The Andy Warhol Diaries Part 1

THE ANDY WARHOL DIARIES.

by Andy Warhol.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

Jamie Raab at Warner Books was an astute and sympathetic editor. She combed the book so carefully and gave such unfailingly good advice for the many decisions that had to be made in a work of this size and scope that it's hard to imagine how this could have been done without her.

Also thanks to: Vincent Fremont, Ed Hayes; Helen B. Childs, Rob Wesseley; Bob Miller, who got the project started at Warner Books; Lee Seifman, who worked so fast and with intelligence and good humor; Tony Bugarin, Allen Goldman, Heloise Goodman, Suzanne Gluck, Lew Grimes, Margery King, Harvey-Jane Kowal, Jesse Kornbluth, Gary Krampf, Jane Krupp, Alex Neratoff, Barbara O'Connell, Jay Shriver, David Stenn, Allison Weiser.

Deep grat.i.tude to my parents.

And last, thanks to Frederick W. Hughes, the executor of the Warhol Estate and Andy's longtime business manager and friend, who understood that candor-of-the-moment is the essence of the diary as a literary form and was the first to champion the candid spirit of this this diary-even when Andy's candor embraced Frederick W. Hughes. diary-even when Andy's candor embraced Frederick W. Hughes.

P.H.

INTRODUCTION.

I met Andy Warhol in the autumn of 1968-eight years after he painted his first Pop art canvases and just three months after he was shot and nearly killed by a woman who had appeared for a moment in one of his "underground" movies. During the previous spring the art-making/film-making/hanging-out setup known to sixties legend as the "Factory" had moved from its original location, a silvered loft on East 47th Street, to a white and mirrored loft that took up the whole sixth floor of 33 Union Square West.

Andy loved Union Square-the trees in the park and the loft with its view of the stately Con Edison tower, its clock face s.h.i.+ning like a neighborhood moon, giving the time day and night. Always considered an unofficial boundary between uptown and downtown, Union Square was near the bargain-shopping area on 14th Street. To the south, the West and East Villages and Soho were all within easy walking distance.

And, of course, a block away on Park Avenue South was Max's Kansas City, the breeding ground for so many of the characters that wound up in Factory movies. Every night, celebrities of the art, fas.h.i.+on, music, and "underground" filmmaking crowds jammed themselves into favorite corners of the back room at Max's and monitored each other's clothes, makeup, wit, and love interests while they received "exchange" celebrities from out of town-directors and producers from Europe or Hollywood-and waited to be taken away from "all this" (New York notoriety) and put into "all that" (global fame). Andy's art hung on the wall.

I was an undergraduate at Barnard at the time, and going down to the Factory to see if Andy Warhol needed a part-time typist seemed like a good way to inject some glamour into my college years. I introduced myself to Andy, explaining that I was going to school, and he suggested I work for him just whenever I could. So I began going down to the Factory a few days a week after cla.s.ses. He and I shared a 4' X 10' office piled-as in time I discovered all all his offices, whatever their dimensions, would be piled-with clutter. He would read the newspapers and drink carrot juice from Brownies, the health food store around the corner on 16th Street, while I transcribed tapes he'd hand me of phone conversations he'd had while he was in bed recuperating, first in the hospital and then at home in the narrow four-story Victorian house on Lexington and 89th that he lived in with his mother. his offices, whatever their dimensions, would be piled-with clutter. He would read the newspapers and drink carrot juice from Brownies, the health food store around the corner on 16th Street, while I transcribed tapes he'd hand me of phone conversations he'd had while he was in bed recuperating, first in the hospital and then at home in the narrow four-story Victorian house on Lexington and 89th that he lived in with his mother.

Andy had come to New York from Pittsburgh in 1949 and at first he shared apartments with other people. Eventually he could afford a place of his own. Then his mother suddenly arrived in town and moved in with him, her youngest son, saying she wanted to look after him. She may have decided-or just as likely, he may have told her-that he was working so hard he had no time to find a wife wife to take care of him, because when I met Julia Warhola one afternoon in 1969 she said h.e.l.lo, thought for a second, then concluded, "You'd be nice for my Andy-but he's too busy." (Andy's mother lived with him in his house on 89th Street and Lexington Avenue until 1971. By then, apparently suffering from senility, she required constant care and Andy sent her back to Pittsburgh to the care of his brothers John and Paul. After suffering a stroke, she died in a nursing home there in 1972, but to even his closest friends who'd often ask him, "How's your mother?" Andy continued for years to say, "Oh fine.") to take care of him, because when I met Julia Warhola one afternoon in 1969 she said h.e.l.lo, thought for a second, then concluded, "You'd be nice for my Andy-but he's too busy." (Andy's mother lived with him in his house on 89th Street and Lexington Avenue until 1971. By then, apparently suffering from senility, she required constant care and Andy sent her back to Pittsburgh to the care of his brothers John and Paul. After suffering a stroke, she died in a nursing home there in 1972, but to even his closest friends who'd often ask him, "How's your mother?" Andy continued for years to say, "Oh fine.") In my first weeks at the Factory, friends Andy hadn't seen since before the shooting-superstars like Viva and Ondine and Nico, or Lou Reed or the other members of the Velvet Underground-would drop by the Union Square loft to ask him how he was feeling. He'd usually a.s.sure them, "Oh, good" or, occasionally he'd joke, "With my hands." Brigid Berlin, a.k.a. Brigid Polk, the eldest daughter of longtime Hearst Corporation chairman Richard E. Berlin, had starred in Andy's movie Chelsea Girls Chelsea Girls and now she would come by to make pocket money by letting Andy tape record her talking about, say, what had happened in the back room at Max's the night before or about who she had talked to on the phone that morning from her tiny room at the nearby George Was.h.i.+ngton Hotel; when she was done he'd take out his checkbook and reward her for the performance with $25 (sometimes negotiated up to $50). For each of these post-shooting reunions with his friends, something in Andy's expression said he was amazed that he was still alive to see them. At one point in the hospital, just before they succeeded in reviving him, the doctors had thought he was gone and Andy, in a state of semi-consciousness, had heard them say words to that effect; from June 1968 on, he considered himself a man who was officially "back from the dead." and now she would come by to make pocket money by letting Andy tape record her talking about, say, what had happened in the back room at Max's the night before or about who she had talked to on the phone that morning from her tiny room at the nearby George Was.h.i.+ngton Hotel; when she was done he'd take out his checkbook and reward her for the performance with $25 (sometimes negotiated up to $50). For each of these post-shooting reunions with his friends, something in Andy's expression said he was amazed that he was still alive to see them. At one point in the hospital, just before they succeeded in reviving him, the doctors had thought he was gone and Andy, in a state of semi-consciousness, had heard them say words to that effect; from June 1968 on, he considered himself a man who was officially "back from the dead."

