The Philosophy of Andy Warhol (14 page)

"It's too small. Its just a studio."

"You live in a studio?? You didn't tell me. How great." I want to live in a studio. In one room. That's what I've always wanted, not have anything—to be able to get rid of all my junk—maybe put everything on microfilm or holographic wafers—and just move into one room. I was really jealous of B's lifestyle.

"Are you air-conditioned?" I asked, jealously.

"Yes."

"Built-in?"

"Yes. You're always so impressed with air conditioning. Maybe I should give a party. I'll wait for a heat wave and the air conditioning can be the theme of the party. But my studio is too small to stay in more than an hour and a half, because after an hour people start to get claustrophobic. The best kind of party I could give would be champagne and nuts and then take everybody dancing."

It was time to start getting ready for lunch. B went back to his room to dress. I put my napkin over the bowl of cherry pits so I wouldn't have to look at how many I'd eaten. That's the hard part of overdosing on cherries—you have all the pits to tell you exactly how many you ate. Not more or less. Exactly. One-seed fruits really bother me for that reason. That's why I'd always rather eat raisins than prunes. Prune pits are even more imposing than cherry pits.

14

The Tingle

In New York I spend most of my morning talking on the phone to one B or another. I call it "checking-in." I like to hear about everything the B did since the morning before. I ask about all the places I didn't go and all the people I didn't see. Even if a B accompanied me to a party or a club the night before I ask what happened because I may have missed something on the other side of the room. If I didn't miss it, I forgot it.

I have no memory. Every day is a new day because I don't remember the day before. Every minute is like the first minute of my life. I try to remember but I can't. That's why I got married—to my tape recorder. That's why I seek out people with minds like tape recorders to be with. My mind is like a tape recorder with one button—Erase.

If I wake up too early to check in with anyone, I kill time by watching TV and washing my underwear. Maybe the reason my memory is so bad is that I always do at least two things at once. It's easier to forget something you only half-did or quarter-did.

My favorite simultaneous action is talking while eating. I think it's a sign of class. The rich have many advantages over the poor, but the most important one, as far as I'm concerned, is knowing how to talk and eat at the same time. I think they learn it in finishing school. It's very important if you go out to dinner a lot. At dinner you're expected to eat—because if you don't it's an insult to the hostess—and you're expected to talk—because if you don't it's an insult to the other guests. The rich somehow manage to work it out but I just can't do it. They are never caught with an open mouth full of food but that's what happens to me. It's always my turn to talk just when I've filled my mouth with mashed potatoes. The rich, on the other hand, seem to take turns automatically; one talks while the other chews; then one chews while the other talks. If for some reason the conversation demands an immediate comment in the middle of chewing, the rich know how to quickly hide the half-chewed food somewhere—under the tongue? behind the teeth? halfway down the throat?— while they make their point. When I ask my rich friends how they do it, they say, "Do what?" That's how much they take it for granted. I practice at home in front of the mirror and over the phone. In the meantime, until I've perfected the ability to talk and eat simultaneously, I stick to my basic rule for dinner party behavior: don't talk and don't eat.

Of course you can have bad manners if you know how to use them.

One morning I was vacuuming while watching Capital Punishment on Barbara Walters and the phone rang. I knew it was a particular B because she's the only one who calls me before I call her. All the other Bs wait for me to make the first move. This B is a conceptual thinker from a good family. Though she has moved to the wrong side of the tracks her breeding still shows. She can eat, talk, and
walk
at the same time.

I let the phone ring ten times because Capital Punishment was riveting. Finally I picked it up and said quickly, "Hi, could you hold on for a second." I dropped the receiver and ran into the kitchen for some toast with jam. While I waited for the toast to toast I read the label on the jar of jam. I took the jar back with me to the phone because I like to spoon it out onto the toast, glob by glob, bite by bite.

"What's new," I said, pressing my ear to the receiver, my mouth to the jam.

B gave me a blow-by-blow description of the Barbara Walters show. I wasn't bored because I had forgotten it already. When she got to the point where she was describing what I was watching on my TV in front of me, I interrupted. "What else is new?"

"I don't know," snapped B, who hates to be interrupted. "What are you doing?" "Cleaning up."

