The Andy Warhol Diaries

by Andy Warhol

  Andy changed so much over the years that some who knew him in the sixties and early seventies may very well wonder why certain aspects of his personality that they experienced (and that were widely written about) don’t show up more in the Diary—particularly a cruel, maddening way he had of provoking people to near-hysteria with comments calculated to do just that. The answer is in two parts: first, and most obviously, this is a diary—one man’s perspective—and the diary form itself precludes dramatic confrontations between two or more people; second, Andy gradually outgrew the impulse to make trouble. He’d had a late adolescence—in his twenties he’d worked very hard at his commercial art career; he didn’t take much time out to have fun, really, until he was in his thirties. So he terrorized people the way, for instance, the most popular girl in high school could—creating cliques and setting up rivalries just for the “entertainment” value of watching people fight for his attention. But toward the end of the seventies he started to mellow. Very rarely would he deliberately provoke someone—in fact, he tried to pacify more than to incite. And the personal and emotional problems he himself went through during the years covered by the diaries left him looking for comfort, not drama, in his friendships. By the last year of his life, he was kinder and easier to be around than at any time since I’d met him.

  A few idiosyncrasies to bring to the reader’s attention: Andy’s conversations were full of superficially contradictory remarks—he’d describe someone as a “cute little creep,” or he’d say, “It was so much fun I had to leave.” (And naturally, as in any diary, his opinions about any particular person or thing may fluctuate greatly over time.) He exaggerated quantities—he’d describe a 5’2” person as 2’, or a man who weighed 250 pounds as 400. “Eighteen” was a favorite number—if there were multiple events on his evening schedule, he’d say he had “eighteen parties to go to.” He used the terms “fairy” and “dyke” loosely, as when describing even slightly effeminate men and loud-speaking women. “Boyfriend” and “girlfriend” he used just as freely. When Andy worked long hours as a freelance commercial artist in the fifties, doing drawings at home at night and dragging his portfolio around Manhattan during the day, he met hundreds of people in advertising and publishing and retail sales; and after he’d left commercial art and become a Pop painter, it became a running joke that he’d refer to every one of them as “the person who gave me my first job”—that was just his way of describing anyone from that period of his life. It was often written about Andy that he used the “royal we.” To an extent, that was true—it was “our movies,” “our magazine,” “our party,” “our friends”—but that only applied to his post-Factory days: anyone he knew before he rented the first Factory was simply “a friend of mine.” And anything related to his art, of course, was always described in the first person singular: “my painting,” “my show,” “my work.”

  Going broke was Andy’s biggest fear. That, and getting cancer—a headache or a freckle was always a possible brain or skin cancer. Ironically, it’s apparent now in retrospect that when he was really worried about a health problem he scarcely mentioned it—episodes like a lump in his neck in June of 1977 which doctors finally pronounced “benign” and the gallbladder problem in February of 1987 which led to his death.

  So that the Diary could be published in one large volume, I’ve distilled its original length of 20,000 pages down to what I feel is the best material and the most representative of Andy. This naturally entailed cutting whole days, occasionally even entire weeks, but most often, just parts of days. On a day when Andy went to five parties, I may have included only a single one. I applied the same editing principle to names: to give the diary a narrative flow and to keep it from reading like social columns where the reader is deluged with lists of proper names that often have little meaning to him, I’ve cut many names. If Andy mentioned, say, ten people, I may have chosen to include only the three he had conversations with or spoke of in the most detail. Such omissions are not noted in the text since the effect would serve only to distract, and slow the reader down.

  The Diary does not include a glossary because simplistic explanations of who people were in relation to Andy would go against—if not actually betray—the sensibility of what he was about and the unstructured world he generated around him. Andy was about not putting people into categories—he was about letting them cross in and out of categories. The people in his sixties “underground” movies were called “superstars,” but what exactly did that mean? It could refer to the most beautiful model in New York or the delivery boy who brought her a pack of cigarettes during filming and wound up in front of the rolling camera.