Andy and I didn't talk much at first. For weeks I just transcribed and he just sat there, a few feet away from my manual typewriter, reading and taking phone calls. Most of the time, his face was impa.s.sive. There was definitely a weird feeling about him-for one thing, he moved in a strange way. Eventually I realized that this was because his chest was still wrapped in surgical tape-blood from the wounds that were still healing sometimes seeped through onto his s.h.i.+rt. But when Andy laughed, the weirdness disappeared and his whole face changed-then, he was appealing to me.

Andy was polite and humble. He rarely told told anyone to do things-he'd just ask in a hopeful tone, "Do you think you could ... ?" He treated everyone with respect, he never talked down to anyone. And he made everyone feel important, soliciting their opinions and probing with questions about their own lives. He expected everyone who worked for him to do their job, but he was nonetheless grateful when they did-he knew that anyone to do things-he'd just ask in a hopeful tone, "Do you think you could ... ?" He treated everyone with respect, he never talked down to anyone. And he made everyone feel important, soliciting their opinions and probing with questions about their own lives. He expected everyone who worked for him to do their job, but he was nonetheless grateful when they did-he knew that any any degree of conscientiousness was hard to find, even when you paid for it. And he was especially grateful for even the smallest extra thing you might do for him. I never heard anyone say "Thank you" more than Andy, and from his tone, you always felt he meant it. "Thank you" were the last words he ever said to me. degree of conscientiousness was hard to find, even when you paid for it. And he was especially grateful for even the smallest extra thing you might do for him. I never heard anyone say "Thank you" more than Andy, and from his tone, you always felt he meant it. "Thank you" were the last words he ever said to me.

Andy had three ways of dealing with employee incompetence, depending on his mood. Sometimes he'd watch for minutes at a time and then, raising his eyebrows and closing his eyes philosophically, turn away without saying a word; sometimes he'd rant and rail for half an hour at the offender, though n.o.body would ever get fired; and sometimes he'd suddenly break into an impromptu imitation of the person-never a literal one, but rather his his interpretation of interpretation of their their vision of themselves-and it was always funny. vision of themselves-and it was always funny.

The worst things Andy could think to say about someone was that he was "the kind of person who thinks he's better than you" or, simply, "He thinks he's an 'intellectual.' " Andy knew that a good idea could come from anywhere; his head wasn't turned by credentials.

What was he impressed with, then? Fame-old, new, or faded. Beauty. Cla.s.sical talent. Innovative talent. Anyone who did anything first first. A certain kind of outrageous nerve. Good talkers. Money -especially big, old, American brand-name money. Contrary to what readers of social columns might guess after seeing Andy's name in print so many times over so many years at so many events with European royalty, foreign t.i.tles didn't impress him-he always got them completely wrong or, at the very least, badly misp.r.o.nounced them.

He never took his success for granted; he was thrilled to have it. His uniform humility and courtesy were my two favorite things about him and, as much as he changed and evolved over all the years I knew him, these qualities never diminished.

After a few weeks of volunteer typing, I had my midterm exams to study for so I stopped going downtown. I a.s.sumed that Andy probably wouldn't even notice I wasn't around (I hadn't figured out yet that his pa.s.sive expression didn't mean he wasn't noticing even the smallest details) so I was shocked when someone knocked on the door of my dorm room to say I had a call from "Andy." I couldn't believe he would even remember what school I went to, let alone which dorm I lived in. Where was I, he wanted to know. And to make sure I was coming back, he "sweetened the pot" by offering to start paying my subway fares to and from "work." A ride was then twenty cents.

The major activity at the Factory in the years 1968-72 was making feature-length 16mm movies (they would be blown up to 35mm for commercial release) with the offbeat people who hung around Max's or who came by the Factory to be "discovered." During the summer of '68 when Andy was home in bed recovering from his gunshot wounds, Paul Morrissey, a Fordham graduate who had once worked for an insurance company and who up until the shooting had a.s.sisted on Andy's "Factory" movies, filmed a movie of his own, Flesh Flesh. It starred the handsome receptionist/ bouncer at the Factory, Joe Dallesandro, as an irresistible male hustler trying to raise money for his girlfriend's abortion, and in the fall of '68 Flesh Flesh began a long commercial run at the Garrick Theater on Bleecker Street. began a long commercial run at the Garrick Theater on Bleecker Street.

a.s.sisting Paul on Flesh Flesh was Jed Johnson, who had begun working at the Factory in the spring, shortly after he and his twin brother Jay arrived in town from Sacramento. Jed's first duties at the Factory were stripping the paint from the wooden frames of the windows that looked out on Union Square Park, and building shelves in the back of the loft for film-can storage. In his spare time he taught himself how to edit film on the Factory's Moviola by playing with reels of was Jed Johnson, who had begun working at the Factory in the spring, shortly after he and his twin brother Jay arrived in town from Sacramento. Jed's first duties at the Factory were stripping the paint from the wooden frames of the windows that looked out on Union Square Park, and building shelves in the back of the loft for film-can storage. In his spare time he taught himself how to edit film on the Factory's Moviola by playing with reels of San Diego Surf San Diego Surf and and Lonesome Cowboys Lonesome Cowboys, both of which had been filmed by Andy on a Factory filmmaking field trip to Arizona and California just before he was shot.

Once the Factory moved to Union Square, Billy Name, the photographer who had been responsible for the silver look of the 47th Street Factory and for its amphetamine-centered social life, began living in the small darkroom he set up at the back of the loft. Over the course of a few months in '68 and the beginning of '69, he retreated from the daytime activities of the Factory and began emerging from his darkroom only at night and only after everyone had gone. Empty take-out food containers in the trash the next day were the only indications that he was alive and eating. After over a year of this hermitic, nocturnal life, when Jed arrived as usual one morning to open up the loft, he found the darkroom door wide open-Billy had gone.

Gerard Malanga, one of Andy's first painting a.s.sistants in the sixties and a performer in some of the early movies like Vinyl Vinyl and and Kiss Kiss, shared one of the two large desks at the front of the loft with Fred Hughes, who was just evolving into his position as manager of Andy's art career. Fred had entered the world of art connoisseurs.h.i.+p through working for the de Menil family, art patrons and philanthropists from his hometown of Houston. Fred made a big impression on Andy in two major ways: First, in the short term, Fred had introduced him to this rich, generous family; and second, in the long term, he had a rare understanding of and respect for Andy's art and a flair for how, when, and where to present it. From his half of the desk, Gerard answered the phones while he wrote poetry, and in 1969 when Andy decided to start a magazine called inter/VIEW inter/VIEW, Gerard was for a short while its editor before he left New York for Europe.