"Cleaning is a thing that bugs me twenty-four hours a day," B answered. She's the kind of person who always has the same problem as you do, only a million times more. "I always have it on my mind," she continued enthusiastically. "Where to clean next—a drawer? the desk? the closet? I've vacuumed the room but I haven't vacuumed the closet, and I'm really going to get it all done today. I've got to shampoo the rug first. I've been using Old Glory Extra-Professional-Strength shampoo and I do it just they way they say—by putting a six-inch-by-six-inch patch. Then I scrub it with a brush and bring the nap up, then I leave the room with a lot of stuff for about three hours—a tape recorder, a couple of books, magazines, newspapers—and I go to the park and sit there and talk to the bums. Then I can come back and vacuum up all the foam. I have to make sure I have new E-11 bags because I have a Singer vacuum cleaner, the canister type. I wish I had a Hoover. Most people don't use their vacuum cleaners because they have to put them in the mop closets and if you're at somebody's house and ask to use their vacuum cleaner they say, 'Oh, don't bother, it's so heavy, it's such a mess,' and so they use carpet sweepers. And carpet sweepers are really out of date. Carpet sweepers and a broom. You don't bring up the nap on a rug with a broom. Because all you do then is get little broom hairs all over the rug, and then you have to pick those up individually and put them in the waste-paper basket, and then you've got more garbage. Unless you put them down the toilet. So then I start vacuuming. I have to decide what I'm going to do first. The floor? No. Because the dirt darts in other places. So if I haven't made my bed yet I vacuum along the bottom of the bed. With no extra equipment on the end of the thing. I just put maybe the long tube with the very tight plastic thing with just a little hole. So I can get into the corners. Then I have to do my desk. I take all the books off. i put the brush attachment on—the round brush—take my telephone book, go along the top of it with the brush and then all down the edges. If I see a spot on my alligator pocketbook which is maybe on the desk next to the phone book I have to get my shoe-shine bag out of the closet and get my saddle soap and clean that. I clean everything so meticulously there's nothing messy or dirty in the room. In the house. Nothing. NOTHING!"

"Don't shout, B," I said, spooning out a little more jam.