  To Andy, putting things in a format that made sense was enough of a compromise. He’d get exasperated when I’d occasionally make him repeat or rephrase something until I understood it. His first “novel,” a, published in 1968, actually had been a literary experiment—transcripts of conversations that he’d taped of his superstars and friends as they operated in the amphetamine and pansexual subculture of New York were “transcribed” by amateur typists who, guessing at words and phrases when they couldn’t be certain, perpetrated technical and conceptual mistakes galore that Andy then made sure were reproduced, typo for typo, as the published text.

  Another concern was keeping the editorial explanations, which appear occasionally in brackets, to a minimum so that the flow of Andy’s own voice with its peculiar locutions could be preserved uninterrupted. I felt that, although explanatory matter could have been provided in many editorial asides to occasionally make a reader’s job a little easier, the benefits gained from these intrusions would be small in proportion to the jarring effect they would have on Andy’s personal tone and the needlessly distancing effect they would have on the reader. The exact nature of some of the relationships between Andy and various characters in his diary can be grasped only after some effort, it is true, but I believe that having to work a little to understand things is part of the unique experience of diary-reading—watching life unfold naturally, with its occasional confusions. To keep these confusions to a minimum, however, the diaries should be read in sequence.

  Finally, in editing the Diary for publication I’ve eliminated the interpersonal dimension of Andy’s and my discourse—his direct references to me or to things that would have meaning only to me. In the relatively few instances where I did leave in personal references, I took the liberty of translating myself into the third person, using my initials, PH: My aim was to make it possible for the Diary to be read in the same casual and intimate spirit in which Andy gave it to me every morning, so that the reader would always be the “you” on the other end of the phone.

  PAT HACKETT

  New York

  January 1989

  Wednesday, November 24, 1976—Vancouver—New York

  Got up at 7 A.M. in Vancouver and cabbed to the airport ($15 plus $5 tip, magazines, $5). This is the end of the trip to Seattle for the opening at the Seattle Art Museum there, then we’d gone to Los Angeles for Marisa Berenson’s wedding to Jim Randall, then to Vancouver for my Ace Gallery show opening there. Nobody in Vancouver buys art, though—they’re not interested in painting. Catherine Guinness [see Introduction] didn’t get edgy till the last day when she started this annoying thing the English do—asking me over and over, “What exactly is Pop Art?” It was like the time we interviewed that blues guy Albert King for Interview, when she kept asking, “What exactly is soul food?” So for two hours on the plane she tortured me (cab from La Guardia $13, tip $7—Catherine was grand and gave him the whole $20). Dropped Fred off. Got home. Ate an early Thanksgiving dinner with Jed [see Introduction]. He’d gotten the car serviced for the drive down to Chadds Ford in the morning to Phyllis and Jamie Wyeth’s.

  Thursday, November 25, 1976— New York—Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania

  Fred called at 8 A.M. to find out when we were leaving. Barbara Allen called and said that if we were leaving after 12:00 she would come (film $19.98). Cabbe
d to 860 [860 Broadway, at 17th Street, at the northeast corner of Union Square Park, where Andy rented the entire third floor for both his offices and the offices of Interview magazine] to pick up some things to take. Left around 1:00 (cab $3.60, gas $19.97, tolls $3.40). Beautiful day.

  Jed somehow drove straight to the Wyeths’ door, with just one phone call for directions (phone $.10) at a turnoff right near the place to get the last bit. Arrived around 4:00. The traffic was okay. Barbara Walters didn’t come after all.

  Andrew Wyeth, Jamie’s father, was there. Frolic Weymouth was there, a neighbor—his wife who’s Andrew Wyeth’s niece had just left him for an antique dealer or something after lots of married years—he’s a du Pont—and he was depressed, so he was over for dinner. And Andrew’s two sisters, one nutty who looks like she drinks and paints.

  We sat for hours and hours at dinner, it was perfect, so good. Lots of drinks. I was still so tired from all the traveling at the beginning of the week. Jed went to bed around 2:00, everyone else stayed up until around 4:00.