The other large desk belonged to Paul, who sat with color blowups of some of the "superstars" behind him, including two "Girls of the Year," Viva and International Velvet (Susan Bottomly). Paul went on to make Trash ('70) Trash ('70) and and Heat Heat ('71). ('71). Women In Revolt Women In Revolt and and L'Amour L'Amour, made during the same period, were a collaborative Factory effort with Andy, Paul, Fred, and Jed all involved in the casting, shooting, and editing. Then in 1974 Paul went to Italy to direct two movies for Carlo Ponti's production company which were ultimately "presented" by Andy-Andy Warhol's Frankenstein and and Andy Warhol's Dracula Andy Warhol's Dracula. Jed and I went to Italy to work on them, and after they were finished Paul stayed on in Europe, in effect ending his role as a major influence at the Factory.

Fred by now was setting up all the office deals and helping Andy make his business decisions. Vincent Fremont, who had driven cross-country to New York from San Diego and begun working at the Factory in the autumn of '69, was now general office manager.

In the summer of '74 the Factory moved from 33 Union Square West to the third floor of 860 Broadway-just half a block away. Around this time, Andy instructed the receptionists to stop answering the phone with "Factory"-"Factory" had become "too corny," he said-and the place became simply "the office." Bob Colaciello, who had graduated from Georgetown University's School of Foreign Service and had come to the Factory by way of writing a review of Trash Trash for the for the Village Voice Village Voice, was working by this time mainly for the magazine (now, with a slight t.i.tle change, called Andy Warhol's Interview) Andy Warhol's Interview), doing articles and writing his column, "OUT," which chronicled his own around-the-clock social life and dropped a heavy load of names every month. In 1974 Bob Colacello (by then he'd dropped the "i") officially became the magazine's executive editor, shaping its image into a politically conservative and s.e.xually androgynous one. (It wasn't a magazine with a family readers.h.i.+p-one survey in the late '70s concluded that the "average Interview Interview reader had something like .001 children.") Its editorial and advertising policies were elitist to the point of being dedicated-as Bob himself once explained, laughing-to "the restoration of the world's most glamorous-and most forgotten-dictators.h.i.+ps and monarchies." It was a goal, people pointed out, that seemed incongruous with Bob's Brooklyn accent, but this didn't stop him from going on to specify exactly reader had something like .001 children.") Its editorial and advertising policies were elitist to the point of being dedicated-as Bob himself once explained, laughing-to "the restoration of the world's most glamorous-and most forgotten-dictators.h.i.+ps and monarchies." It was a goal, people pointed out, that seemed incongruous with Bob's Brooklyn accent, but this didn't stop him from going on to specify exactly which which monarchies he missed most and why. monarchies he missed most and why.

When Andy decided to start the magazine, in '69, the idea was that it be oriented toward the movies. He wanted stars to to just talk-their own words, unedited-and, wherever possible, to be interviewed by other stars. This was something new in magazine publis.h.i.+ng. And since Andy's business philosophy was always to start things on a small budget and build slowly-do the early financing yourself so that later when the business is worth more, you, and not a backer, own more of it-the magazine was published on a very low budget. To give an idea of just just talk-their own words, unedited-and, wherever possible, to be interviewed by other stars. This was something new in magazine publis.h.i.+ng. And since Andy's business philosophy was always to start things on a small budget and build slowly-do the early financing yourself so that later when the business is worth more, you, and not a backer, own more of it-the magazine was published on a very low budget. To give an idea of just how how low the budget was: In the first issue, an interviewee had referred to a well-known movie critic who had just appeared in a Hollywood movie about a transs.e.xual as a "drag queen." It was only after the issue was already off the presses that a lawyer advised that "drag queen" was libelous but that just plain "queen" would be fine. So Andy, Paul, Fred, Jed, Gerard, and I, plus whoever happened to walk in the door, spent about six hours sitting in the front of the loft going through bundle after bundle of low the budget was: In the first issue, an interviewee had referred to a well-known movie critic who had just appeared in a Hollywood movie about a transs.e.xual as a "drag queen." It was only after the issue was already off the presses that a lawyer advised that "drag queen" was libelous but that just plain "queen" would be fine. So Andy, Paul, Fred, Jed, Gerard, and I, plus whoever happened to walk in the door, spent about six hours sitting in the front of the loft going through bundle after bundle of inter/VIEWs inter/VIEWs and crossing out the word "drag" with black felt-tip pens, while Paul complained, "This is like doing penance-'I will never call him a drag queen again, I will never call him a drag queen again ' " and crossing out the word "drag" with black felt-tip pens, while Paul complained, "This is like doing penance-'I will never call him a drag queen again, I will never call him a drag queen again ' "

At 33 Union Square West, the magazine offices had been two rooms on the tenth floor, four floors away from the Factory, but after the move to 860 Broadway they were on the same floor as Andy's office and painting area, separated from these only by a wall. Andy seemed to regard the employees of Interview Interview as stepchildren, different from the people who worked directly for him, who were "family." (One visitor, noticing the psychological distance from Andy between his personal employees and the staff of his magazine, observed, only half-joking, "I get the feeling that if the people who work for as stepchildren, different from the people who worked directly for him, who were "family." (One visitor, noticing the psychological distance from Andy between his personal employees and the staff of his magazine, observed, only half-joking, "I get the feeling that if the people who work for Interview Interview were asked to name the one celebrity in the world they'd most like to meet, they'd all say, 'Andy Warhol.' " There were exceptions: Crossovers who worked at were asked to name the one celebrity in the world they'd most like to meet, they'd all say, 'Andy Warhol.' " There were exceptions: Crossovers who worked at Interview Interview but were also Andy's personal friends who went out with him socially-people like Bob Colacello and Catherine Guinness, a member of the Anglo-Irish brewery family-but generally, to Andy, the but were also Andy's personal friends who went out with him socially-people like Bob Colacello and Catherine Guinness, a member of the Anglo-Irish brewery family-but generally, to Andy, the Interview Interview people were part of his business life but not his emotional life. He referred to them as "them," and to us as "us." people were part of his business life but not his emotional life. He referred to them as "them," and to us as "us."

While Andy's social life in the late sixties and early seventies was steered mainly by Fred, by 1975 Bob Colacello was also initiating many social occasions and some business deals. (All deals, however, had to be cleared with Fred.) From the growing circle of rich people he was becoming friendly with, Bob delivered a lot of portrait commissions, and he also got Andy publis.h.i.+ng contracts. On the first book, The Philosophy of Andy Warhol (From A to B and Back Again) The Philosophy of Andy Warhol (From A to B and Back Again), I did eight separate interviews with Andy on the basis of which I wrote chapters 1 through 8 and chapter 10. Then, using material from conversations Andy had taped between himself and Bob Colacello and Brigid Berlin, I wrote the introductory chapter and chapters 9, 11, 12, 13 and 14. It was the first major project Andy and I had worked on together, and after the book was published, in 1975, he asked me to co-author the second book with him-his memoirs of the sixties, which we decided to call Popism Popism.