"Okay, but say my pocket radio's next to the telephone book. Well, after I've dusted that with the vacuum cleaner I take it out of its little leather case and vacuum the inside of that, and while I'm doing that I open the radio up and put in a new nine-volt battery and then, using the attachment with the little hole, I vacuum the inside of the radio because it keeps the battery thing free of dust and you don't get static on your radio. Then there's the jar of pencils on my desk. I take all the pencils out of the jar and put them on newspaper but I have to put the newspaper on the bathroom floor because I don't want the print to rub off on the rug or bedspread. Then I put the little pencil jar in hot Ivory soap and a little Fantastik and I started about a month ago using those— not Brillo pads, they have no soap in them—you know, they're like those wire things that might make an Art Deco pin or something? Those little wire soap pads that get the stuck ink and pencil shavings out of the bottom of the jar. Then, before I put the pencils all back, I have to make sure they're sharpened finely so I get the pencil sharpener out of the top drawer of my desk and I go back in the bathroom and sharpen my pencils over the toilet, because if I do it in my room over the waste basket, some of the dust is going to back up into the air, and it'll probably settle somewhere I've already cleaned, and I really want to GET FREE OF ALL THE DUST. After sharpening my pencils I flush the shavings and put the pencils back in the little jar. Then I take all the books off the shelves and put them in the bathroom on top of the newspaper. Then I, you know, once-over it with the brush. Vacuum. Then I have to shine it. I get the Endust out. It's better than Old Gold or Pledge or Lemon Pledge. That's such a farce, adding all those lemons to everything. Lemon was 1973. I think. Everything was coming up lemons. This year everything's a 'tingle.' So the Endust does that tingle to the furniture. I spray it on a clean yellow cloth. I have to remember, after I've done all my dusting, to wash the cloth. I just go over the shelves with it. I have a little thing with my cigarettes in it—not a box, sort of a glass—and I take all the cigarettes out and shake that into the toilet so I won't have little pieces of tobacco lying around. Then I go through the next little tin that has only pens in it, and scissors and Exacto knives and things like that, and I check to make sure all the ballpoint pens are writing. If they don't write on the first letter, I throw them right out in the garbage can. I've got a nice garbage liner twenty-two by forty-four in the garbage can so I don't have to wash the pail after I finish throwing everything out. Then I take the brush attachment and brush all the books. Down the sides, on the top. If the covers look sloppy or ragged, I take a little bit of ConTact paper covering just the outside part of the book and I type up a label in a matching color and put it down the spine of the book. If I have an old book, like say, Sherlock Holmes, that has a raggedy-edged cover, well, I take the cover off, and then, if it isn't a pretty-color book that matches the room—say it's dark brown and I don't like dark brown, I like yellow—I use ConTact paper. That way I have some continuity on my bookshelves. After that I have to vacuum the typewriter. That's such a drag. I've got to be careful or I can ruin my machine. I've got the vacuum out and I leave on the same brush attachment. I turn it on and I just brush lightly through the keys. Then I put on the long narrow hose and I unscrew the top part of the typewriter with a screwdriver and then I work on each key. I get a bottle of denatured alcohol, and a whole box of Q-tips. I plan on wasting them. Because I can only use one side for each letter. And since there's two letters on each key I have to use one Q-tip for each key. Then I blow a little bit with my mouth onto the typewriter to get the dust going toward the big hole. Then I vacuum it up. Then I get the Fantastik out and I put it on one of those reusable— Handi-Wipes, they call them. They come in yellow and white, and turquoise and white, and pink and white. I use yellow and white. Everything this year is green and white and yellow and white. Not lemon, just yellow, I don't know why. I put a little of the Fantastik on the Handi-Wipe and I go between each key with a Q-tip and a little Fantastik just to be sure the white parts between the black keys are clean. Anybody with a piano should do the same. You have to be careful not to let any of the Fantastik drip into where the keys are because that's going to ruin the insides of the typewriter. Then I have to make sure all the plugs are clean. I have to see if they're unplugged so I don't get a shock. White extension cords get dirty. When I have one that looks too dirty I take it off and make a list on a little white pad—'new extension cord, 6 inches.' Then I start doing the drawers of the desk. I have a lot of tapes in the top drawer so I have to see that all the cassettes are in order. I take a whole line of them out and put them on newspaper. Then I spray Fantastik down that space and with my Handi-Wipes I wipe that up. And then I take each cassette and I dust and wipe each one with a tiny bit of Windex which is good for their plastic coverings. I never get them out of line or out of order, they stay right in line because once I mixed up two years and it took me a long time to put it back together line by line, date by date. And then I usually get a little distracted because I see a tape and think, 'Oh, gosh, that person's dead, and I should listen to it for a minute.' So I just quickly get that done. And then I go to the second drawer which is filled with stationery: yellow legal pads on the bottom, smaller legal pads on top, then a little smaller, and envelopes in the cross-way—everything is a perfect fit. So I take out everything and check through and see if I still want it. Like, I have two pads that are from an art-supply store that are to write up television commercials and they have a shape of a television on them. Well, I know I'll probably never use them. Then I go through the envelopes. I've neatly labeled with the typewriter what's in the envelope. If the label gets dirty and raggedy-looking I type a new one. If it's for letters I'm saving, I go through the letters to see if I still want to save them. Well, I might find a few birthday cards. You know, from people who were sentimental to me a year ago. I toss them right out. And also if they're not particularly pretty—out. I don't want to bother to file them with 'Famous People's Cards.' I have postcards that are the large size that should go in a postcard-collecting box but I've forgotten to buy the postcard-collecting box so I write that down to buy. I measure the postcards first. And I go to Goldsmith Brothers and buy the box when I have enough money. Then there's all my little address books. I've got Europe, England, Spain, Rome, Paris, all with a rubber band around them. And then I've got diaries from Paris and last year's calendar which is always good to keep for taxes, and little trip books from the 60s that I really don't need but I really don't want to get rid of because they might be worth something later. When they revive the 60s. I take them all out and I get the vacuum cleaner with the brush part attached and then I pick up the extra dust there and take the ConTact paper out—there's ConTact paper at the bottom of my drawers—because I want to dust under the ConTact paper. I want to get to the wood—"

