All his life Andy Warhol looked like death. He came into the world that way: blank, rheumy-eyed, sick as the day was long. An unmerry child with St Vitus' Dance, the young Warhol lay twitching in his bed under a blanket of fan magazines, the source of all his imaginary friendships - with Errol Flynn and Louella Parsons, Hedda Hopper and Gary Cooper - and the only thing he craved in those Pittsburgh days was the chance to be as lovable as Shirley Temple. The adult Warhol looked as much like death and lived as much by desire. A mobile presentation of 20th-century estrangement. A man in a wig in a season in hell. 'A sphinx without a secret,' said Truman Capote; 'the Ecce Homo of modern exhibitionism,' said Stephen Spender. For his own part, Warhol was intensely reasonable: 'I just want to be a machine,' he said.

LRB 16 October 1997 | PDF Download