From 1975 on, the magazine was a great source of activity for Andy. That was the year he bought out newsprint manufacturer/art collector Peter Brant to become full owner and publisher, with Fred a.s.suming the t.i.tle of president. Until this point Andy had remained pretty much aloof from the day-to-day operation of the magazine, but now suddenly he was running in to look at art director Marc Balet's layouts or scheduling lunches in the conference room to pitch Interview Interview to prospective advertisers. to prospective advertisers.

It was the magazine more than anything else that kept Andy from pa.s.sing into sixties history. Meeting creative new people-especially young kids-was always important to him; he thrived on it. But he knew that people only come to you if they think you have something to offer them. In the mid-sixties when he was cranking out his early, cheap, "underground" films at the rate, practically, of one a week, it was the possibility of getting into Andy's movies that drew people to the Factory. By the 1970s, however, with the price of making commercially exhibitable movies becoming prohibitive, Andy had few roles to offer people and not even the certainty that the movie being discussed would ever actually get made. Interview Interview magazine more than filled the void. magazine more than filled the void.

Circulation had been growing every year. By 1976 Interview Interview had a cachet of sophisticated self-mocking silliness that made celebrities actually had a cachet of sophisticated self-mocking silliness that made celebrities actually want want to be in it. Often Andy, usually with someone on the staff, did the cover interview himself. Every issue had to be stocked with people, and this was the new supply of fresh faces now coming by the office constantly. "We'll put you in the magazine" replaced "We'll put you in a movie" as Andy's most frequent promise. The terms "Interman," "Viewgirl," "Upfront," and "First Impression" were all to be in it. Often Andy, usually with someone on the staff, did the cover interview himself. Every issue had to be stocked with people, and this was the new supply of fresh faces now coming by the office constantly. "We'll put you in the magazine" replaced "We'll put you in a movie" as Andy's most frequent promise. The terms "Interman," "Viewgirl," "Upfront," and "First Impression" were all Interview Interview page headings for pictures of young, never-before-seen-in-print male and female beauties. page headings for pictures of young, never-before-seen-in-print male and female beauties. Interview Interview became the most glamorous magazine around. I once heard Bob on the phone rea.s.suring a society matron: "Don't worry about your photograph-we retouch anyone over became the most glamorous magazine around. I once heard Bob on the phone rea.s.suring a society matron: "Don't worry about your photograph-we retouch anyone over twenty." twenty."

1976 was also the year that Andy Warhol's Bad Andy Warhol's Bad was shot in New York, in 35mm and with a union crew. The cast was a combination of our own "studio stars"-people like Geraldine Smith from was shot in New York, in 35mm and with a union crew. The cast was a combination of our own "studio stars"-people like Geraldine Smith from Flesh Flesh and Cyrinda Foxe from around the corner on East 17th Street-and Hollywood professionals like Carroll Baker and Perry King. Jed directed and Cyrinda Foxe from around the corner on East 17th Street-and Hollywood professionals like Carroll Baker and Perry King. Jed directed Bad Bad-I had co-written the screenplay-and it was well-received. (Vincent Canby's review in the New York Times New York Times said it was "more aware of what it's up to than any Warhol film ... to date.") said it was "more aware of what it's up to than any Warhol film ... to date.") Despite the movie's critical success, after making Bad Bad, Jed never went back to work at the Factory-"the office"-again. He began buying and selling antiques, and then started his own decorating business, although he continued to live on the fourth floor of the Federal-style town-house on East 66th Street that he had found for Andy and that Andy had moved into in 1974. Fred, meanwhile, had moved from his apartment on East 16th Street into the house on Lexington that Andy had just vacated.

For most of the seventies and continuing right up until Andy's death, finding people to commission him to do portraits was a major activity, since it brought in a big share of his annual income. No matter what other canvases he was working on for museum and gallery shows, there were always portraits in the works in some corner of the loft. Anyone-gallery dealers, friends, or employees-who brought in a commission got got a commission. As artist Ronnie Cutrone, a dancer with the Exploding Plastic Inevitable in the sixties and Andy's painting a.s.sistant in the seventies, once put it: "Pop Art was over, and there was a bunch of new movements. Meanwhile he had an office to keep running and a magazine that he felt still needed subsidizing from him. After doing his Pop celebrity portraits in the sixties-the Marilyns, Lizzes, Elvises, Marlons, etc.-it was a natural evolution to do portraits of private-or at least non-show business-people, therefore making them equal, in some sense, to the legends." And actually, even in the sixties, on a much smaller scale, Andy had done some commissioned portraits of non-star subjects like art collector Ethel Scull, gallery owner Holly Solomon, and Happy Rockefeller. Fred Hughes adds: "The art establishment found the idea of Andy doing commissioned portraits very unconventional-artists weren't supposed to be a commission. As artist Ronnie Cutrone, a dancer with the Exploding Plastic Inevitable in the sixties and Andy's painting a.s.sistant in the seventies, once put it: "Pop Art was over, and there was a bunch of new movements. Meanwhile he had an office to keep running and a magazine that he felt still needed subsidizing from him. After doing his Pop celebrity portraits in the sixties-the Marilyns, Lizzes, Elvises, Marlons, etc.-it was a natural evolution to do portraits of private-or at least non-show business-people, therefore making them equal, in some sense, to the legends." And actually, even in the sixties, on a much smaller scale, Andy had done some commissioned portraits of non-star subjects like art collector Ethel Scull, gallery owner Holly Solomon, and Happy Rockefeller. Fred Hughes adds: "The art establishment found the idea of Andy doing commissioned portraits very unconventional-artists weren't supposed to be doing doing this kind of thing. But Andy was always unconventional. And the fact is, he this kind of thing. But Andy was always unconventional. And the fact is, he liked liked doing them-after we got the first few commissions he said to me, " 'Oh get some more.' " doing them-after we got the first few commissions he said to me, " 'Oh get some more.' "

Andy's procedure for making a portrait was elaborate. It began with the subject posing while he took approximately sixty Polaroid photos. (He used Polaroid's Big Shot camera exclusively, and after that model was discontinued he made a special arrangement with the company to buy all the unused stock they had.) Then, from those sixty shots he would choose four and give them to a screen printer (he worked exclusively with one printer at a time-before 1977, his silkscreener was Alex Heinrici; after that, it was Rupert Smith) to make into positive images on 8" X 10" acetates. When those came back to him he would choose one image, decide where to crop it, and then doctor it cosmetically in order to make the subject appear as attractive as possible-he'd elongate necks, trim noses, enlarge lips, and clear up complexions as he saw fit; in short, he would do unto others as he would wish others to do unto him. Then he would have the cropped, doctored image on the 8" X 10" blown up to a 40" X 40" acetate, and from that the screen printer would make a silkscreen.

