PRINT January 2016


Andy Warhol, Lupe, 1965, 16 mm, color, sound, 72 minutes; double-screen projection, 36 minutes. Lupe (Edie Sedgwick). © The Andy Warhol Museum, Pittsburgh, PA, a museum of Carnegie Institute. All rights reserved.

To hold, as ’twere, the mirror up to nature.
Hamlet, III.ii

THE CLASSIC ERA of American avant-garde cinema—a tradition exemplified by Maya Deren, Stan Brakhage, and Jonas Mekas—was dominated by filmmakers who forged practices outside and opposed to the institutions and styles of the film industry. But within experimental-film circles, the same period also witnessed various dialogues and other productive relations with Hollywood, and Andy Warhol was, no doubt, the poster child of this tendency. His entrée into the world of avant-garde film was secured with Sleep (1963), which presented an alternative to the commercial cinema as uncompromising as any of Brakhage’s work, but over the next decade he turned increasingly toward Hollywood in terms of subject matter, genre, style, and mode of production. Finally, with Paul Morrissey’s Heat (1972) and Flesh for Frankenstein (1973), Warhol became a producer of narratives designed to compete with Hollywood on its own terms. Made at the end of 1965—indeed, just last month celebrating its fiftieth anniversary—Lupe found the artist midway through this transition: Using a script commissioned from a well-known playwright about a Hollywood star, photographed in color, and boasting sound recorded with a level of near competence uncharacteristic of his previous work, the film was relatively accessible to a general public. On the other hand, Warhol’s willingness to project it as either a quasi-theatrical linear movie or a multiscreen installation marked the emergence of a new phase of his art-world innovations. The coexistence and interaction in Lupe of elements from the avant-garde and the industrial feature generate a thematic and formal richness absent from the more extreme poles of his cinema.

Warhol’s fascination with the culture industries was a profoundly generative influence on his art. Based on the life of Lupe Vélez (1908–1944), one of the first Mexican actresses to achieve great success in Hollywood, Lupe is the second of three films Warhol made about famous Hollywood actresses, the others being More Milk, Yvette (1965), his immediately previous melodrama about Lana Turner and her gangster lover Johnny Stompanato, and the following year’s Hedy (1966), about Hedy Lamarr and her highly publicized shoplifting trial, both featuring Mario Montez. The three stars’ on-screen personae as highly sexualized and aggressively desiring women were matched by their tempestuous and often-scandalous personal lives. All three films are gossipy and spiteful, focusing on the most public scandals associated with their respective subjects, their weaknesses and failings, and, in the case of Lupe, a wholly spurious and degrading misrepresentation of its protagonist’s death.

Beginning in the silent era and continuing into the 1930s, Vélez worked in B movies, mostly screwball comedies, for William Wyler, Cecil B. DeMille, Gregory La Cava, and other important directors, as well as in Broadway musicals. Her popularity declined somewhat after the Motion Picture Production Code necessitated a toning down of her vibrant, at times risqué, repartee, but the box-office success of The Girl from Mexico (Leslie Goodwins, 1939) crystallized her comedic talents into what would become an iconic role: that of the “Mexican Spitfire.” She deployed this character again in 1940 as the star of a film of that name, and then in six more (Mexican Spitfire Out West, The Mexican Spitfire’s Baby, etc.), all directed by Goodwins. Although today her fiery “Tabasco” Latin temperament, assertive sexuality, broken English, and overall exoticism might be seen as promoting racist stereotypes, Latino, feminist, and queer artists and critics have proposed that in her historical moment she was in various ways empowering for minorities. Vélez’s personal life included highly public affairs with John Gilbert, Clark Gable, Charlie Chaplin, Gary Cooper, and other famous actors, as well as a five-year marriage to Johnny “Tarzan” Weissmuller in the mid-’30s. In 1944 she met a young Austrian actor, Harald Ramond, and became pregnant by him. Their subsequent relationship was volatile, with Vélez apparently uncertain what to do, but in the early hours of December 14 she took an overdose of barbiturates, and later that morning her secretary, Beulah Kinder, found her lying peacefully in bed, as if in a deep sleep. Ensconced within her satin pillowcase were two handwritten notes, one of them reading, “To Harald: May God forgive you, and forgive me too but I prefer to take my life away and our babys before I bring him with shame or killing him.”1

