Andy Warhol. Thirteen Most Wanted Men. 1964.

Photograph by Eric Pollitzer. 2010 Andy Warhol

Foundation for the Visual Arts/ARS, New York.
 Test Subjects

HAL FOSTER

Its just taking the outside and putting it on

the inside or taking the inside and putting it
on the outside.
Andy Warhol in Gretchen Berg,
Andy: My True Story (1966)

Andy Warhol was porous in a strange, new, near-total wayporous both in

his art, with its steady stream of mass-cultural images, and in his life, with the
Factory set up as a playground of downtown denizens, uptown divas, and super-
stars somewhere in-between. At the same time, Warhol was the opposite of
porous: even before his near-fatal shooting by Valerie Solanas on June 3, 1968, he
countered his vulnerability with physical supports and psychological defenses
opaque looks (wigs and glasses), protective gadgets (omnipresent tape recorder
and Polaroid camera), and buffering entourages (at Maxs Kansas City and else-
where)and after his shooting he was literally corseted (so damaged was his mid-
section). Warhol also possessed a weird ability, early on, to attract quasi-doubles
like Edie Sedgwick (the most famous of his several companions who died young)
and Nico (the monotone singer with The Velvet Underground) and, later, to pass
as his own simulacrumeven when he was present, Warhol appeared absent or
otherwise alien, a paradoxical quality for a celebrity. These devices became cen-
tral to his persona, which is sometimes seen as his ultimate work: Warhol as a
blank Gesamtkunstwerk-in-person, the spectral center of a flashy scene. He once
proposed figment for his epitaph, and he once suggested that the best
American invention was to be able to disappear.1 Even his own image, then,
oscillated between the iconic and the ghostly.
Whereas his contemporary Marshall McLuhan viewed media technologies as
prostheses, Warhol used them as shields, ones that could also be deployed aggres-

1. Andy Warhol, America (New York: Harper & Row, 1985), p. 129; Andy Warhol, Philosophy of Andy
Warhol (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1975), p. 113. In addition, in his 1981 sequence con-
cerning American Myths, Warhol used a self-portrait for the image of The Shadow, and his late Self-
Portrait (1986) shows him decapitated.

OCTOBER 132, Spring 2010, pp. 3042. 2010 October Magazine, Ltd. and Massachusetts Institute of Technology.
32 OCTOBER

sively. From the early days of the Factory, he recorded associates like Ondine, and
visitors were often placed before a stationary movie camera for a three-minute
screen test that served as an initiation to the scene. And in his later years Warhol
collected compulsively, to the point where his East Side townhouse filled with great
piles of kitschy things like cookie jars (10,000 items were auctioned after his sudden
death in 1987). Such endless taping-and-filming and buying-and-bagging point to a
subconscious plan to conquer by copying or to control by gathering.2 Here what
counts as out or in, porous or trussed, open or closed, is not clear; like the psycho-
logical states that underlie them, these operations are bound up with each other in
Warhol. In this light, perhaps, his copying-and-collecting was another way to be
porous to the world, and his being porous another way to defend against images,
objects, and peopleto treat them as indifferent, to drain them of affect. When
Warhol worked as an illustrator in the 1950s, he often carried his portfolio in a sack,
and he was called Andy Paperbag for the habita nickname that captures both
his compulsion to contain and the fragility of this protective device. In this sense
Where Is Your Rupture? is the Warholian question par excellence.3
Putting in and taking out, falling apart and falling together, Warhol was vexed
by his own image. As a young person he failed to work up a coherent look for the
camera, and well into his time in New York he often appears uncertain, even
abashed, in photographs.4 In various shoots in the 1950s by Otto Fenn, Leila Davies
Singeles, and Edward Wallowitch, Warhol struggles to perform the signature poses
of Greta Garbo, Marlene Dietrich, and Truman Capote, and even in his Pop self-
portraits in the 1960s he strives to inhabit given looks, as in his rebellious Self-
Portrait of 1964, with his head up and eyes fixed, and his reflective Self-Portrait of
1966, with his fingers on his chin. Eventually, of course, Warhol did produce a public
image, but he did so largely through his baffles of wigs and glasses and his doubles
like Edie and Nico. Here again iconicity is in tension with its opposite.5

