Really! I love Andy as well, but I have to disagree with you. Andy Warhol killed art. He mocked art mocking society mocking art. That bastard! He was brilliant.

I almost killed my sister to avenge his death. When I was five, shortly after Laurel had been born, a friend of Mother's came to visit. She asked whether I had a boyfriend and I popped in a tape about Walt Disney wherein Warhol talked a little about Donald Duck and I said, "this is the love of my life."

Mother's friend turned to my Mother and exclaimed, "he was a homosexual, no? Brilliant man, I heard he died recently." I didn't know what a homosexual was, but that didn't matter. The fact was that he was dead.

In my mind, the only way I understood the world was in terms of equilibrium. I thought that for every person to be born, another had to die. Therefore--and this little ecological fallacy is exactly why I never went into physics, thank heavens--my sister was responsible for his death.

I saw red. My life was over--my love was gone. I don't think I really forgave her until I stumbled on an article about it, many, many years later.