By the time Andy Warhol conceived his film, a very different account of Vélez’s last hours had been concocted by Kenneth Anger. In Hollywood Babylon, his salacious book about Hollywood scandals first published in the US in 1965, Anger claimed that, overwhelmed by financial and other troubles, Vélez decided to kill herself and planned to turn her suicide “into one of the most beautiful moments of her life; to turn tragedy into apotheosis.” She filled her house with flowers, called in her makeup man and hairdresser, dressed herself in a lamé gown, ate a last meal, and went to bed to take the barbiturates:

Half an hour later, the meticulous staging suddenly took an unforeseen turn which would have been worthy of Buñuel. All the effects planned by the fiery Mexican had been ordered; the flowers paid her a final homage, the glistening chandeliers shone on the lamé of her dress. Lupe died in beauty. The harmony was complete, with the sole exception of the Seconal and the spicy food, when the solemn lights around her body were abruptly bespattered. Lupe obeyed an instinct even stronger than death and ran, teetering on her high heels, toward the bathroom. But she slipped on the marble tiles as she ran up to the toilet bowl—which turned out to be her last mirror!—and head first, she fell in and broke her neck. Thus she was found, stuck and half-submerged in this bowl, strange and macabre. And thus was extinguished one of Hollywood’s glories!2

No justification for Anger’s scurrilous fabrication existed, but it became part of Hollywood folklore and Warhol himself savored it. Looking back a decade and a half after Lupe, he described his film’s origin in his circle’s obsession with “the mystique of Hollywood, the camp of it all,” and went on to say that they all knew the stories about Lupe Vélez, how she “decided to commit the most beautiful Bird of Paradise suicide ever, complete with an altar and burning candles,” but “at the last minute she started to vomit and died with her head wrapped around the toilet bowl.’’ The altar and the candles may have been a projection of his own Catholicism, but the suicide gone awry and the crucial toilet bowl derive from Anger, whose sadistic glee Warhol’s conclusion echoes: “We thought it was wonderful.”3

Andy Warhol, Lupe, 1965, 16 mm, color, sound, 72 minutes; double-screen projection, 36 minutes. Lupe (Edie Sedgwick). © The Andy Warhol Museum, Pittsburgh, PA, a museum of Carnegie Institute. All rights reserved.

AT THE TIME, Warhol was deeply involved with a new superstar, Edie Sedgwick. The scion of an extremely wealthy New England family through which ran an unfortunate seam of mental illness, Sedgwick had been hospitalized twice in her teens. Hoping for a career in modeling, she moved to New York in 1964 and met Warhol at a dinner party the following March. Entranced with her, Warhol invited her to the Factory and immediately began to feature her in his filmmaking, to which he had turned his attention almost completely the previous year. Through the spring and summer of 1965, Sedgwick dominated Warhol’s work, appearing in every sound film he produced, and the two were inseparable. But by fall, rumors of her being romantically involved with Bob Dylan were beginning to strain their relationship, and Warhol asked playwright Robert Heide to write a screenplay in which Edie would commit suicide. (Warhol had shot a film version of Heide’s play The Bed earlier in the year.4) Heide knew Hollywood Babylon, was a friend of Anger’s, and had the idea of using Anger’s account of Vélez’s demise as the vehicle for the suicide narrative. Though he disliked Warhol, Anger didn’t object, and Heide wrote a draft script titled “The Death of Lupe Vélez,” giving copies to both Warhol and Sedgwick and arranging to discuss the project with them. But when the playwright met her (in Dylan’s company) at a bar on Macdougal Street in the West Village, she told him that they had filmed it that afternoon. The same evening, Heide recalls, Warhol remarked to him, “When do you think Edie will commit suicide? I hope she lets me know so I can film it.” Following Heide’s screenplay, the film opens with Lupe “curled up in bed wearing a negligee,” but after that, few traces of his work resurface. Nevertheless, Heide provided the dramatic frame within which the account of Vélez’s death was improvised.

Earlier on the day that Sedgwick and Heide met in December 1965, she, Warhol, and several others had gone to the apartment of Panna Grady, a wealthy hostess who lived in the Dakota on Central Park West. Using his Auricon camera, which recorded sync sound on the optical track, Warhol shot three 1,200-foot reels of 16-mm Ektachrome of Sedgwick ostensibly playing Vélez on the last day of Vélez’s life, and also at least two 100-foot rolls of Sedgwick lying on the bathroom floor with her head in a toilet bowl; he later affixed one each to two of the three longer reels. Lupe is composed of those two 1,300-foot reels,which the artist intended to be shown either sequentially or simultaneously and side by side.5

Perhaps with a nod to Warhol’s debut film, the first reel opens with a close-up on Lupe’s sleeping face. After a couple of minutes, a quick zoom back reveals that her bed abuts a mirror occupying the entire wall, its edge vertically bisecting the frame. Her face is reflected in it, and for virtually the entire reel this mirror doubles her image, whether or not she looks directly into it (as she will do later on, when she puts on her makeup). Soon she sits up, displaying a short pink nightdress that leaves her arms, shoulders, and legs bare, and lights the first of many cigarettes. After a few minutes, she answers the telephone, chatting briefly before Billy Name, playing her hairdresser, appears. As he clips desultorily at her hair, they chat, but only the odd remark is audible. Promising to return at five with green dye for her hair, he leaves, and she continues with her makeup until Warhol suddenly cuts to her death scene, here filmed in a single take.

In the second reel, Lupe enters a luxuriously furnished dining room, dressed in a long, pale-blue Empire-style nightgown, and places a vase of yellow flowers on the mantel over the fireplace. Alone, she smokes, drinks numerous glasses of wine, pops pills, and picks at a meal on the table. She turns the radio on and, wineglass in hand, dances drunkenly. Again the scene ends suddenly with a cut to the footage of her body on the bathroom floor, in a sequence now comprising several shots from various angles. The sound is of poor quality throughout, with only fragments of the dialogue between Lupe and her hairdresser clearly audible in the first reel, while the second is largely silent, except for a period when Lupe plays the radio.

WHEN HIS RELATIONSHIP with Sedgwick was at its most intense, Warhol articulated a radical cinematic project. “I always wanted to do a movie of a whole day in Edie’s life,” he began, and then elaborated on his dislike of selective editing, of “picking out certain scenes and pieces of time and putting them together, because then it ends up being different from what really happened—it’s just not like life, it seems so corny.” His ideal, he explained, was a film with no editing and no rehearsal: “I only wanted to find great people and let them be themselves and talk about what they usually talked about and I’d film them for a certain length of time and that would be the movie.”6 This prizing of minimally mediated documentary realism recalls both the remark attributed to Cesare Zavattini that “the ideal film would be ninety minutes of the life of a man to whom nothing happens” and, more immediately, the purely observational, fly-on-the-wall unobtrusiveness of Robert Drew’s early conceptions of Direct Cinema. But in fact, with the exception of Sleep and Empire (1964), the fundamental tensions of Warhol’s cinema are hinged on a dynamic relation between the subject and the camera, aligning his filmic practice rather with Richard Leacock’s somewhat different and contradictory formulations that, though still designated “uncontrolled cinema,” implied the filmmaker’s more active participation, as “an observer and perhaps as a participant capturing the essence of what takes place around him, selecting, arranging but never controlling the event.”7

Leaving aside Warhol’s consistent eschewal of Direct Cinema’s axiomatic handheld camera in favor of a tripod mount, he pushed Drew’s ideal of a pure cinematic objectivity to its very limits in the 472 Screen Tests he shot between 1964 and 1966, each documenting a subject simply being himself or herself alone in front of a 16-mm camera for the duration of a one-hundred-foot roll of film undefiled by editing. Nothing happens in most of the Screen Tests, yet they are nevertheless full of the drama of their subjects’ self-conscious struggles to compose themselves under the camera’s uninflected, unresponsive gaze and to establish a persona that will stabilize their self-presentation in the camera’s unblinking regard. In these ritual self-fabrications, the recording camera functioned as an implied mirror, but one that, until the film’s screening, failed to provide a reflection against which the construction of self could be negotiated. Even when Warhol’s filmmaking more closely resembled the noninterventionist, voyeuristic recording of innocent and unknowing subjects “being themselves,” that impulse was inevitably undermined by an opposing current, operating in both the psychological and the filmic registers: the implication that the self was never authentic and integral but rather elusive, unstable, and constructed, and that the intrusive material presence of the camera and other elements in the filmmaking process would always subvert the aspiration to neutral representational transparency. These issues are dramatized in Lupe.

