I bought a copy of Andy Warhol’s silver-covered Index on a recent Significant Birthday for about the same price as my car’s last M.O.T. The book, which feels like a sturdy magazine, is mostly striking black-and-white photographs of members of Warhol’s late 1960s Factory in New York City, sprawled on sofas or leaning against stark brick walls or inspecting huge screen-prints of bananas. An interview with Warhol contains exchanges like this:
Nico's self-reflexive book
Nico's self-reflexive book
Nico's self-reflexive book
I bought a copy of Andy Warhol’s silver-covered Index on a recent Significant Birthday for about the same price as my car’s last M.O.T. The book, which feels like a sturdy magazine, is mostly striking black-and-white photographs of members of Warhol’s late 1960s Factory in New York City, sprawled on sofas or leaning against stark brick walls or inspecting huge screen-prints of bananas. An interview with Warhol contains exchanges like this: