totally great .
–John Giorno
Place: The former locker room of the old No. 13 Hook & Ladder.
POET, ( winningly ) How long have you been a painter?
ANDY. When I was nine years old I had St. Vitus Dance. I painted a picture of Hedy Lamarr from a Maybelline ad. It was no good, and I threw it away. I realized I couldn’t paint.
POET. That is a revealing fact. Your first painting was of a movie star. What is your capacity? Are you a fast worker?
ANDY. I can make a picture in five minutes, but sometimes I run into so much trouble. I have to do them over and over. Or I don’t have enough turpentine, and everything is sticky. I did fifty Elvises one day. Half my California show. The roof of the firehouse leaked, and they were all ruined. I had to do them all over.
POET. How come you weren’t in the Modern Museum show this year?
ANDY. I was crushed. But it doesn’t matter. POET. How come?
ANDY, ( coughing ) They had Marisol and Bob Indiana, and I guess they thought three from one gallery would be too much. I was so hurt.
POET. What do you think of Abstract Expressionism?
ANDY. Art is dead.
POET. Why Is Art dead?
ANDY. Nobody thinks. Nobody uses imagination anymore. Imagination is finished.
POET. What do you think of Larry 2 ?
ANDY. He’s the daddy of “Pop Art.” He’s so chic.
POET. What is “Pop Art"?
ANDY. “Pop . . . Art” . . . is . . . use . . . of . . . the . . . popular . . . image.
POET. Is “Pop Art” a fade? [ sic ]
ANDY. Yes. “Pop Art” is a fade, [ sic ] I am a “Pop Artist.”
POET. Would you like to go with Maryborough 3 ?
ANDY. Oh, yes. They are international, and I hear they give you a private secretary. That would be good for my career.
POET. Did you get any free soup from the Campbell soup people?
ANDY. No! Not even a word. Isn’t that amazing? If it had been Heinz, Drew Heinz would have sent me cases of soup every week.
POET. What do you think of the nude figure in American painting?
ANDY. Oh, Art is too hard.
POET. What’s that can of paint on the floor? It looks like house pa int.
ANDY. It is. I mean it’s the black paint I use.
POET. Don’t you use tubes like other artists?
ANDY, ( crossly ) Ohhhh, no.
POET. What pigments do you use?
ANDY. A silver spray can, plastic paint. . . and varnoline.
POET. What’s varnoline?
ANDY. I clean my screens and brushes with it. I am having so much trouble. I am allergic to varnoline. I break out in red blotches and vile sores. I’m going to have to stop painting.
POET. Did you just become allergic to it?
ANDY. Yes. In the last two, three weeks.
POET. And you have been using varnoline for two years?
ANDY Yes.
POET. Don’t you think it is psychosomatic?
ANDY No . . . Yes . . . I don’t know.
POET. Well, if you weren’t allergic to it for two years, I think it was caused by a mental disorder.
ANDY, ( confused ) I guess so. It gets in your blood. Varnoline is poisonous. That’s what causes the. . . .
POET. Where do you have your silk screens made?
ANDY. Mr. Golden.
POET. Is that where Rauschenberg has his made?
ANDY, ( huffily ) Yes . . . Oh, don’t put that in your interview.
POET. Tell me what you do when you’re not painting.
ANDY. I believe in living. I didn’t before. I spent fourth of July in the country, and I had forgot about living. It was so beautiful. I started going to Sam Ronny’s Health Club on Broadway and West 73 Street, every day for four hours. I get massaged, box, swim under water . . . I want to be pencil thin . . . I want to like myself. . . What else? I am making a movie about sleep.
POET. Sleep! What about sleep?
ANDY A movie of John Giorno sleeping for eight hours.
POET. How fascinating. Could you be more explicit?
ANDY It’s just John sleeping for eight hours. His nose and his mouth. His chest breathing. Occasionally, he moves. His face. Oh, it’s so beautiful.
POET. When can I see it?
ANDY. I don’t know.
POET. Tell me more about your painting.
ANDY. I am going to stop