The notion of the self as constructed in social interactions—an idea introduced by Erving Goffman in The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life (1956)—had become axiomatic in contemporary sociology by the early ’60s and been popularized by Susan Sontag in “Notes on ‘Camp’” (1964) under the guise of “life as theater” and “Being-as-Playing-a-Role.” In the competitively theatrical social circle of Warhol’s milieu, the self was provisional, a more or less artificial and constantly reconstructed persona, performed rather than revealed. It could only be improvised in contexts supplied by other performers, in the mirror of the filmmaking apparatus, and, by implication, within the attention of the media apparatus as a whole. Although the Screen Tests, for instance, parodied their Hollywood model, in form if not in intended function, they nevertheless held out the possibility that, if successful, they might lead the sitter to prominence in the Factory, Warhol’s travesty of the Hollywood studio system, and even open up the possibility of one’s migrating beyond it and into the greater public media system. Since anyone who hopes to be famous (if only for fifteen minutes) must promote an image, many of Warhol’s films revolve around the fabrication—and erosion—of personal identity in a media-saturated environment, wherein the possibility of autonomous selfhood has been colonized, perhaps even precluded, by publicity, advertising, and the movies.

The longer films for which Warhol commissioned scenarios appeared to offer his players the refuge of a consistent role, but he would then disrupt the actors’ security by withholding the script until the last minute, having crew members make hostile comments from offscreen, or otherwise interfering in the shooting of a scene. Such interventions sacrificed any illusion of transparent mimesis and maximized his subjects’ awareness of the camera, jeopardizing the stability of their self-fabrications and provoking crises that forced them into spontaneous, unscripted, and unexpected revelations of, as it were, their images’ unconscious. “Pope” Ondine’s attack on Rona Page in The Chelsea Girls after she calls him a phony is a pure moment in this cinema of sadism. Similarly, on the level of film style, Warhol disoriented the films’ observational transparency with a variety of ungrammatical effects: failure to focus the camera, inadequate lighting, arbitrary zooms and pans, seemingly haphazard in-camera cuts, and so on. Although many of these “techniques” originated as accidents caused by the artist’s initial unfamiliarity with cinema technology, their persistence as eruptions of willful or random infractions of standard film style, and especially his continued assertive display of unmotivated camera movement, undercut the scenario and the actors’ performances and telegraphed the presence of the camera and the filmmaking apparatus as a whole. Contrary to the ambitions of an illusionist naturalism, these ruptures of film grammar recall Russian literary critic Viktor Shklovsky’s notion of ostranenie, or defamiliarization, whereby the processes of art “make forms difficult [and] increase the difficulty and length of perception.” They inserted a reflexive formalism into the core of Warhol’s documentary realism. A parallel destabilization caught between the urge to promote and the urge to demote his stars’ social profiles occurred in his public mobilization of them.

Andy Warhol, Lupe, 1965, 16 mm, color, sound, 72 minutes; double-screen projection, 36 minutes. Lupe (Edie Sedgwick). © The Andy Warhol Museum, Pittsburgh, PA, a museum of Carnegie Institute. All rights reserved.

OF ALL THE FACTORY’S in-house superstars, Edie Sedgwick was the most promising candidate to become the real thing, and during the period of Warhol’s closest involvement with her, the artist and actress reciprocally used each other in generating their unprecedented celebrity. Earlier in 1965, Warhol and his entourage had been featured in prominent stories in the national press, including spreads in Life magazine and Mademoiselle, and on the occasion of the artist’s first solo museum show, at the Institute of Contemporary Art in Philadelphia, he experienced the frenzy of adulation firsthand. On October 8, 1965, two months before Lupe was shot, the show’s opening night was all but preempted by a huge and rowdy crowd of kids, estimated by Warhol to number four thousand, chanting, “We want Andy and Edie!” Afraid that the unruly youth would damage the art, the museum staff removed it from the walls, leading Warhol to the realization that “we weren’t just at the art exhibit—we were the art exhibit, we were the art incarnate.”8 That same month, Warhol and Sedgwick appeared together on the nationally syndicated Merv Griffin Show, where the host introduced them as “the two leading exponents of the new scene.” Sedgwick’s celebrity had become so great that her move to Hollywood appeared more possible than ever before. But only two months later—with Sedgwick and Dylan romantically linked, and with Albert Grossman, Dylan’s manager, expressing interest in taking her on as a client—Warhol and his muse’s relationship was strained. She was angry that he wouldn’t pay her, while he felt abandoned by her. In Lupe, he allowed her to be a Hollywood star but then subjected her to a cruelly punitive and degrading death.