To always be prepared for the steady stream of portraits, Andy had his a.s.sistants prepaint rolls of canvas in one of two background shades: flesh tone for men's portraits and a different, pinker flesh tone for women's. Using a carbon transfer under tracing paper, he'd trace the image from the 40" X 40" acetate onto the flesh-tone-painted canvas and then paint in the colored areas like hair, eyes, lips on women, and ties and jackets on men. When the silkscreen was ready, the detailed image would be lined up with the prepainted colored areas and the details of the photograph would be screened onto the canvas. It was the slight variations in the alignment of the image with the painted colors underneath that gave Warhol portraits their characteristic "s.h.i.+fting" look. The portraits, as a rule, cost approximately $25,000 for the first canvas and $5,000 for each additional one.

Keeping to his beloved weekday "rut" was so important to Andy that he veered from it only when he was forced to. After "doing the Diary" with me on the phone, he'd make or take a few more phone calls, shower, get dressed, take his cherished dachshunds Archie and Amos into the elevator with him and go from the third floor of his house, where his bedroom was, to the bas.e.m.e.nt kitchen where he'd have breakfast with his two Filipino housekeepers, sisters Nena and Aurora Bugarin. Then he'd tuck some copies of Interview Interview under his arm and go out shopping for a few hours, usually along Madison Avenue, then in the auction houses, the jewelry district around 47th Street, and the Village antique shops. He'd pa.s.s out the magazine to shopkeepers (in the hope that they would decide to advertise) and to fans who recognized him in the street and stopped him-he felt good always having something to under his arm and go out shopping for a few hours, usually along Madison Avenue, then in the auction houses, the jewelry district around 47th Street, and the Village antique shops. He'd pa.s.s out the magazine to shopkeepers (in the hope that they would decide to advertise) and to fans who recognized him in the street and stopped him-he felt good always having something to give give them. them.

He'd get to the office between one and three o'clock, depending on whether there was a business advertising lunch there or not. Upon arrival he'd reach into his pocket-or his boot-for some cash and send one of the kids out to Brownies down the block for snacks. Then while he was drinking his carrot juice or tea he'd check the appointment books for that afternoon's and night's events, return calls, and take some of the calls that came in as he was standing there. He would also open the stacks of mail he got every day, deciding just which letters, invitations, gifts, and magazines to drop into a "Time Capsule," meaning one of the hundreds of 10" x 18" x 14" brown cardboard boxes, which would be sealed, dated, put into storage, and instantly replaced with an identical empty box. Less than one percent of all the items that he was constantly being sent or given did he keep for himself or give away. All the rest were "for the box": things he considered "interesting," which to Andy, who was interested in everything, meant literally everything.

A written communication from Andy was a rarity. You'd often see him holding a pen and his hand would be moving, but it was almost always just to sign his name, be it as an autograph or on a work of art or at the bottom of a contract. He did scribble phone numbers on sc.r.a.ps of paper but they were never organized into an address book. And when he wrote a note it was rarely more than a phrase-something like "Pat-use this" attached to a newspaper clipping that he thought would be helpful for a project we were working on. An exception was when someone would dictate words they wanted him to write-on a gift card, for example-and then he would be happy to keep writing, but only until the dictation stopped.

He'd stay in the main reception area for an hour or two talking to people around the office about their love-lives, diets, and where they'd gone the night before. Then he'd move to the sunny window ledge by the phones and read the day's newspapers, leaf through magazines, take a few more random phone calls, talk a little business with Fred and Vincent. Eventually he'd go goto his working area in the back part of the loft near the freight elevator and there he would paint, draw, cut, move images around, etc., until the end of the day when he would sit down with Vincent and pay bills and talk on the phone to friends, locking in the night's itinerary.

Between six and seven o'clock, once the rush-hour traffic was over, he'd walk over to Park Avenue and get a cab uptown. He'd spend a few minutes at home doing what he called "gluing"-was.h.i.+ng his face, adjusting the silver "hair" that was his trademark, and maybe, maybe maybe changing his clothes, but only if it was an especially "heavy" evening. Then he'd check to make sure there was film in his instant camera. (From the mid-sixties to the mid-seventies, Andy was notorious for endlessly tape-recording his friends. But by the end of the seventies he'd gotten bored with random taping and usually would record people only for a specific reason-that is, if he felt he could use what they said as dialogue for a play or movie script.) Then he'd leave for the night-sometimes to multiple dinners and parties, sometimes just to an early movie and dinner. But no matter how late he stayed out, he was always ready for the Diary again early the next morning. changing his clothes, but only if it was an especially "heavy" evening. Then he'd check to make sure there was film in his instant camera. (From the mid-sixties to the mid-seventies, Andy was notorious for endlessly tape-recording his friends. But by the end of the seventies he'd gotten bored with random taping and usually would record people only for a specific reason-that is, if he felt he could use what they said as dialogue for a play or movie script.) Then he'd leave for the night-sometimes to multiple dinners and parties, sometimes just to an early movie and dinner. But no matter how late he stayed out, he was always ready for the Diary again early the next morning.

For a few years before 1976 I had kept a general and very sketchy Factory log for Andy. I'd make a list of the business visitors who had come to the office during the day, and then another list of the main events of the previous night-even if I'd been to some or all of them myself, I'd have different people give me their versions of the same dinner party or art opening. The point was simply to determine what had happened, who was there, and how much it had cost Andy in cash expenses-not to get Andy's personal view of it. Very often I'd just ask him what his expenses had been and leave his contribution to the log at that.

In 1976, after the filming of Bad Bad, I told Andy that I didn't want to work at the office anymore but that I would still write Popism Popism with him. He asked me if I would continue to keep the log and itemize his personal expenses-"It'll only take you five minutes a day," he said. I told him that I didn't want to have to continue calling everyone at the office every day to find out what had happened the day before-that if I were going to do that, I might as well still be working there. So we agreed that from then on, the daily accounts would come from Andy himself. At this point the log became Andy's own personal narrative. with him. He asked me if I would continue to keep the log and itemize his personal expenses-"It'll only take you five minutes a day," he said. I told him that I didn't want to have to continue calling everyone at the office every day to find out what had happened the day before-that if I were going to do that, I might as well still be working there. So we agreed that from then on, the daily accounts would come from Andy himself. At this point the log became Andy's own personal narrative.

