Kate Playground Taking A Shower

The art of repetition *

age of eight years Andy was a nice plump-looking baby, high forehead, blond hair separated from one side, eyes long, dark, insightful, humorous.

His mother, a woman from breast provocative, eyes and lips accentuated by makeup, hair curlers, curling by, if he carried with him everywhere, even when unknown men met or when he cleaning in a department store.

Andy adored her, followed her obediently did not protest when they left, without knowing why, hours sitting in a chair waiting for his mother to come out of a room, always different, with a sir, always different. It was the nurse had said, and went to treat patients at home. Andy waited, later, a toy car as a prize, or to design an album or a package of those butts that it likes strawberry. When mum was a cleaner in the largest department store in Pittsburgh, Andy enjoyed it turned to the shelves full of cans, bags, bras, sweet. Sometimes I even touched them, without letting them fall though, as recommended by the mother.

'Andy, where are you? "The item exceeded the hum of the vacuum cleaner.

"Where are the lipstick."

"Do not touch, otherwise I can not take. Will not you regret it? "

" No, Mom, no. "

So, one day after another, in the hours outside of school.

At school Andy had a deep blue-eyed boyfriend Glenn. It was the first thing that Andy had noticed. Glenn was a year older than he was taller and robust and very kind. When Andy gave him his drawings - because Andy knew how to draw very well - they collected a red card which he kept under the counter.

It was a picture of Andy that caught the attention of the school. One morning I called him into his office and asked him to join a small exhibition inside.

Then he stroked long.

At fifteen a boy Andy was not very tall, thin, full of pimples that disturbed the dark eyes and long thoughtful air.

At school there was Glenn, went to college two years before, and there was even the principal, replaced by a fat lady friendly.

Andy, for some years now, no longer accompanies his mother. He remained at home waiting for her and often would come back tired and restless.

"Do not you look happy, Mom," he said one evening when he returned with the dress and makeup in a mess crumpled.

She began to weep bitterly, went to change and said

"I will pass. Eat the meantime, you will not want me to regret it? "

" No, Mom, no. And he went back to drawing.

Andy especially loved drawing, making portraits, use colors. He had a picture of Glenn and remade with deep blue eyes, and the mother with the heavy makeup.

Twenty years Andy was not very tall, thin, long and dark eyes and mirthless. His mother had died of tumors in a 'few months in utero. Before expiry had said

"Be wise, Andy, you will not want to hurt me, right?"

"No, Mom, no."

And she ran out of Pittsburgh.

He went to New York with his few belongings and the desire to draw.

understood Glamour, the famous magazine, which was looking for young talent. The director was kind, I spent a long time in the study, as did the headmaster.

Andy was hired.

began his sensational rise in the world of advertising. She remembered the deep blue eyes of Glenn, strong colors he used his mother, cans stacked on the shelves of department stores in Pittsburgh and began to create, to create non-stop billboards, posters, covers.

knew a photographer, Andrew. Often called him into his study to do to attend sittings. Often remained long with him. After each match the creativity and exploding Andy trying out driven by the fury of the relationship just had. He soon felt increasingly needed.

Forty years Andy was not very tall, thin, long and sad eyes in a face that was beginning to give way.

lay in a hospital bed in New York seriously wounded by a woman, the founder and only member of the Society for to pieces men which was introduced in his study and had downloaded a gun on him.

It was saved, but in two months the hospital had seen and reviewed his life as a repetition of his paintings.

had made of things in those years. Maybe if it was too close a budget through the collection of bills, air tickets, postcards, city maps, photos of people who had fueled the reputation of both Factory.

Yeah, the Factory. A 'idea that had come from its being primarily a commercial, creative, a creative loner. He accepted all in what looked like a multinational corporation: aristocrats and tramps, hookers and transvestites, artists and criminals.

Factory was his most brilliant ideas. More cans of Campbells or Martison Coffee or bottles of Coca Cola. Of those people, after the first surprise, would no longer surprised, but the Factory, yes. Each was found in there, everyone had fulfilled his secret desires, without abandoning inhibitions to that environment friendly and challenging.

Andy, patron and exploiter, reigned all exhibiting his homosexuality and his depravity, exposing it as a product of great stock more to continuously feed the myth that his need for a genuine show.

He was left alone, inside, he remained what he was satisfied with the butts of strawberry. The meaning of death if they wore. What was his painting, if not the representation of the dissolution of what is there and disappears due to consumption, reckless use of images and things?

"I realized that whatever I was doing had to be Death."

Here, he was driven by an unbridled need to see others and be humble and bow in front of the boy who had spent hours in small rooms or in the bleak corridors of a deserted department store dirt.

A fifty-eight years Andy was not very tall, thin, long eyes, behind round glasses and serious ones. The flaccid face marked by lines on the sides of his mouth drooping. white hair combed as eight years, separated by one side, sometimes covered with a white wig, a little 'eccentric and a bit' ridiculous.

He was famous in the world. One of the artistic geniuses recognized the 900. Cans to his, her Marilyn, his Mao Zedong, his Elvys, its flowers that formed part of the major museums and collections of the most exclusive, it allowed him to add from the picture of Leonardo's Last Supper.

the collection of tickets and cards and airline tickets were added to objects of all types combined, shamelessly, in the halls of the factory and in his own home.

In a moment of foreboding loneliness, Andy had himself photographed with make-up colors that he used his mother's eyes, magnified by the eye shadow, eyebrows marked, the heavy blush, the mouth is marked by a dark lipstick, her hair hidden under a blonde wig-serving.

Under that picture, magnified out of proportion, framed and hoisted on one of the walls of his bedroom, they found him dead February 22, 1987.

sad, grotesque, tragic.

* Andy Warhol - 1928-1987

Milan, July 30, 2006