Просто дети

облака рафаэлевских оттенков

Казалось, в память об Энди весь город покрыт нетронутыми залежами чего-то белоснежного и воздушного, как его волосы.

С днём рождения, Смерть

Мы любили гулять по Бауэри - разглядывали драные шёлковые платься, заношенные кашемировые пальто, потёртые косухи. Часами слонялись по магазину "Краски Перл", а потом ехали на метро на Кони-Айленд - пошататься по набережным и съесть в закусочной "Нэйтанз" один хот-дог на двоих.

Мы с Робертом практически не ссорились, но препирались, как малые дети.

Однажды, когда на улице моросил дождь, я почувствовала: меня зовёт сэндвич с сыром и салатом.

“I open doors, I close doors,” he wrote. He loved no one, he loved everyone. He loved sex, he hated sex. Life is a lie, truth is a lie. His thoughts ended with a healing wound. “I stand naked when I draw. God holds my hand and we sing together.” His manifesto as an artist.

Wordlessly he handed me an envelope.
I watched him walk away and disappear into the crowd.
The first thing that struck me was that he had written his letter on Scribner’s stationery. His handwriting, usually so deliberate, was fraught with contradiction; it went from neat and precise to a childlike scrawl. But even before I read the words, the thing that deeply moved me was the simple heading: “Patti—What I think—Robert.”

“Come with me. There’s freedom there. I have to find out who I am.”
The only thing I knew about San Francisco was the great earthquake and Haight-Ashbury. “I’m already free,” I said.
He stared at me with a desperate intensity. “If you don’t come, I’ll be with a guy. I’ll turn homosexual,” he threatened.

I didn’t feel for Warhol the way Robert did. His work reflected a culture I wanted to avoid. I hated the soup and felt little for the can. I preferred an artist who transformed his time, not mirrored it.