Yesterday, at an art gallery I was visiting with a friend, I saw a young man who was a dead ringer for Andy Warhol. The likeness was striking. Stick thin, about 5ft 10, skinny black jeans, black jacket, shiny bulbous black shoes – and that all important platinum blonde bob. And of course the slightly vacuous persona. This guy was on the staff, inspecting tickets as you entered the exhibition.
Sheridan amused me, as he is liable to do. I breezed past this pretty young Warhol-ite queen and on to the pictures – which I rather liked. Next moment I had Sheridan breathing down my neck with exclamations of “crikey, did you see that guy back there! And what he was wearing?!”. Sheridan is conservative and conventional by his own admission. “Yes, I did see him” I said. “This is an art gallery. It’s going to attract artistic types – even on the staff”. I did turn back, perhaps 4-5 times, to study the young pretender. The resemblance and success of his obvious impersonation were uncanny.
And it was very pleasant being at the gallery. London is a perfect ying and yang. It has a huge underclass of rather grotty, horrid people. But it has an enormous cosmopolitan, arty side too. Being at the gallery’s reminded me of this. Everything is here. Every type of person is here.
Of course I would have loved to photograph the Warhol-ite, just as I would that woman on the tube the other day. I love people watching. But then – who doesn’t?