“Who
would put this in their living room?” laughed my friend Anthony
as we quizzically gazed into the depths of Portrait of Richard Weisman.
I could see what he meant. Gaudy. Baroque. Pretentious. Richard Weisman
must have a massive ego to hang this monstrosity in his living room. I
could just picture it, resting in all its neon brightness, snug on the
wall – glaring at visitors with a deep, vacant stare. Weisman would
smugly tell his frightened guests: “Yes, my good friend Andy Warhol
made this piece for me. Do you have a portrait of yourself by Andy? No?
Well maybe someday you’ll be able to buy a print of this one.”
And yet, here it was, staring at me instead, in the WSU Museum of Art
– repository of fine and high art that it is. And next to Mr. Weisman
hung four massive Campbell’s soup cans, mind numbingly real in detail.
“How does this one make you feel?” I asked Anthony.
“It makes me feel hungry. Doesn’t that look like it belongs
in a Red Robin?”
It did. And I had actually seen one there. I felt giddy knowing that in
my own cupboard I also had four Campbell’s soup cans – I too
had a piece of Warhol’s inspiration. I resolved to hurry home and
study my red and white soup cans, searching for the answers to those troublesome
questions – who am I? Am I a can of tomato soup? What will I eat
for dinner? Will I have tomato soup?
Rousing myself from perplexity, I tried to regain focus. We must get down
to business. Warhol still needed to be understood, and as it was only
two o’clock, dinner was more than three hours away. There was always
the possibility that Warhol refrained from contemplating such difficult
questions. Fine by me. But if not these basic forays into the human condition,
what was Warhol’s message?
A black plaque on the wall offered a reasonable starting point. It informed
the reader that Warhol understood the iconic role of images in 1960s America,
and foresaw the pervasive impact of popular culture, media and celebrity.
Perhaps he understood all too well – understood that the three formed
a massive cash cow waiting to be butchered. And boy did he butcher. One
can almost see the red blood streaks mirrored in the gaudy lines of paint
dashed across the Siberian Tiger’s furry face. Warhol carved up
America’s nascent cultural cow and served the public pictures of
Marilyn Monroe, Campbell’s soup, and Richard Weisman.
“But what does it mean?” I asked aloud, half-hoping Warhol
himself would appear and explain.
Maybe the answer resides in Warhol’s circumstances. His work reflects
the culture in which he created his paintings. They are a testament to
that period in America, a time when traditional definitions of Art needed
a reexamination in light of rapid cultural developments. Mass-produced
popular culture, a product of America’s post-WWII economic boom,
required an art form all its own. Warhol offered the reexamination, the
art, and perhaps even a critique of the society itself. He was able to
steal away the formidable label of “Art” from highbrow intellectualism
and fuse it with a commercially mass-produced culture. In doing so, he
gave art to satiate an increasingly prosperous middle-class, and made
a pretty penny for himself on the side.
While my mind vainly tried to wrestle with such a concept, my eyes settled
on Warhol’s Athlete Series. There could be no better expression
of this idea than his massive mural featuring the great icons of the 1960s
sports world, from Muhammad Ali to O.J. Simpson. Garishly festooned with
glitzy paint in streaks of pinks, reds, greens, yellows; this was art
that common folk could relate to. Weisman unabashedly said as much in
his comment of the work. He felt that people usually spent their leisure
time watching sports, or appreciating art. What happens when you combine
the two? And who better than Andy Warhol to pull off such a daring feat?
The result of course, is a perfect portrait of modern American society.
The plastic TV culture of America becomes Art.
With this in mind, I caught a glimpse of Warhol’s black and white
self-portrait. From my perspective, it was an enigma. All over the surrounding
walls there were pictures that shouted at you with their vibrant colors
like neon signs flashing in the filthy dark of some back alley. But here,
alone, was Warhol himself – devoid of color, his face half drenched
in darkness, half illumined by God’s own light. What does it mean?
My friend looked from a different angle. “If you look from here,
you can see your own reflection in the black half of the face. And behind
you is this crazy collage of lines and streaks and pictures and colors
(the reflection of Athlete Series behind us) – it all looks as if
it were turning and stewing in the back of Warhol’s head.”
Indeed. But I could see where he was going. I imagined that behind the
façade of simple soup cans, Marilyn Monroe portraits, and plywood
Brillo Boxes, dwelt a mind that reeled from a culture obsessed with perfection
and efficiency. A distinctly American culture that craved celebrities,
worshipped popular culture, and bowed to the media. Deftly employing “iconic
images” as his medium, Warhol gave voice to his musings. The result
was a simple soup can. Perhaps no better commentary on American culture
has been made since.
by Andrew Phelps
Expected graduation: May 2005
Major: Political Science, History, English
Hometown: Chelan, WA
This paper is a review of the Andy Warhol exhibit
shown at the WSU Museum of Art. Interpreting the art
proved difficult. Thankfully, the friend I brought
along offered insightful and amusing commentary. The
review is an attempt to understand the art and the
artist.