  There was a romantic interest going on. Robin West—he’s a neighbor of the Wyeths, too, he works for the Pentagon but he’ll be losing his job soon because Carter’s coming in—he was there, and Catherine talked about shit and piss for him and about the Anvil S&M bar, and he seemed to like that and got interested. He’s looking for a rich girl to marry, he asked me where oh where was his tub of butter on the other side of the rainbow, and I told him it could be a tub of Guinness beer if he played his cards right. He said he’d take us for a ride in an aircraft carrier before his job gets given to a Democrat.

  Friday, November 26, 1976—Chadds Ford

  Went on a tour of Winterthur in the morning (tickets $24, books $59). Then Phyllis Wyeth got the buggy together, we had an all-American breakfast, fed Archie and Amos [see Introduction], then we went out for a ride. We went across the Brandywine River in it, it wasn’t so deep.

  Jed went to meet Vincent [see introduction] and Shelly and Ronnie [see Introduction] and Gigi at the train station. Went with Jamie to the Brandywine Museum and we were photographed and had a press conference. Went back to Jamie and Phyllis’s and there were cocktails. Mrs. Bartow who I bought the East 66th Street house from was there and she asked when I was going to sandblast it and why was I never home because it always looked dark. Carter Brown was there and Jane Holzer with Bob Denison.

  Rode to the museum. I introduced Gigi as “George”—I’d told this guy she was a drag queen and he didn’t know I was kidding, he got excited—and then she said, “No, it’s Georgette,” which coincidentally is her real name—I didn’t know it. So everything was coming out right—I mean it was just what a drag queen would say, so that was funny. And the guy really liked her and she didn’t have a clue it was because he thought she was a boy.

  Saturday, November 27, 1976—Chadds Ford

  Went in the carriage again. This time Frolic had his carriage out, too. He was drinking all day. He took his drinks onto the wagon with him and he was riding around drinking. Jamie took me to his aunt’s house to see a 5’ dollhouse. It was like an old-fashioned Christmas.

  Then went over to the museum where an antique dealer was having a benefit for an opera school, and I really enjoyed that, they were singing an opera. They passed a hat around and Frolic gave Catherine $20 of his own money for her to drop in and I dropped in $20, too. Didn’t get to bed until around 4:00.

  Sunday, November 28, 1976—Chadds Ford—New York

  Catherine called New York, to Jodie Foster’s place, to confirm the interview she and I were supposed to do that afternoon, and Jodie’s mother hedged saying Jodie was sick and maybe she couldn’t do it, but to call when we got back to town. Got back at 12:30 (gas $16.50, tolls $3.40). Dropped Catherine and Fred. Catherine called Jodie again and she said okay.

  It was a beautiful day, in the sixties again. Picked up Catherine and walked over to the Pierre Hotel to meet Jodie. Said hello to lots of people who said hello to me. At the Pierre I saw a beautiful woman staring at me and it turned out to be Ingrid Bergman. While I was talking to her, Coco Brown started waving and yelling from a car. Ingrid’s I think husband came for her and then Catherine and I went into the restaurant to wait for Jodie. She came in with her mother and a guy they said they’d picked up I think in Liverpool, and I couldn’t tell if it was a bodyguard or the mother’s boyfriend. Jodie had on high boots and a hat and was really cute and we loved her ($30 with tip).

  Then we all walked over to F.A.O. Schwarz and looked at toys. Bought some for Jodie ($10). She signed autographs. On the way back to the Pierre a guy was selling big candy canes and he gave Jodie one and me one.

  Went home. Nelson Lyon called from L.A. and told me about his Thanksgiving—Paul Morrissey had invited him to dinner at Chase Mellen’s house and then called back to disinvite him saying it was going to be “small and intimate” and that he’d made a mistake inviting anyone. As soon as Nelson hears that anything is “small and intimate” he gets paranoid he’s not invited and goes crazy to get there, so he put his mind to it and got there through someone else. It turned out to be thousands of people there so when he saw Paul he said, “Small, intimate world, isn’t it?”

