PRINT April 1987



ON THE MORNING OF SUNDAY, February 22, with the news that Andy Warhol was dead, I ran to the window expecting to hear seismic noises coming from the city outside, and to witness a transfiguration, I don’t know of what: of the back of the building facing me, of the air quality, of appearances in general—but of something. The shock of so enormous an absence would surely register, it seemed, on reality itself.

What one wonders now is what will happen to our unruly inventory of images, without their editor in chief, their framer, makeup man, and gift wrapper, in the wake of this utterly disorienting work stoppage. While art is almost always bound to its historical moment, Andy Warhol’s work–at the time it was made, and ever since–can be said to function as the signature of its era, whether the ’60s, the ’70s, or the ’80s. While his “style” became a legend in its artistic consistency, it has

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