book was also completely rejuvenated. Andy's death obvi-
ously released me in many ways, but most importantly it released me to
collaborate. Now I would have to come out and collaborate with some-
body else.
Shocked into taking urgent measures to complete my task, I decided to
go out and hire somebody to assess the manuscript and consult with me
until its problems were solved. Book writers unlike other print produc-
ers, film workers, musicians, etc., work mostly alone, in a vacuum. There
is no producer, no trainer, no manager, and increasingly no editor. In
America you sign a contract with a company and they wait until you
deliver the finished product. They don't want to read it, they want to sell
it. Collaboration is the solution to many writing problems. I learned this
from the Beats. 'Two minds are better than one,' Allen Ginsberg always
said. And Burroughs wrote of the third mind, created by two minds col-
laborating, a creative entity superior to either of them. It is, however, par-
ticularly difficult to collaborate on writing prose because most writers, in
my experience, get uptight if you change a word they write. I don't know
why. Criticism can only help improve what I write. I was lucky therefore
to be able to hire a man I'd worked with over the previous 15 years.
Jeff Goldberg had just finished writing A Scientific Discovery (Bantam,
N.Y. 1988) and was red hot. He agreed to my terms, came into the
process, reviewed the manuscript, discussed it with me. Between us,
chapter by chapter, reshaping and re-conceiving, we re-wrote the book in
three months. Now it was rough but workable and alive, something that
began to have a sound and feel of its own. There were even a couple of
pages I could read aloud, but the book still needed a lot of work.
At this point I started to get a number of letters from my editor at
Hutchinson in London, Paul Sidey. It seemed that the Hutchinson peo-
ple, who had signed the book up in 1983 for a small advance but had
paid no attention to it since, liked the new manuscript and felt it could be
pulled together. Sidey gave me a detailed critique. I couldn't afford to
pay Goldberg (who was costing me a hefty $500 a week) any longer, so I
switched channels and plugged into the English energy. Sidey agreed to
bring our mutual friend Ingrid von Essen on board as sub-editor. During
the summer of 1988, I rewrote the entire book from beginning to end once
again, sending a chapter a week to Ingrid, getting good clear responses
back. I began to feel as if I was finally approaching a landing field after
five years in space. It was incredibly exciting, but it was not until I got to
London in October that the thing really appeared. In six weeks, working
daily, Ingrid and I chopped the thing down to size and it sprang to life. I
remembered Andy saying of his 1950s drawings, 'it's what you leave out
that's important.' Finally, after working with Paul and Ingrid, I had a
book I could live with. It had taken six years. That night I walked from
Hutchinson back to my brother in biography Miles's flat at 15 Hanson
Street near Oxford Circus, the freshly typed 721-page manuscript glow-
ing in my briefcase.
Dedicated to Debbie Harry and Chris Stein. May
the spirit live on!
Few people have seen my films or paintings, but perhaps those few will
become more aware of living by being made to think about themselves.
People need to be made more aware of the need to work at learning how to
live because life is so quick and sometimes it goes away too quickly.

Andy Warhol
 THE HONOLULU
INCIDENT
1956
I think once you see the emotions from a certain angle, you
never can think of them as real again.
ANDY WARHOL

By the spring of 1956 Andy Warhol was at the top of his commercial-art
career. At twenty-seven he was the best-known, highest-paid fashion
illustrator in New York, making upwards of $100,000 a year, and was
also represented by a bona fide art gallery. Or, as he described himself
on the inner leaf of a Vanity Fair folder, he was 'the celebrated young
artist, whose paintings have been hanging in more and more galleries,
museums and private collections'. Women's Wear Daily dubbed him the
Leonardo da Vinci of Madison Avenue. He was finally meeting a lot of
the people he wanted to meet, including Cecil Beaton, whose feet he
drew one day, in Philadelphia,' and the actress Julie Andrews, a big
and glamorous star in the gay world. And he was in love with a
polished, assured young Kentuckian, Charles Lisanby, who designed
sets for The Gary Moore Show, one of television's most popular
programmes. Andy, who understood how important advertising was
to become on television, was a TV fanatic. Everything was wonderful.
But throughout Andy's life, whenever everything seemed to be going
right for him some problem would suddenly appear to threaten what
he had worked so hard to achieve. Andy was so in love with Charles
that their relationship was becoming a little difficult to sustain.
Charles adored Andy but he did not love him the way Andy loved
Charles and they had never had sex or kissed or anything. Charles was
quite aware of what Andy wanted and didn't want it and Andy knew
that he didn't and never brought it up. Only it was getting a little
difficult because Andy needed a lot of attention and he was beginning
to get on Charles's nerves, or so Andy's art dealer, who was his confi-
dant in the affair, believed. For the most part, Andy took the attitude
that everything would work out eventually.
He thought he had his chance when Charles mentioned that he was
planning to make a trip to the Far East in the summer to look at some
oriental art and asked Andy if he wanted to come. Andy was very

11
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