Claim to Unfame

John Vettese sees what develops | Andy Warhol: Polaroids and B&W Prints

by John Vettese

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Published: Aug 18, 2010

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Somewhere between the paparazzi and party photographers sat Andy Warhol.

In a selection of his black-and-white prints on display at the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts (PAFA), we find the modernist impresario documenting fellow movers and shakers on the New York City scene in the late '70s and early '80s. The snaps are lively, capricious and intimate; we see big names like Keith Haring and Neil Sedaka, caught in candid moments at galleries and clubs.

That intimacy proved to be a point of frustration for the gossip-rag photographers of the era. As the exhibit notes point out, Warhol was an insider, a known artist, a celebrity himself. He didn't have to wait at the door outside the nightclub, and he didn't make subjects flinch or duck when he pointed his camera at them. Being photographed by Andy, in these circles, was an honor.

By the same token, Warhol exploited this trust. Many of the images on the wall at PAFA are uncouth and unflattering. We see his studio assistant, Jay Shriver, mouth agape in the middle of eating a slice of pizza. We see 20/20 anchor Hugh Downs, shnockered at a party, his arm around an anonymous woman. Warhol's mission statement was that he sought out photos of "a famous person doing something unfamous," that a good photo meant "being in the right place at the wrong time." Clearly, Warhol wasn't very different from the paparazzi.

That's without even mentioning that many of these, technically speaking, are not good photos. Downs is out of focus. Haring is framed awkwardly and underexposed. Shots of Liza Minnelli speaking at a formal dinner were seemingly taken with the 1970s equivalent of cheap disposable cameras left at each place setting. Warhol shot with a 35 mm automatic, and it shows. Many images feel rushed and awkward, constrained and snapshot-y.

Photos of Christopher Makos prove somewhat more interesting, at least on a geometric level. We see the pop artist and photographer in running sweats and a scarf in Central Park prior to (or just following) a workout. As he stretches, his body forms unusual shapes and angles that fill the frame nicely.

Better are images capturing the rough-hewn dirt and grit of the club scene. New York DJ Johnny Dynell rushes the lens screaming with his middle finger extended and with an arm around Alba Clemente, wife of painter Francesco Clemente. Elsewhere, Clash bassist Paul Simonon sits in an apparent opiate haze, with another anonymous woman, against the dank wall of a smoky club.

These images make palpable the attitude, the pulse, the riotous drive of big-city nightlife, with Warhol at the center as the O.G. party photographer. But even at their most successful, they are hardly portraits. More like fodder for scrapbook pages.

As a contrast, PAFA juxtaposes the black-and-whites with a collection of Warhol's Polaroid photos from the 1980s, photos that are more technically exacting, but less visually exciting. A collection of studies for larger screenprints, these are images in their working stage.

Some have depth and appeal. We see Dorothy Hamill at age 30, holding up a pair of skates with a pouty expression that seems to wonder if athletics will forever define her. Actor Sean McKeon poses as Dracula for Warhol's Myths portfolio, haunting and yet comical.

But mostly, the Polaroids are humdrum head shots of lesser-known names — art dealers in profile and the young daughters of billionaire benefactors. It's important to remember, these images are not the end product in themselves. The only finished print we see is Warhol's large-scale silver self-portrait as we enter the exhibit, a majestic piece that alone justifies the cost of admission.

But this begs the question — is the exhibit worthy of exhibit? When he died in 1987, Warhol left behind some 60,000 snapshots and Polaroids, from which this collection draws. But does that mean he left behind 60,000 pieces for framing and display? Working versions might not be what a deceased artist would want representing his art; it almost feels more anthropological than aesthetic.

Then again, this is Warhol we're talking about. He was notably fame-obsessed, and fame is clearly a theme linking these disparate photos — from works depicting celebrities, to works gaining notoriety because of the celebrity of their creator.

He was also someone who let his creative status define him. Every waking moment, an artist creates art; his very existence is an act of art. And in that regard, Warhol would have been OK with his scrapbooking snapshots, framed and matted, hanging on a gallery wall.

(j_vettese@citypaper.net)

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