"Kim Newman - Andy Warhol's Dracula2" - читать интересную книгу автора (Newman Kim)

them touch him, never distinguishing between the commodities he
could only coax from other people: money, love, blood,
inspiration,
devotion, death. Those who rated him a genius and those who
ranked
him a fraud reached eagerly, too eagerly, for the metaphor. It
was
so persistent, it must eventually become truth.
In Swimming Underground: My Years in the Warhol Factory (1995),
supervamp Mary Woronov (Hedy/The Shoplifter, 1965; The Chelsea
Girls, 1966) writes: "People were calling us the undead,
vampires,
me and my little brothers of the night, with our lips pressed
against the neck of the city, sucking the energy out of scene
after
scene. We left each party behind like a wasted corpse, raped and
carelessly tossed aside. . . . Andy was the worst, taking on five
and six parties a night. He even looked like a vampire: white,
empty, waiting to be filled, incapable of satisfaction. He was
the
white worm тАФ always hungry, always cold, never still, always
twisting." When told that the artist had actually turned vampire,
Lou Reed arched a ragged eyebrow and quizzed, "Andy was alive?"
In
the multitude of memoirs and word or song portraits that try to
define Andy Warhol, there is no instance of anyone ever using the
adjective "warm" about him.
Valerie Solanas, who prompted Andy's actual turning, took
superstitious care to shoot him with homemade silver bullets. She
tried wrapping .32 ammunition in foil, which clogged the
chambers,
before resorting to spray-paint in the style of Billy Name
(Linich),
the silver-happy decorator of the Factory who coffined himself in
a
tiny back room for two years, coming out only at dead of night to
forage. The names are just consonants short of anagrams: Andy
Warhola, Wlad Draculya; Valerie Solanas, Van Helsing. Valerie's
statement, the slogan of a fearless vampire killer: "He had too
much
 control over my life." On the operating table тАФ 4:51 pm, Monday,
June 3, 1968 тАФ Andy Warhol's heart stopped. He was declared
clinically dead but came back and lived on, his vision of death
and
disaster fulfilled and survived. The stringmeat ghost of the
latter
years was sometimes a parody of his living self, a walking Diane
Arbus exhibit, belly scars like zippers, Ray-Ban eyes and dead
skin.