Lupe is a brief version of Warhol’s ideal of “a movie of a whole day in Edie’s life,” but he sacrificed documentary realism by projecting the role of Vélez onto her and by projecting onto both women Anger’s vicious account of the Mexican star’s death. Precisely an instance of “picking out certain scenes and pieces of time and putting them together,” the death scenes in Lupe are a sensationalist dramatic narrative eruption wholly anomalous in Warhol’s cinema. Likewise, the mixture of technical competence and formal restraint makes the portrait far more conventional in its aesthetic than typical Warhol fare and thus more accessible to a general audience. Warhol shot the film in a well-appointed apartment with proper lighting, and the camera is in focus throughout, with the tripod mount allowing smooth zooms and pans. True, he sometimes strayed from his subject to study the furnishings, and the second reel contains a sequence in which Lupe’s drunkenness is marked by frenetic camera activity suggestive of her delirium, but otherwise, Lupe differs radically from its companion pieces, More Milk, Yvette and Hedy, whose narrative and technical irregularities filmically reenact the violence that the narratives inflict on the heroines.

THE SKELETAL FRAMEWORK of a dramatic persona and a relatively transparent style of filming that maintains a coherent focus on the actress together allow Lupe’s thematic elements to emerge with unusual clarity. The private filmic event and the mass-media resonances it metonymically subtends create a hall of mirrors. The role of Lupe becomes a reflective mantle of implications draped over Sedgwick’s everyday self-construction and foregrounds her performance of an identity in the medium of film and, by extension, in the mass media. Observing Sedgwick in her looking glass, Warhol must also have seen his own reflection.

In the first reel, such mirroring is literal: Although Warhol alternates between wide angles and close-ups, the wall mirror always bisects the frame, so that Sedgwick continuously confronts her reflection. As Billy Name clips at her hair, she brings a table mirror onto the bed, creating in the wall mirror an image of her looking at herself in the table mirror, and the point when she knocks it over precipitates the most dramatic incident of the reel. These fortuitous activations of the wall mirror are matched by its functional use in the prolonged solo scenes in which Sedgwick looks directly into it while applying her makeup, constructing the face that has sustained her image and celebrity. In the second reel, the large mirror hanging over the dining-room fireplace is barely visible to the camera. Alone, bereft of a stabilizing reflected image or of the attention of her hairdresser, Sedgwick constructs herself in the figurative mirror of her role as Lupe, assuming her character’s misery. Popping pills, her eyes darting nervously, her lips and face constantly in motion, she slips into abjection. Whereas the events in the first reel merely supplied a frame for the performance of her everyday routines, here Sedgwick is not acting drunk but is in reality getting drunk—an echo of Warhol’s film Drunk, shot in January 1965, in which the artist filmed Emile de Antonio drinking himself into a stupor. Although Sedgwick does not collapse, she appears to be at the end of her tether, as if she were actually on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Performing Lupe in extremis, she, the girl who fancied that the Rolling Stones’ song “19th Nervous Breakdown” was about her, is also performing herself in extremis. Finally, as the perforations at the end of the second reel meet the perforations at the beginning of the attached hundred-foot roll, she appears, flat on the bathroom floor, with her head in what Anger so archly called “her last mirror.” But the film provides yet another: Hung full-length on the bathroom door, it doubles the image of Sedgwick’s body, just as had the wall mirror in the first reel. When the single-screen version is projected, the death scene that prematurely concluded Lupe’s morning hangs proleptically over her final evening, foreshadowing the terrible conclusion of her descent into stupefying intoxication. The film stands in similarly proleptic relation to Sedgwick’s own life.