  Brigid Polk [see Introduction] called and said she’s down to 197. Ever since she saw herself in Bad [see Introduction] weighing 300 pounds and went on a diet, she’s so boring to talk to—she never does anything, she never thinks anything, she just lies there in bed in her room at the George Washington Hotel and waits for the fat to roll off. I told her I’ll give her a job—that she could let some roll off around the Factory while she answers phones, but she won’t. It’s taken her thirty-nine years to lose weight and it’ll probably take her another thirty-nine years to get to work.

  I was too tired to meet the Vreeland crowd for dinner. Watched twenty-five years of Lucille Ball on TV instead.

  Victor Hugo, Halston’s “art adviser,” called me from San Francisco because I’d told him I loved the display window he did of turkey bones at Halston’s Madison Avenue store, and now someone broke in and took the turkey bones, so he thought it was (laughs) me.

  Tuesday, November 30, 1976

  Daniela Morera, our Italian Interview correspondent, came by the office with Olivier Coquelin who invited me to Haiti for the Nima Farmanfarmian-Chris Isham wedding in January. He owns that resort there. He should be interviewed for Popism—he’s the one who owned Cheetah in the sixties, the big discotheque on Broadway and 53rd.

  I don’t want to talk long this morning, I want to get over to Bloomingdale’s before it’s too crowded.

  [NOTE: Andy talks every morning in the past tense about the previous day’s events; therefore, when he speaks in the present tense or uses words like “now” or “today,” he’s referring to something happening right while he’s talking or that he expects will happen on the day he’s giving the diary. For example, a Tuesday’s diary would be given on a Wednesday morning, so “last night” would mean Tuesday night, “this afternoon” would mean Wednesday afternoon, and “tomorrow” would mean Thursday.]

  Wednesday, December 1, 1976

  Got into the Christmas spirit and started buying business gifts (cabs $8). Ran into Jean Kennedy Smith in Bloomingdale’s in the men’s shirt department. We had the same salesgirl. Cabbed to Union Square ($4). Amos was down at the office and Ricky Clifton took pictures of him in costume as the pope.

  Left to go down to the Ileana Sonnabend Gallery to the David Hockney opening. He wasn’t showing new stuff, just portfolios. Took Amos (cab $2.50). Ran into Gerard Malanga [see Introduction]. Gerard wrote to Fred asking why he wouldn’t let him do photography for Interview, I guess he just wants a press pass. Fred won’t have anything to do with Gerard because we’re still getting repercussions from all the fake Electric Chairs we think he did, they’re being resold and resold and each time the money involved gets bigger, so Fred isn’t about to give Gerard anything. The opening was jammed. Didn’t see David Hockney, he must’ve been in an
other room.

  Changed and went over to dinner at the Iranian embassy. Not really the “embassy,” but you know what I mean—it’s where Mr. Hoveyda, their ambassador to the U.N., lives (cab $3). China Machado was there and she said she’s known Ambassador Hoveyda for ten years or more from when he and her husband were in France hanging around the French filmmakers in the sixties. We talked about how horrible Avedon is, she said he gets what he wants out of a person and then drops them. I agreed and then everybody screamed at me that I do the same thing.

  Pat Kennedy Lawford was there and a du Pont lady who lives next door to the embassy who said it was so nice not to have to go far for a meal and so she was late. She was wearing a black and gold dress with a jewel collar that she said always gets impounded at customs. The food was good, but the caviar only came around once.

  Thursday, December 2, 1976

  They’re screening Bad in California this week to try to get a distributor for it. Sue Mengers is helping us out. None of the distributors want to put up advance money.

  Sent Ronnie to buy brooms ($20). Dropped off Catherine Guinness (cab $4) and went home to change, then picked her up and cabbed down to 18 West 38th Street ($3.60) to the opening of a new club that Helen Bransford had invited us to, it’s sort of trying to be a new Reno Sweeney’s. Helen goes around with John Radziwill now. Fred thinks she’s great and that we should be nice to her. Tim Hardin was singing there.