2. Wayne Koestenbaum, Andy Warhol (New York: Penguin, 2001), p. 2. In general, Koestenbaum
argues, the typical Warhol move was to combine a lurid subject in a cool presentation in order to
embalm it (p. 152). Perhaps it was to this same ambiguous end of control-by-gathering that, after
1974, Warhol diarized the bric-a-brac of his life in time capsules, cardboard boxes filled with memen-
tos and ephemera (over 600 were left in his estate).
3. It is a query that might also be related to multiple perplexities of his youthabout childhood
trauma (his father died suddenly when Warhol was thirteen), gender identity (masculinity was a sub-
ject he failed from the start, Koestenbaum writes [ibid., p. 20]), and social position (the Warholas
were persistently poor). He also experienced a multitude of little ruptureschorea, bad skin, prema-
ture baldness, and so on. See Karin Schick, The Red Lobsters Beauty: Correction and Pain in the
Art of Andy Warhol, in Andy Warhol Photography (Zurich: Edition Stemmle, 1999).
4. Perhaps partly in compensation Warhol imbued his illustrations of the 1950s with an elegant
nonchalance.
5. His longtime friend Metropolitan Museum curator Henry Geldzahler, used this term, as quot-
ed in Stephen Koch, Stargazer: Andy Warhols World and His Films (New York: Praeger, 1973), p. 25.
The O.E.D. defines a baffle as a plate that regulates passage in and out, and to baffle as to
reduce to perplexity; both seem fitting with Warhol. In an homage Robert Rauschenberg touched
on this iconic-ghostly doubling: In his stardom Warhol became capable, as his own shadow, to con-
trol his mass (Kynaston McShine, ed., Andy Warhol: A Retrospective [New York: MoMA, 1989], p. 429).
Test Subjects 33

Warhol. Self-Portrait. 196667.

2010 Andy Warhol Foundation for
the Visual Arts/ARS, New York.

Perhaps this difficulty with his own image made Warhol keen to the same diffi-
culty in others, and appreciative of still others who were skilled at self-fashioning
hence, in part, his fascination not only with movie stars but with accomplished trans-
vestites like Candy Darling. In any case, with others, too, he explored an array of
poses associated with various genres of photographic portraiturein particular, the
histrionic mugging of the friend in the photo-booth picture, the blank look of the
criminal in the police shot, and the come-hither look of the actor in the publicity
image. These genres differ greatly, of course, but all involve the mechanical imaging
of a self for purposes of identification; whether willing or not, this self is subject to
both alienation in the image and automatization in the process.6
And yet, despite the motto I want to be a machine, Warhol did not simply cel-
ebrate mechanization and automatization. Often he pointed to the effects of these
operations, indirectly, through the products that result from them, such as match-
books, canned soups and fruits, dance diagrams, number paintings, and so on. In
fact, his early Pop works all but resume the automatized actions that Walter
Benjamin picked out as the most telling in industrial society. Comfort isolates,
Benjamin wrote in his 1939 essay on Baudelaire; on the other hand, it brings those

6. For more on this imaging see Benjamin Buchloh, Residual Resemblance: Three Notes on the
Ends of Portraiture, in Melissa E. Feldman, ed., Face-Off: The Portrait in Recent Art (Philadelphia: ICA,
1994); and Candice Breitz, The Warhol Portrait: From Art to Business and Back Again, in Andy
Warhol Photography.
34 OCTOBER

Warhol. Edie Sedgwick.

1966. 2010 Andy
Warhol Foundation for
the Visual Arts/ARS,
New York.

enjoying it closer to mechanization. Benjamin continues:

The invention of the match around the middle of the nineteenth cen-
tury brought forth a number of innovations which have one thing in
common: one abrupt movement of the hand triggers a process of
many steps. This development is taking place in many areas. One case
in point is the telephone, where the lifting of a receiver has taken the
place of the steady movement that used to be required to crank the
older models. Of the countless movements of switching, inserting,
pressing, and the like, the snapping of the photographer has had the
greatest consequences. A touch of the finger now sufficed to fix an
event for an unlimited period of time. The camera gave the moment a
posthumous shock, as it were. Haptic experiences of this kind were
joined by optic ones, such as are supplied by the advertising pages of a
newspaper or the traffic of a big city.7

7. See Walter Benjamin, On Some Motifs in Baudelaire, in Illuminations, ed. Hannah Arendt,
(New York: Schocken, 1968), pp. 17475. Benjamin made these comments vis--vis film in a manner
also relevant to Warhol, more on which below. The shock of this snapping seems much diminished
with digital cameras.
Test Subjects 35

