wildcat

Returned about an hour ago from seeing the Andy Warhol exhibit at the art gallery; the initial encounter was Elvis Presley brandishing a gun at me ("Before I was shot, I always thought that I was more half-there than all-there - I always suspected that I was watching TV instead of living life. Right when I was being shot and ever since, I knew that I was watching television." - Andy) while superimposed over himself. Oh, Elvis. Last of the great robot cowboys. I suppose it's odd of me, having a preference of Chairman Mao portrait? There's one with peachy lips that looks like an aging drag queen has just taken off his wig to run a country.



And Marilyn. Actually, between Warhol's silkscreen portraits of her and watching Mars Attacks the other night, I keep bouncing back and forth between Marilyn and the creepy Martian spy-escort who seduced Martin Short.



I keep imagining, mostly because I'm still stuck on the idea of android doubles, hive-minded Warhol Monrobots shifting, as if on roller-skates, over textured carpeting -- each one with a different colour scheme, communicating with gestures and hip movements. I imagine high-society Factory parties in the futur nouveau, Andy Warhol with his 3D silkscreen printer building robots mid-celebration to mingle and shuffle strangely between party guests. Imagine having your portrait done at a party and then the portrait can circulate by the drinks table, maybe intercept your wife while you duck into the washrooms with a turquoise-haired Edie Sedgewick silkscreen to have a tryst before the meta-narcotics wear off. Imagine four colour-coded Conrad Blacks arguing with an equal assortment of Queen Elizabeth 2s through mime. Is that Andy Warhol you've been following for the past half-hour, always a few steps behind, in between the Mick Jaggers and Jackie Os, is that Andy? Or is that a self-portrait? Is that Andy's paid double, or is it Andy in body paint?