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EVAN ESSENCE?

Where Warhol's superstars were flagrantly post-Freudian, the Big Brother contestants are merely post-Evans. (Or, pre-Mirror staged: Mohan not Lacan.) Evans-gelical in their half-hearted drive for instant recognition, frisky nothingness, fame as a given, everything kept nicely tightly brightly reigned-in. Warhol's superstars manifested hi-tone ugliness, neurosis, contempt, pathology, and their glorious interruption {narcotic interegnum, anti-social intercourse, insipid pathology} said: I too, can be famous. For fame is our very air conditioning, now. I am your child, America. I am your fall. I am your ... FUTURE.

Fame's swing from other-worldly perfection to a celebrittle feast.

And only one of the primal ironies* Warhol choreographed was surely this: he turned the truly famous {EAP, JFK, MM} into acryllic mummies, nerveless icons, set, embalmed, glazed; and handed over the keys the afterlife of his MOTION pictures to his own little superstar studs satyrs savanarollas sighcotics, social detritus, ciphers of abjection, in other words (and pictures) all that rigid Middle America most of all didn't want to SEE ... gaze or reflect upon ... the ultimate situation comedy with all the comedy taken out ... pure en situ, pure locked gaze, monologues of post-War drift & dehiscence & drama queenerie spun on wardrugs and war holes ... like a post-Beat situation comedy he didn't even bother to try and elevate the characters from 'cliches' (i.e., exactly the kind of cliches which a middle class father drear father or good working class Pa would desperately fear his son or daughter, off to art college in the morning, will end up mingling with, contaminated with, converting to their unholy cult of me me me ... all these high heel marys and ritalin genies and sexless sex fiends ... all the more dangerous sexually for not actually doing it, no, they DO foucault as far as actual touchy fucky goes - touching was Andy's number one no-no, no one touched the Pope, noli me ...) where the Naked Theater meets All In The Family ... with noddy-noddy Andy as unseen Pittsburgher pater familiass ... speed taken to such a pitch it becomes lack of motion ... time as trial ... screen test as the sitters own long night of un (war)holy confession ... a pale ghost this way UMs ...

{*NB: real unitalicised irony, back when irony wasn't yet ironic, anaemic, an escape clause out of actual reflection and thought. At which point one could spiral off into a whole chapter of reflections on: Warhol and "reflection", social reflex, genuflection, class revenge, dyslexia, visual allegory, Warholian ideology and reification ... }

posted by Ian 7/10/2003 12:53:00 PM

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