TABLE OF CONTENTS

MY WARHOL

Kara Walker

I’M HANGING ON TO SOME ADOLESCENT SENSE OF LOYALTY, like a good fan. Perpetual fandom—that’s my sense of the Warhol legacy. Personally I find myself situated uneasily between making cartoons and having serious concerns—desirous of a high-level conversation but pretty willing to dress up and pose in Harper’s Bazaar or for whoever asks, to live out a glamorous fantasy of superficiality. I like to think that the one thing balances the other. Whenever I’m too close to the sun, I feel most black.

The Warhol I’ve absorbed, the Warhol who saved me, is the ambivalent cynic. Yes, human beings are worthless and life is slavery, but there is grace to be had in accepting that, loving what makes up our empty capitalist souls, plus a little tiny bit of death. Of course, not a day passes when I don’t think, “Hey, I’m a successful artist, I should be having lunch with Hugh Jackman or Russell Crowe, not

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