In this twittering world,
Andy Warhol’s chronicle of his glimmering final
decade seems pretty well scheduled for its republication. A star-studded (and stud-studded), gorgeously gossipy account of the Pop Art demi-God’s unyielding activity from 1976 until just days before his death in 1987,
The Andy Warhol Diaries offer the sort of reading pleasure you’d get from poring over acres of salacious 1980s magazine print, only with the most famous artist of the period making gloriously catty asides about everybody over your shoulder the whole time. The most incredible thing about this catalogue of VIPs, VI-Parties and VI-Money Matters is how weirdly compelling it is, in spite of the flagrant laziness of the writing. Warhol never even so much as actually wrote any of the diary, as editor Pat Hackett explains in her introduction: the entire, breezeblock-thick thing is based on the rigorous regime of weekday morning phone calls that Warhol made to Hackett, faithfully recording his movements, anxieties and – in bogglingly minute detail – financial expenses. Edited from 20,000 pages down to the 1,123 published here, what Warhol’s testimonial lacks in art-theoretical analysis and probing psychological insight it more than makes up for in glamorous
name-dropping, irreverent opinion and oddly fascinating glimpses into the life of this totemic enigma. Marvel at the crap Andy liked watching on telly, gasp at who was on which drugs at which party, cringe at the weird way that the wind at the World Trade Centre blew Jerry Hall’s underarm B.O. right up our diarist’s nose. The ‘Diaries now comes with a gratifyingly comprehensive index at the back, so you can speedily dip in and go straight to the entries on all your favourite celebs. They’re all in here: everyone who was anyone crops up somewhere in this massive and continually-pleasing labyrinth of the best possible tittle-tattle. The Andy Warhol Diaries isn’t just another good book, it’s an exhaustive, exhausting, dependably diverting friend for life.