In the fall of 1976 Andy and I established a weekday morning routine of talking to each other on the phone. Ostensibly still for the purpose of getting down on record everything he had done and every place he had gone the day and night before and logging the cash business expenses he had incurred in the process, this account of daily activity came to have the larger function of letting Andy examine life. In a word, it was a diary. But whatever its broader objective, its narrow one, to satisfy tax auditors, was always on Andy's mind. The record he kept included even the ten-cent calls he made from street payphones. It wasn't that he was being overly cautious-the IRS had subjected his business to its first major audit in 1972 and continued the scrutiny every year right up until his death. Andy was convinced these audits were triggered by someone in the Nixon administration because the campaign poster he'd done for George McGovern in 1972 featured a green-faced Richard M. Nixon and the words "Vote McGovern." (Philosophically, Andy was a liberal Democrat, although he never voted because, he said, he didn't want to get called up for jury duty. He did, however, offer his employees bribes of Election Days off if they gave their word they'd vote Democratic.) I'd call Andy around 9 A.M A.M., never later than 9:30. Sometimes I'd be waking him up, sometimes he'd say he'd been awake for hours. If I happened to oversleep he'd call me me and say something like, "Good morning, Miss Diary-what's wrong with and say something like, "Good morning, Miss Diary-what's wrong with you?" you?" or "Sweetheart! You're fired!" The calls were always conversations. We'd warm up for a while just chatting-he was always curious about everything, he'd ask a million questions: "What are you having for breakfast? Do you have channel 7 on? How can I clean my can opener-should I do it with a toothbrush?" Then he'd give me his cash expenses and tell me all about the day and night before. Nothing was too insignificant for him to tell the Diary. These sessions-what he referred to as my "five-minutes-a-day job"-would actually take anywhere from one to two hours. Every other week or so, I'd go over to the office with the typed pages of each day's entry and I'd staple to the back of every page all the loose cab and restaurant receipts he'd left for me in the interim-receipts that corresponded to the amounts he'd already told me over the phone. The pages were then stored in letter boxes from the stationery store. or "Sweetheart! You're fired!" The calls were always conversations. We'd warm up for a while just chatting-he was always curious about everything, he'd ask a million questions: "What are you having for breakfast? Do you have channel 7 on? How can I clean my can opener-should I do it with a toothbrush?" Then he'd give me his cash expenses and tell me all about the day and night before. Nothing was too insignificant for him to tell the Diary. These sessions-what he referred to as my "five-minutes-a-day job"-would actually take anywhere from one to two hours. Every other week or so, I'd go over to the office with the typed pages of each day's entry and I'd staple to the back of every page all the loose cab and restaurant receipts he'd left for me in the interim-receipts that corresponded to the amounts he'd already told me over the phone. The pages were then stored in letter boxes from the stationery store.

The Diary was done every morning Monday through Friday, but never on the weekends even if Andy and I happened to talk on the phone or see each other. The Diary would always wait until Monday morning when we'd do a triple session and he'd recount Friday-Sat.u.r.day-and-Sunday's activities. I made extensive notes on a legal pad as we talked, and right after we hung up, while Andy's intonations were fresh in my mind, I'd sit at the typewriter and get it all down on paper.

When Andy was out of town, he'd either call me from where he was, or scrawl notes, usually on hotel stationery, and he'd read them to me over the phone when he got back, often having to stop to decipher them-and on these occasions the going was slower, so I usually had time to type them as he read. (Occasionally he'd talk into a tape recorder and give me the ca.s.sette when he got back.) When I went away, the arrangements would vary-sometimes I would call him periodically from where I was and he would read me the notes he'd kept. Whatever the procedure, no day was left un-Diarized.

The Diary calls weren't, necessarily, the only times Andy and I would talk to each other during the day. If we were working on a project together-writing Popism Popism, for example-we might speak a few times during the day and evening. And business aside, we were friends, the kind of friends who would call each other whenever we felt like it-when something funny happened or when we were mad about something. (Actually, arguing and laughing are the two things I remember doing most with Andy.) Many times during these non-Diary calls, and occasionally in person, Andy would add to or correct something he'd told me during the regular morning call and he would tell me to "put that in the Diary."

Andy changed so much over the years that some who knew him in the sixties and early seventies may very well wonder why certain aspects of his personality that they experienced (and that were widely written about) don't show up more in the Diary-particularly a cruel, maddening way he had of provoking people to near-hysteria with comments calculated to do just that. The answer is in two parts: first, and most obviously, this is a diary diary-one man's perspective-and the diary form itself precludes dramatic confrontations between two or more people; second, Andy gradually outgrew the impulse to make trouble. He'd had a late adolescence-in his twenties he'd worked very hard at his commercial art career; he didn't take much time out to have fun, really, until he was in his thirties. So he terrorized people the way, for instance, the most popular girl in high school could-creating cliques and setting up rivalries just for the "entertainment" value of watching people fight for his attention. But toward the end of the seventies he started to mellow. Very rarely would he deliberately provoke someone-in fact, he tried to pacify more than to incite. And the personal and emotional problems he himself went through during the years covered by the diaries left him looking for comfort, not drama, in his friends.h.i.+ps. By the last year of his life, he was kinder and easier to be around than at any time since I'd met him.

A few idiosyncrasies to bring to the reader's attention: Andy's conversations were full of superficially contradictory remarks-he'd describe someone as a "cute little creep," or he'd say, "It was so much fun I had to leave." (And naturally, as in any diary, his opinions about any particular person or thing may fluctuate greatly over time.) He exaggerated quant.i.ties-he'd describe a 5'2" person as 2', or a man who weighed 250 pounds as 400. "Eighteen" was a favorite number-if there were multiple events on his evening schedule, he'd say he had "eighteen parties to go to." He used the terms "fairy" and "d.y.k.e" loosely, as when describing even slightly effeminate men and loud-speaking women. "Boyfriend" and "girlfriend" he used just as freely. When Andy worked long hours as a freelance commercial artist in the fifties, doing drawings at home at night and dragging his portfolio around Manhattan during the day, he met hundreds of people in advertising and publis.h.i.+ng and retail sales; and after he'd left commercial art and become a Pop painter, it became a running joke that he'd refer to every one of them as "the person who gave me my first job"-that was just his way of describing anyone from that period of his life. It was often written about Andy that he used the "royal we." To an extent, that was true-it was "our movies," "our magazine," "our party," "our friends"-but that only applied to his post-Factory days: anyone he knew before he rented the first Factory was simply "a friend of mine." And anything related to his art, of course, was always described in the first person singular: "my painting," "my show," "my work."

Going broke was Andy's biggest fear. That, and getting cancer-a headache or a freckle was always a possible brain or skin cancer. Ironically, it's apparent now in retrospect that when he was really really worried about a health problem he scarcely mentioned it-episodes like a lump in his neck in June of 1977 which doctors finally p.r.o.nounced "benign" and the gallbladder problem in February of 1987 which led to his death. worried about a health problem he scarcely mentioned it-episodes like a lump in his neck in June of 1977 which doctors finally p.r.o.nounced "benign" and the gallbladder problem in February of 1987 which led to his death.

