Oh, I am SO getting some action tomorrow night.
Some hot, steamy Ansel Adams and Alfred Eisenstaedt action.
My favorite screamingly sexy blonde bombshell doctor-babe,
I’m completely stoked; after years of suffering Justin’s total disinterest in going with me to see art or culture, or indeed in leaving the house at all, it’s nice to revive my own passions. I skipped the Andy Warhol exhibit last month, but damn I love me some high-contrast images of really big rocky crevasses and tall trees. No lewd comments about subordinated desires, please.
Woo! I’ve been looking at the ads on the subway, thinking I should go to that.
That and the Marvel exhibit at the Science Centre.
I never go anywhere, except to Chrissy’s.
😉
so I went to see it and I finally get what the fuss is about. If it is possible to say something profound about fleeting, flippant, fickle American values and successes, Warhol does it using the same kind of language the media expresses those values and successes in. If that makes any sense. Not sure how often I need to hear what he has to say, though. And that fabulous hair? Wigs. All wigs. Like, 20 or 30 of them – he was never without.
Apparently he often had a video camera running by a couch at the factory. You could do whatever you wanted in front of it. Often, people seemed to forget about it altogether. They were playing the tapes at the exhibit. I saw a young man obsessively cmbing and recombing his already perfect blonde curly pompadour in the mirror of a motorcycle somebody had parked beside the camera. I saw plenty of sex in real time, the most fascinating aspect of which was the relish displayed by a man eating out a woman’s ass. In his defense, it was a very pretty ass. So yeah…warhol.