by Ultra Violet
Under the fixed look and mute lips of nineteenth-century American portraits, which falsely root him in an American ancestry, Andy arises in midmorning from his bed, a carved mahogany Federal four-poster, canopied with a painted cornice and dark amber fringes. The bed is oriented east to west in the room, which is embellished with a Directoire dado.
Dressing, he glances briefly into a monumental American Empire mahogany cheval glass. Walking past a grand mahogany rolltop desk, a massive dresser, a rococo mantel, an imposing Empire chest, he reaches into a grandiose armoire for a black leather jacket. The rich mahogany of the furniture summons up the image of Mahagonny, Bertolt Brecht’s mythical city, where the only god is money.
Unlocking the door, Andy circulates through his mausoleum of funeral urns and amphoras, as dozens of antique wig stands, Roman marble busts, and neoclassical statues seem to bow their heads at his approach. American Empire chairs are weighed down with bags of polychromed and scrollwork vases. Elaborately bound books are piled up against American Renaissance Revival furniture. American and European paintings, by Norman Rockwell, Bouguereau, Maxfield Parrish, Magritte, Dali, hang on and lean against the walls.
Opening door after door of his six-story, twenty-by-seventy-foot mansion, he visits a closet crammed to the ceiling with American Indian wares: silver, turquoise, and coral jewelry and belts, Apache and Prima baskets, Tlingit blankets, Navajo rugs, boxloads of Indian photos, large wooden spoons and ladles, Northwest Indian carvings, ceremonial masks, leather and woven baskets, terra-cotta gourds, painted bowls, Zuni silver and shell flasks, and much, much more.
In a narrow passage reminiscent of a Zulu trail, bordered by an African drum, stands a nineteenth-century carved and painted cigar store figure in pine, whimsically juxtaposed with a display of jeweled eighteen-carat gold compacts signed and hallmarked Van Cleef and Arpels, Cartier, Tiffany. Jewelry cabinets spill over with pounds of gems: citrine quartz, ruby, diamonds, platinum, gold, blue, and yellow sapphires, plus some one hundred twenty pins, bracelets, and rings. Do I see Andy clasping a Bulgari necklace around his neck as an amulet?
Fortified by his good-luck charm, he pushes open the massive mahogany double doors on the parlor floor and enters the Federal-style sitting room, which contains a pair of neoclassical recamiers, circa 1825, by Philadelphia cabinetmaker Anthony Quervelle. No one ever sits on the fine silk of the two symmetrically placed sofas, upholstered in ancient verdure and gold damask, for the touch of coarse jeans would tear the delicate fibers to shreds.
Dead center in the drawing room, a painted and stenciled marquetry table with a slate top, attributed to John Finlay of Baltimore, holds books, cigarette cases, and two shopping bags; an Egyptian-revival armchair, gewgawed with gilded birds and gold lions’ paws, harbors three more shopping bags; ornate antique gold capitals atop flat-ribbed columns adorn each corner of the room. At their feet cluster busts, candlesticks, and bronzed statuettes.
Paintings on easels, walls, floors, and marble-topped tables keep each other company, awaiting an Art Judgment Day when still life will resurrect into real life. An Alma-Tadema and a Guy Penè du Bois have cracked with impatience under the burden of time. At the closed windows, dark burgundy draperies held by giant tassels and bordered with hundreds of pom-poms forbid the intrusion of fresh air. As Andy takes a fusty breath, he notices that his Aubusson rug is buried under his trophies. Perhaps he thinks: My possessions are possessing my house.
He walks past a Chippendale camel-back sofa (not meant to be sat on) in the large landing hall leading to his Art Deco sitting room. Sharkskin furniture ensembles with Art Deco vases, dozens of lacquered cigarette cases, a smiling cat by Lichtenstein, 1926 cabinetry by Émile-Jacques Ruhlmann, a dark bust by Renoir, a profile/full-face Picasso portrait. As Andy advances, he rests a talcum-colored hand on a gigantic clear crystal ball. He surveys mission, Oriental, and Dunand vases, a gray Jasper Johns screen piece, scribbled code paintings by Cy Twombly, an Arp, a Léger, a Klee, and two erect cobra andirons guarding the hearth beneath the veined marble mantel. A suite consisting of a chair, a console table, a desk, and a cabinet in galuchat by Pierre Legrain holds Puiforcat partly gilded silver and art glass. A large canvas of a woman’s torso by Man Ray represents the only female to undress in that room for Andy. Some Marcel Duchamp readymades sit here and there on lacquered chairs that wait for hypothetical guests. Inside the mirrored sharkskin cabinet nestle twenty Erté designs and portraits of film stars from Hollywood’s golden era.