So that the Diary could be published in one large volume, I've distilled its original length of 20,000 pages down to what I feel is the best material and the most representative of Andy. This naturally entailed cutting whole days, occasionally even entire weeks, but most often, just parts of days. On a day when Andy went to five parties, I may have included only a single one. I applied the same editing principle to names: to give the diary a narrative flow and to keep it from reading like social columns where the reader is deluged with lists of proper names that often have little meaning to him, I've cut many names. If Andy mentioned, say, ten people, I may have chosen to include only the three he had conversations with or spoke of in the most detail. Such omissions are not noted in the text since the effect would serve only to distract, and slow the reader down.

The Diary does not include a glossary because simplistic explanations of who people were in relation to Andy would go against-if not actually betray-the sensibility of what he was about and the unstructured world he generated around him. Andy was about not not putting people into categories-he was about letting them cross in and out of categories. The people in his sixties "underground" movies were called "superstars," but what exactly did that mean? It could refer to the most beautiful model in New York or the delivery boy who brought her a pack of cigarettes during filming and wound up in front of the rolling camera. putting people into categories-he was about letting them cross in and out of categories. The people in his sixties "underground" movies were called "superstars," but what exactly did that mean? It could refer to the most beautiful model in New York or the delivery boy who brought her a pack of cigarettes during filming and wound up in front of the rolling camera.

To Andy, putting things in a format that made sense was enough of a compromise. He'd get exasperated when I'd occasionally make him repeat or rephrase something until I understood it. His first "novel," a a, published in 1968, actually had been a literary experiment-transcripts of conversations that he'd taped of his superstars and friends as they operated in the amphetamine and pans.e.xual subculture of New York were "transcribed" by amateur typists who, guessing at words and phrases when they couldn't be certain, perpetrated technical and conceptual mistakes galore that Andy then made sure were reproduced, typo for typo, as the published text.

Another concern was keeping the editorial explanations, which appear occasionally in brackets, to a minimum so that the flow of Andy's own voice with its peculiar locutions could be preserved uninterrupted. I felt that, although explanatory matter could have been provided in many editorial asides to occasionally make a reader's job a little easier, the benefits gained from these intrusions would be small in proportion to the jarring effect they would have on Andy's personal tone and the needlessly distancing effect they would have on the reader. The exact nature of some of the relations.h.i.+ps between Andy and various characters in his diary can be grasped only after some effort, it is true, but I believe that having to work work a little to understand things is part of the unique experience of diary-reading-watching life unfold naturally, with its occasional confusions. To keep these confusions to a minimum, however, a little to understand things is part of the unique experience of diary-reading-watching life unfold naturally, with its occasional confusions. To keep these confusions to a minimum, however, the diaries should be read in sequence the diaries should be read in sequence.

Finally, in editing the Diary for publication I've eliminated the interpersonal dimension of Andy's and my discourse-his direct references to me or to things that would have meaning only to me. In the relatively few instances where I did leave in personal references, I took the liberty of translating myself into the third person, using my initials, PH: My aim was to make it possible for the Diary to be read in the same casual and intimate spirit in which Andy gave it to me every morning, so that the reader would always be the "you" on the other end of the phone.

P PAT H HACKETTNew YorkJanuary 1989

Wednesday, November 24, 1976-Vancouver-New York

Got up at 7 A.M A.M. in Vancouver and cabbed to the airport ($15 plus $5 tip, magazines, $5). This is the end of the trip to Seattle for the opening at the Seattle Art Museum there, then we'd gone to Los Angeles for Marisa Berenson's wedding to Jim Randall, then to Vancouver for my Ace Gallery show opening there. n.o.body in Vancouver buys art, though-they're not interested in painting. Catherine Guinness [see Introduction] [see Introduction] didn't get edgy till the last day when she started this annoying thing the English do-asking me over and over, "What exactly is Pop Art?" It was like the time we interviewed that blues guy Albert King for didn't get edgy till the last day when she started this annoying thing the English do-asking me over and over, "What exactly is Pop Art?" It was like the time we interviewed that blues guy Albert King for Interview Interview, when she kept asking, "What exactly is soul food?" So for two hours on the plane she tortured me (cab from La Guardia $13, tip $7-Catherine was grand and gave him the whole $20). Dropped Fred off. Got home. Ate an early Thanksgiving dinner with Jed [see Introduction] [see Introduction]. He'd gotten the car serviced for the drive down to Chadds Ford in the morning to Phyllis and Jamie Wyeth's.

Thursday, November 25, 1976- New York-Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania Fred called at 8 A.M A.M. to find out when we were leaving. Barbara Allen called and said that if we were leaving after 12:00 she would come (film $19.98). Cabbed to 860 [860 Broadway, at 17th Street, at the northeast corner of Union Square Park, where Andy rented the entire third floor for both his offices and the offices of Broadway, at 17th Street, at the northeast corner of Union Square Park, where Andy rented the entire third floor for both his offices and the offices of Interview Interview magazine] magazine] to pick up some things to take. Left around 1:00 (cab $3.60, gas $19.97, tolls $3.40). Beautiful day. to pick up some things to take. Left around 1:00 (cab $3.60, gas $19.97, tolls $3.40). Beautiful day.

Jed somehow drove straight to the Wyeths' door, with just one phone call for directions (phone $.10) at a turnoff right near the place to get the last bit. Arrived around 4:00. The traffic was okay. Barbara Walters didn't come after all.

Andrew Wyeth, Jamie's father, was there. Frolic Weymouth was there, a neighbor-his wife who's Andrew Wyeth's niece had just left him for an antique dealer or something after lots of married years-he's a du Pont-and he was depressed, so he was over for dinner. And Andrew's two sisters, one nutty who looks like she drinks and paints.

We sat for hours and hours at dinner, it was perfect, so good. Lots of drinks. I was still so tired from all the traveling at the beginning of the week. Jed went to bed around 2:00, everyone else stayed up until around 4:00.

There was a romantic interest going on. Robin West-he's a neighbor of the Wyeths, too, he works for the Pentagon but he'll be losing his job soon because Carter's coming in-he was there, and Catherine talked about s.h.i.+t and p.i.s.s for him and about the Anvil S&M bar, and he seemed to like that and got interested. He's looking for a rich girl to marry, he asked me where oh where was his tub of b.u.t.ter on the other side of the rainbow, and I told him it could be a tub of Guinness beer if he played his cards right. He said he'd take us for a ride in an aircraft carrier before his job gets given to a Democrat.

Friday, November 26, 1976-Chadds Ford Went on a tour of Winterthur in the morning (tickets $24, books $59). Then Phyllis Wyeth got the buggy together, we had an all-American breakfast, fed Archie and Amos [see Introduction] [see Introduction], then we went out for a ride. We went across the Brandywine River in it, it wasn't so deep.

