Andy Warhol is signing his latest book of Polaroids at a large bookstore in Manhattan, 
hundreds of fans pressing around the table. A young man at the edge of the crowd walks slowly behind the table, arm-length from Warhol, adroitly snatches his wig, tosses it to an accomplice waiting near the door. Both run out into the anonymous streets of New York.
THE YEAR is 1985. As the host of an author series at the Boston Public Library, I have just been told by a publicist that I must find a wig-safe area for Andy Warhol when he autographs his new book. I become jittery about his appearance, less so for the following evening’s program with James Baldwin. “Just be calm and measured when you meet them, nonchalant,” I think. “Just keep your eyes off the wig.”
Andy Warhol arrived at the library with an entourage (of course). During introductions, Warhol’s distant “hello” left my outstretched, right hand with no place to go, so I swung it up to my chest as if I were overwhelmed by meeting him. Silver-blond and bland, with the trademark oversized, red-rimmed glasses, Warhol languidly distanced himself from his environment. He seemed preoccupied, bored, surrounded by an impenetrable force field. As I led him and his friends down to the green room, I made a reassuring gesture toward a long table backed into an alcove under the stairwell, commenting that this was the area where the book signing would take place. I was not surprised, by then, that Warhol did not respond, his silence continuing all the way to the green room.
Warhol immediately asked to see the stage, finally looking directly at me as he spoke. I followe
d him down the narrow stairs, almost bumping into him when he stopped abruptly: “I can’t sit on those wood chairs. What about the chairs in the green room?” Okay… No one offered to help me, a skinny, five-foot-eleven smoker, squeeze the large black chairs into the small passageway and roll them down to the stage.
While waiting for the audience to arrive, the editor of the collection told me I could introduce him (the editor), then leave the stage, and he would introduce “Andy.” Why a young man from Interview, Warhol’s house magazine, was also to be seated on stage puzzled me, but I thought, “Don’t ask!” Later in the evening, I would end up being grateful for his enthusiasm and normal speech patterns.
The auditorium filled up quickly, hundreds more loitered at the entrance, and noisy onlookers wound up the stairs to the ground floor, where some began to depart, flipping sarcastic remarks into the air, accusing the library of failing to provide a large enough venue for the event. Fortunately, the mutterers and hooters were in the minority, and many people waited patiently in various parts of the library, hoping they would get a glimpse of Warhol during the book signing. When I left the green room to check with the security guards about the situation outside the auditorium, I overheard a young art student excitedly tell a friend he just had to see the “grandfather” of Pop Art.
It was finally time for Andy Warhol to speak. After thanking Mr. Warhol for his appearance at the library, I introduced the editor of the new collection of Polaroids. With no place to sit, I retired to the green room stairwell to listen. The editor spoke about Warhol’s career, his interest in Polaroid photography, and what the new collection was all about. His last words were something to this effect: “Andy is a very shy person, so he will not be speaking this evening … [pause, for dramatic effect] … but, he will answer questions.”
Who can remember the convoluted questions people asked? But the answers were unforgettable: “Yes.” “No.” “Maybe.” Most of the audience was captivated, or pretended to be, but when I asked some friends later that night, they were appalled. As the questions finally dribbled away, I grew anxious, nervous about leading him through the unruly crowd to the book signing area. He didn’t mention the wig-theft episode, so I relaxed a little as we pushed through the electric atmosphere toward the table, cringing as I glanced at the metal, fold-up chair.
No complaints were uttered as he sat down. By this time, the editor was nowhere in sight, but Warhol’s young consort from Interview, who had not spoken during the faux presentation, hovered behind the table, smiling like a protective angel. Was he the wig-minder?
Hundreds of fans pressed in to the table—not a queue in sight—waiting to buy the book or offering him an array of items to sign: Campbell’s soup cans, reproductions of his more famous paintings, even an athletic supporter. Warhol signed everything with good will as the force field cracked a little. I began to wonder if perhaps it was true that he really was shy as I watched him smile occasionally, usually without comment, sort of nodding at the accolades tossed at him from the adoring admirers. Although they jostled and jockeyed for position, it was not a scuffling mob, thankfully, and I relaxed a bit more.
I was astounded by Warhol’s accommodation of the autograph-seekers. Close to two hours later, after the last item was signed, I was sincere when I thanked him for his patience and of course for his visit to the library. By then I didn’t expect a return salutation, nor was I surprised when the next request came. I was sent to the front of the library to see if a limousine had arrived to take him and his friend to the opening of an art gallery on Newbury Street, a mere three blocks away.
When I returned with no good news, an argument broke out between Mr. Warhol and Mr. Interview. Mr. Warhol: “If the limousine doesn’t show up within the next fifteen minutes, we’re flying back to New York.” Mr. Interview: “But Mr. Brown told me that the gallery is only a few blocks from here. Why can’t we just walk over there?” Mr. Warhol: “No, they promised a limousine, and I will not go if it doesn’t arrive.” Mr. Interview: “Oh, come on, Andy, it’ll be fun. Let’s just walk.” Mr. Warhol: “No.”
Twenty minutes later (I was thrilled it was more than fifteen minutes), after many trips by Mr. Interview and me to scan the street for the limo, Warhol was still seated in the hard chair, with me, leaning daringly on the edge of the table, scrutinizing the quality of the wig. I was asked to call a taxi to take them to the airport.
As I was walking to the circulation area adjacent to the lobby to make the call, a man was entering the library with two matching Dalmatian dogs on long red leashes. Although the livery outfit should have tipped me off, I hurried over to the doors to explain that only service dogs were allowed, but was interrupted by his salvo that he was here to pick up Mr. Warhol. I ran downstairs, trying not to scream, “Drella, Drella, the limo’s here!” I had read somewhere that his close friends had given him that name: a combination of Dracula and Cinderella.
James-Ron Brown was the supervisor of the General Library at the Boston Public Library.