"Hello?" As usual we were cut off. B lives in a small residential hotel with an overworked switchboard. Every now and then the switchboard operator pulls the plug out on B because she feels B has had more than her fair share of talking time. Then B has to wait a few minutes for a new line. She doesn't really mind and neither do I—it gives us both a chance to go to the bathroom or something. This time, however, it was twenty minutes before B called me back. I really don't need that much time in the bathroom. I was tempted to call up another B to kill time but just as I was about to dial, the phone rang and this B was back. "Sorry, bad board today," she said. "But I was waiting twenty minutes." "A, I'm not thinking about time, I'm thinking about DETAIL!" she roared. "I'm thinking about all the cleaning I have to do! After I finish the stationery drawer, after I vacuum all the little plain white pads and the airmail envelopes, take them all out, put them back in, I still have to do the bottom drawer, the drawer filled with pictures. There are a lot of envelopes that say 'Miscellaneous' in that drawer and this is one of the things I'm trying to conquer in my life, the word 'Miscellaneous.' It's got to go. Because nothing is miscellaneous. So I've decided to take everything that's in 'Miscellaneous' and put it in another file. So I take out things like 'Releases,' and envelopes people have sent me with a picture I sent to somebody who died, and photographs from books, all these things. And I say, 'Do I really want all these releases?' So I open the packages and I look. Well, I won't save all the releases, I'll just save the important ones. The rest Til throw out. I'll get rid of a good eighth of an inch if I throw out somebody like—Lee Tallberg. Who the hell is Lee Tallberg? Rotten Rita? Well, maybe Rotton Rita I should keep. Peter Hugall . . . well, maybe I'll save releases. Maybe I'll make a book of releases. I'll keep them in the same envelope and just have it published like it is. 'Releases in an Envelope.' Then I have to go through the Guarantee File. Now, there's no point in keeping guarantees that are over the ninety-day guarantee period. So I go through the envelope and I get rid of a good inch when I throw out guarantees from 1965, you know, tape recorders and cameras, and I've mailed in the warranty and I save the little thing but they send me after a year an IBM card that says, 'If you require service on any of these parts you pay $17.00.' Then, of course, I have my receipts for taxes for three years and each month—I keep them very neat, they're in business envelopes—they don't fit very well, but I keep all of 1973 in a manila file that says 'Receipts.' Then Xeroxes of things I keep because there was a reason for me to Xerox them in the first place, so there's no reason for me to go through them. Then 'Ideas.' Well, the idea envelope is empty, but I might get some so I might as well keep the envelope for the file. 'Bills to Be Paid.' Well, actually, 'Bills to Be Paid' isn't a good file to keep hidden in a drawer, so if I want to be a better housekeeper I should actually take those bills out that I might have to pay and keep them in sight. 'Lawyer.' Well, all the letters from the lawyer are dated and I keep them in order with the last letter that he sent me at the top. That file I'll keep. 'Letters to Write.' Now that's another stupid file because there's only one letter in it, to Heiner Friedrich and John Giorno to send back something and I know I'll never mail it, so I'm going to throw it out and that's about an eighth of an inch gone now. Now, 'Carbon Copies of Letters.' That's a good file because they were funny letters that I wrote. 'Possibilities for Movies.* That's a good file too. I haven't thought of any yet but I'm always thinking. Now my 'Accountant' envelope I'm keeping. That I even add to, every time I see an article like in
New York
magazine about deducting your plants. I cut it out and put it in the file for the accountant—'Powers of Deduction'— writing off the home office—so I'll know for next year. 'The Dope Lawyer.' That's a script. Well, there's no reason not to save scripts. 'School Play.' That's an original screenplay written in hand. Now, I've got a little thing of foreign coins here. I guess the only ones I should bother to save are kopeks because there's not enough English money here, it's all Russian money, so I'll keep it. So that drawer's neat. Now I have to get my Handi-Wipe and dust the desk with Endust and go all around the edges. Then I have to get the most horrible product there is out of the waste-paper basket I keep under the sink in the bathroom. It's Noxon. It really is the smelliest product made. But I have to do the hardware on the desk. The little handles. I tear a pillowcase up because a rag isn't right. I've got to really get into all the edges with the Noxon. There are six fixtures on the desk and I might as well do the doorknobs too. Once it gets dry I put the Noxon on and then I polish it with another cleaning rag, so it's all shiny. Then for a week or so if I want it to stay nice and gold like that, I put on those white sleeping gloves every time I open my desk. Then I realize that I have my bureau drawer to do. Then I realize that I forgot that silver glass I keep pencils in. I might as well polish all the silver at the same time. So I go and take out my one silver spoon—stolen from my mother's—and a little silver demitasse spoon for when I'm in the mood, and my silver glass, and my silver key chain, and I go in the bathroom and get out my Gorham Silver Polish, and I put on my lined yellow rubber gloves. Lined so they don't stick to my fingers. But first I powder my hands with Johnson's Baby Powder—silver polish, and Noxon too, is very hard on your hands, they make them dry. A very funny feeling, like when you get a dry mouth. Then I clean the silver with a little cloth, then I rinse it in warm soapy water, then I polish it. But since I don't want to dirty another cloth I usually polish it with toilet paper. Then there's a flower vase on the desk I want to clean, so I put it in soapy water, and then I stick toilet paper down into the center to dry the base. Then, after that I have to do the top drawer."