Jed went to meet Vincent [see introduction] [see introduction] and Sh.e.l.ly and Ronnie and Sh.e.l.ly and Ronnie [see Introduction] [see Introduction] and Gigi at the train station. Went with Jamie to the Brandywine Museum and we were photographed and had a press conference. Went back to Jamie and Phyllis's and there were c.o.c.ktails. Mrs. Bartow who I bought the East 66th Street house from was there and she asked when I was going to sandblast it and why was I never home because it always looked dark. Carter Brown was there and Jane Holzer with Bob Denison. and Gigi at the train station. Went with Jamie to the Brandywine Museum and we were photographed and had a press conference. Went back to Jamie and Phyllis's and there were c.o.c.ktails. Mrs. Bartow who I bought the East 66th Street house from was there and she asked when I was going to sandblast it and why was I never home because it always looked dark. Carter Brown was there and Jane Holzer with Bob Denison.

Rode to the museum. I introduced Gigi as "George"-I'd told this guy she was a drag queen and he didn't know I was kidding, he got excited-and then she said, "No, it's Georgette," Georgette," which coincidentally is her real name-I didn't know it. So everything was coming out right-I mean it was just what a drag queen would say, so that was funny. And the guy really liked her and she didn't have a clue it was because he thought she was a boy. which coincidentally is her real name-I didn't know it. So everything was coming out right-I mean it was just what a drag queen would say, so that was funny. And the guy really liked her and she didn't have a clue it was because he thought she was a boy.

Sat.u.r.day, November 27, 1976-Chadds Ford Went in the carriage again. This time Frolic had his carriage out, too. He was drinking all day. He took his drinks onto the wagon with him and he was riding around drinking. Jamie took me to his aunt's house to see a 5' dollhouse. It was like an old-fas.h.i.+oned Christmas.

Then went over to the museum where an antique dealer was having a benefit for an opera school, and I really enjoyed that, they were singing an opera. They pa.s.sed a hat around and Frolic gave Catherine $20 of his own money for her to drop in and I dropped in $20, too. Didn't get to bed until around 4:00.

Sunday, November 28, 1976-Chadds Ford-New York Catherine called New York, to Jodie Foster's place, to confirm the interview she and I were supposed to do that afternoon, and Jodie's mother hedged saying Jodie was sick and maybe she couldn't do it, but to call when we got back to town. Got back at 12:30 (gas $16.50, tolls $3.40). Dropped Catherine and Fred. Catherine called Jodie again and she said okay.

It was a beautiful day, in the sixties again. Picked up Catherine and walked over to the Pierre Hotel to meet Jodie. Said h.e.l.lo to lots of people who said h.e.l.lo to me. At the Pierre I saw a beautiful woman staring at me and it turned out to be Ingrid Bergman. While I was talking to her, Coco Brown started waving and yelling from a car. Ingrid's I think husband came for her and then Catherine and I went into the restaurant to wait for Jodie. She came in with her mother and a guy they said they'd picked up I think in Liverpool, and I couldn't tell if it was a bodyguard or the mother's boyfriend. Jodie had on high boots and a hat and was really cute and we loved her ($30 with tip).

Then we all walked over to F.A.O. Schwarz and looked at toys. Bought some for Jodie ($10). She signed autographs. On the way back to the Pierre a guy was selling big candy canes and he gave Jodie one and me one.

Went home. Nelson Lyon called from L.A. and told me about his Thanksgiving-Paul Morrissey had invited him to dinner at Chase Mellen's house and then called back to disinvite him saying it was going to be "small and intimate" and that he'd made a mistake inviting anyone. As soon as Nelson hears that anything is "small and intimate" he gets paranoid he's not invited and goes crazy to get there, so he put his mind to it and got there through someone else. It turned out to be thousands thousands of people there so when he saw Paul he said, "Small, intimate world, isn't it?" of people there so when he saw Paul he said, "Small, intimate world, isn't it?"

Brigid Polk [see Introduction] [see Introduction] called and said she's down to 197. Ever since she saw herself in called and said she's down to 197. Ever since she saw herself in Bad [see Introduction] Bad [see Introduction] weighing 300 pounds and went on a diet, she's so boring to talk to-she never weighing 300 pounds and went on a diet, she's so boring to talk to-she never does does anything, she never anything, she never thinks thinks anything, she just anything, she just lies lies there in bed in her room at the George Was.h.i.+ngton Hotel and waits for the fat to roll off. I told her I'll give her a job-that she could let some roll off around the Factory while she answers phones, but she won't. It's taken her thirty-nine years to lose weight and it'll probably take her another thirty-nine years to get to work. there in bed in her room at the George Was.h.i.+ngton Hotel and waits for the fat to roll off. I told her I'll give her a job-that she could let some roll off around the Factory while she answers phones, but she won't. It's taken her thirty-nine years to lose weight and it'll probably take her another thirty-nine years to get to work.

I was too tired to meet the Vreeland crowd for dinner. Watched twenty-five years of Lucille Ball on TV instead.

Victor Hugo, Halston's "art adviser," called me from San Francis...o...b..cause I'd told him I loved the display window he did of turkey bones at Halston's Madison Avenue store, and now someone broke in and took took the turkey bones, so he thought it was the turkey bones, so he thought it was (laughs) (laughs) me. me.

Tuesday, November 30, 1976 Daniela Morera, our Italian Interview Interview correspondent, came by the office with Olivier Coquelin who invited me to Haiti for the Nima Farmanfarmian-Chris Isham wedding in January. He owns that resort there. He should be interviewed for correspondent, came by the office with Olivier Coquelin who invited me to Haiti for the Nima Farmanfarmian-Chris Isham wedding in January. He owns that resort there. He should be interviewed for Popism Popism-he's the one who owned Cheetah in the sixties, the big discotheque on Broadway and 53rd.

I don't want to talk long this morning, I want to get over to Bloomingdale's before it's too crowded.

[NOTE: Andy talks every morning in the past tense about the previous day's events; therefore, when he speaks in the present tense or uses words like "now" or "today," he's referring to something happening right while he's talking or that he expects will happen on the day he's giving the diary. For example, a Tuesday's diary would be given on a Wednesday morning, so "last night" would mean Tuesday night, "this afternoon" would mean Wednesday afternoon, and "tomorrow" would mean Thursday.] Andy talks every morning in the past tense about the previous day's events; therefore, when he speaks in the present tense or uses words like "now" or "today," he's referring to something happening right while he's talking or that he expects will happen on the day he's giving the diary. For example, a Tuesday's diary would be given on a Wednesday morning, so "last night" would mean Tuesday night, "this afternoon" would mean Wednesday afternoon, and "tomorrow" would mean Thursday.]

Wednesday, December 1, 1976 Got into the Christmas spirit and started buying business gifts (cabs $8). Ran into Jean Kennedy Smith in Bloomingdale's