Glancing at his Rolex, the only ticking watch among the 313 silent timepieces in his collection, Andy hurries down the stairs, thickly populated with memorabilia, to the well-proportioned entry hall, where he unlocks the massive mahogany double doors that lead into the once-upon-a-time grand dining room, now turned storage space for some of his 439 paintings. The dining room has not witnessed a meal for at least a decade. From floor to ceiling, crates, cardboard boxes, papers, academic paintings, and useless ornaments pile up under the immovable eyes of a bust by Houdon. Buried like a gigantic mummy is a mahogany dining table for at least twelve, surrounded by Ruhlmann chairs; these, in turn, are entombed by an Art Deco tea service and other silver galore, an hourglass, stacks of photos, including a full-size portrait of King George III in ermine-trimmed robes, and miniature Adirondack furniture made of twigs. Yes, Andy loves chairs; he owns about 180 of them.
As if the Warhola tribe back in Pittsburgh were not enough, Eskimo and Kwakiutl masks, portraits of Hercules, nineteenth-century bronzes of Laocoöns and of Bedouins, a cast-iron statue of George Washington, busts of Benjamin Franklin, the Marquis de Lafayette, and Daniel Webster, plus handsome marble heads of Hermes and unidentified austere faces, constitute his extended family.
Andy is now on his way to the kitchen, about to share his breakfast with his adopted family: Nena and Aurora, his gentle live-in Filipino maids, and their two brothers, Augusto and Flordelino, nicknamed Tony, who drive and paint and do whatever else is needed. Also among the breathing clan are Amos and Archie, Andy’s dogs.
Reaching the kitchen, filled with stacks of bowls, cups, saucers, and plates of red, green, yellow, black, blue Fiesta ware, Andy glances at his 175 cookie jars, with their yellow faces, mustached faces, clown faces, pig faces, dog faces, black faces, clock faces, twins’ faces, house faces, balloon faces, and their mother and child tops with skirted bottoms. He reaches into a jar for his favorite food, a piece of instant heaven.
He swallows cornflakes and skim milk while watching TV. The old-fashioned cast-iron stove with its six burners stands idle, seldom used. Through the glass door of a cupboard, the wide-open eyes of the funny-faced driver of a wind-up “Milton Berle” car watch Andy eating. Miss Piggy restrains her oinking and the other toys are noiseless, while the Wizard of Odd gulps his breakfast.
Walking back along a labyrinthine path hedged by treasures and trivia, Andy picks up a thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills from under his mattress, then relocks all the doors. Leaving his temple of ten thousand offerings, Andy waves goodbye to an original cast of Canova’s monumental head of Napoleon, his soulmate, before stepping into a yellow cab en route to Andy Warhol Enterprises, there to collect his daily receipts in order to resume his circuit of antique stores, auctions, and flea markets.
On May 3, 1988, the last fall of the auctioneer’s gavel at Sotheby Parke Bernet concluded the ten-day sale of Andy’s earthly treasures ransacked from the planet’s past. The sale proceeds of $25,313,238 will purportedly be recirculated for the benefit of artists.
Who would have guessed that the little Pittsburgh waif, drawing his delicate, disconnected lines would become the first man to fuse into one the opposite roles of artist and Maecenas, thereby earning double immortality far beyond his self-allotted fifteen minutes.
Acknowledgments
Many people helped me in the writing of this book, and they deserve credit for all its merits. Its flaws are my responsibility.
Before all, I thank Andy Warhol, for without him
there would be no book.
I am grateful to Jean Libman Block for helping to tame my prose, which is as unfettered as my spirit.… A good agent makes a world of difference, and for that reason I am indebted to my lawyer-literary agent, Arthur Klebanoff.… At Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, my editor, Daphne Merkin, sustained me and this project with tireless encouragement and support, providing inspired editorial advice at every turn; Claire Reich Wachtel was of invaluable assistance in overseeing this manuscript and guiding it through production.
I am still puzzled about the white bird that landed on my terrace at the beginning of this book and remained with me, looking over my shoulder as I typed. I took its presence as an omen: to write freely without constraint or censorship.
About the Author
Ultra Violet (1935–2014), born Isabelle Collin Dufresne, was a French American artist, author, and Andy Warhol superstar. She also worked with Salvador Dalí, among other prominent artists. Violet is the author of the international bestselling memoir Famous for 15 Minutes: My Years with Andy Warhol, which has been published in seventeen languages and was adapted into an opera. She starred in various Warhol films and plays before turning her attention to her own art. Her work has been featured in numerous exhibits and galleries around the world. Violet lived in New York City.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
Lyric from “White Light/White Heat” by Lou Reed © 1967 Oakfield Avenue Music Ltd. All rights administered by Screen Gems—EMI Music Inc. Used by permission.
Excerpt on pages 178–79 from Peter Coutro’s article © 1968 New York News, Inc. Used by permission.
Copyright © 1988, 2004, 2008 by Isabelle Collin Dufresne
Cover design by Andrea Worthington
ISBN: 978-1-4976-8076-0
This edition published in 2015 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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