Date: 31 August 2001
Andy is a god and must be worshipped. Everything he did was prescient, and contemporary now, and much cleverer than we could have thought. Sitting in plastic chairs, the roar of the projector and leaked sound, the profile versus the full face, a pretty young woman dead from overdose in front of us. It's boring me very soon and there's no relief, a sneeze seems thrilling in this early attempt to break the viewer's aesthetic standards, and replace them with an appreciation of the very little. From the sublime to the nothing much. Upstairs past the trend fretters in the bar, you can walk in through a door with rubber smelling curtains and find a huge speaker playing to an empty darkened room. Evokes much after the cacophony downstairs, and the muffled voices, and all this celebrity crap, Andy would be an angry old man now and I wonder what he would have loved. Basquiat would be over middle aged, and Matisse should have lived forever.
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