Though neither Warhol nor Grossman made Sedgwick a movie star, half a decade after Lupe she did star in the theatrically released semiautobiographical feature Ciao! Manhattan (1972), directed by John Palmer and David Weisman. As Susan Superstar, she reenacted her life after the Factory, her return to California and to hospitals and outpatient clinics. A mentally ill drug addict, she played a mentally ill drug addict, and then, three months after finishing the shoot, died of “acute barbiturate intoxication,” in the phraseology of the Santa Barbara coroner who performed her autopsy. Like Vélez, Sedgwick became a celebrity by playing herself, yet her role as Lupe was the apotheosis of her life and art: In both she was a film star who died from self-administered drugs. Edie and Edie-as-Lupe were players who held a mirror up to nature, and the nature they mirrored was their own, including, ultimately, their own deaths.

Many of the avant-garde films about “the mystique of Hollywood, the camp of it all,” were made by gay men who identified with female stars of the classic era. Jack Smith’s infatuation with María Montez was perhaps the most noteworthy, but there’s no evidence to suggest that Warhol’s interest in Vélez specifically was fueled by anything other than Anger’s account of her death. (His interest in Hedy Lamarr, by contrast, had its inception in a childhood infatuation with her; housebound after one of his several breakdowns, he amused himself by copying a photograph of the star that appeared in Maybelline ads at the time.) Nevertheless, his personal investment in Edie and in Edie-as-Lupe would seem to have reflected some deep if oblique psychic drive that made the mirrorings in the film resonate in the events going on behind the scenes. In filming Sedgwick, Warhol was on some level filming himself—or an ideal version of himself.

When Andy and Edie were most closely identified, they emphasized their visual resemblance; they would dress in similar clothes, and at times she’d even dye her hair silver to match his wig. Poet Rene Ricard’s comment that in this period “Edie was pasted up to look just like him—but looking so good!” pinpoints the fantasy projection.9 As Truman Capote observed, “Edie was something Andy would like to have been; he was transposing himself into her à la Pygmalion. [He] would like to have been Edie Sedgwick. He would like to have been a charming, well-born debutante from Boston.”10 In staging her death, not in Vélez’s fake Mexican hacienda but in the apartment of a wealthy Brahmin, he mobilized her there as his ideal self while dramatizing his anxiety about losing her by brutally killing her off. The edge flares burning through the last frames depicting her body reflected in the bathroom mirror bring to mind, once again, the callous irony of his comment about Anger’s fictionalized account of Vélez’s death: “We thought it was wonderful.”

David E. James, a professor in the School of Cinematic Arts at the University of Southern California, is the author of Rock ’n’ Film: Cinema’s Dance with Popular Music, published last month by Oxford University Press.


1. Michelle Vogel, Lupe Vélez: The Life and Career of Hollywood’s “Mexican Spitfire” (Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2012), 151.

2. Kenneth Anger, Hollywood Babylon (Phoenix: Associated Professional Service, 1965), 234–35.

3. Andy Warhol and Pat Hackett, POPism: The Warhol Sixties (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1980), 127.

4. The Bed, according to Callie Angell, “premiered at a benefit for the Caffe Cino at the Sullivan Street Theater in March 1965; the play reopened at the Caffe Cino on July 7, 1965, and ran for 150 performances. In the fall of 1965, Warhol and Dan Williams shot a double-screen film version of Heide’s play. In 1966 Warhol appropriated the basic idea of the play, without using Heide’s script, for a three-reel remake called The John, two reels of which, Boys in Bed and Mario Sings Two Songs, were included in The Chelsea Girls” (Angell, Andy Warhol Screen Tests: The Films of Andy Warhol Catalogue Raisonné [New York: Abrams, 2006], 193).

5. At the film’s premiere all three reels were projected side by side; the presently restored two-reel version is the one that Warhol distributed until he withdrew all his films from circulation in 1972; see Callie Angell, The Films of Andy Warhol: Part II (New York: Whitney Museum of American Art, 1994), 25. The third reel, still unrestored, is rumored to include an appearance by Jason Holliday, who would star in Shirley Clarke’s Portrait of Jason the next year (i.e., 1967). The poor sound in Lupe was a consequence of the fact that the optical track is compromised when the film stock is processed for color rather than black-and-white.

6. Warhol and Hackett, POPism, 110.

7. Richard Leacock, “For an Uncontrolled Cinema,” Film Culture, Summer 1961, 25.

8. Warhol and Hackett, POPism, 133.

9. Quoted in Jean Stein, Edie: American Girl (New York: Grove Press, 1982), 182.

10. Ibid., 183.