Condensed in these automatized actions, according to Benjamin, are shocks

and collisions that the modern subject has learned to parry or to absorb for its
very survival. Thus, Benjamin concluded, technology has subjected the human
sensorium to a complex kind of training.8 This training is an important subtext
in Warhol, and his reframing of select images of automatization can provide little
insights into its complex history.
Consider again his treatments of photo-booth pictures, mug shots, and
publicity images: here Warhol reviews keys ways in which particular subjects
have parried the snapping of the photographer. Concentrated in the years
1963-66, the photo-booth pictures involve friends on a lark as well as sitters for
portraits, a practice Warhol initiated with Ethel Scull Thirty-Six Times (1963). If,
as Benjamin argued in Little History of Photography (1931), the long expo-
sure required for early forms of photography allowed the sitter time enough to
develop into an image, as it were, and thereby to convey a strong sense of an
inward self through such representation, the sudden click of the snapshot pro-
duces much the opposite effect. With the additional pressure of its sudden
flashes, the photo-booth in particular often surprises, even mortifies, its sub-
jects, who are often led (in a preemptive move) to mug for the camera all the
more (which usually produces only further humiliat ion once the photos
appear). Sometimes, even when the sitter is an accomplished self-presenter like
Edie, the mortification in such mediation is evident enough. In short, Warhol
reveals the photo-booth to be a site not only of self-staging but also of subject-
testingin effect, a drill that, in the Benjaminian sense of these terms, is not
conducive to an experience that lives on as a memory, but is often corrosive
of this old building-block of the traditional self.9 And when the exposure to the
camera is prolonged, as it is in the 472 Screen Tests produced between 1964
and 1967, the drill is deepened, to the further detriment of such experience,
memory, and identity.
If self-presentation is largely willing in the photo-booth picture, it is not so in
the mug shot; its strict frontal and side views are compulsory, and identification
approaches mortification as a matter of course. Yet sometimes this setup is resisted by
the subject, and in Thirteen Most Wanted Men (1964) Warhol favors shots in which the
criminals attempt either to stare down the camera or to look so blank as to challenge
its capacity to individualize them. Warhol seems to support this tacit resistance to the
disciplinary regime of the mug shot in other ways too: not only does he choose dated
material (his cases are from 1955 to 1961), but he also strips it of salient information
needed for positive identification (last names are not given, and some photos are
blown up to the point of grainy obscurity). Finally, as Richard Meyer has argued,
Warhol cuts the explicit gaze of the state with a very different look, an implicit one of

8. Ibid., p. 175. In a mock interview in 1963 Gerard Malanga asked Warhol, What is your occupa-
tion?, to which he replied, Factory owner. See Kenneth Goldsmith, ed., Ill Be Your Mirror: The Selected
Andy Warhol Interviews, 19621987 (New York: Carroll & Graf, 2004), p. 48.
9. Benjamin, On Some Motifs in Baudelaire, p. 176.
36 OCTOBER

Warhol. Liz. c. 1963.

2010 Andy Warhol
Foundation for the Visual
Arts/ARS, New York.

gay desire, in which the term most wanted men takes on a connotation that mocks
the disinterested posture of officers of the law.10
By and large criminals shun recognition, and are threatened if they become too
iconic, whereas stars seek recognition, and are threatened if they are not iconic
enough. In this regard the early silkscreens of celebrities appear as complements to
The Thirteen Most Wanted Men. Yet sometimes with stars too much visibility can also be
problematic, and Warhol was drawn to celebrities at moments of public distress, as
with Jackie Kennedy (whose blurring in image seems to register her grieving in life).
Moreover, under the apparent ease of such figures as Marilyn Monroe and Elizabeth
Taylor, one senses, in the silkscreens, the actual strain of this visibilitythe vicissi-
tudes of producing, inhabiting, and sustaining an iconic image for a mass spectator-
ship. For his classic portraits of Marilyn, for example, Warhol selected a publicity
image for the film Niagara from his own archive of over 100 stills of the star, and so
redoubled her anxious selectivity regarding her image.11 And in his many representa-
tions of Liz he traced her troubled path from fresh-face ingnue in National Velvet to
steamy contract-player for MGM to stricken tabloid-figure in Cleopatra and beyond,

10. See Richard Meyer, Warhols Clones, Yale Journal of Criticism 7, no. 1 (1994), pp. 79109.
11. Richard Hamilton also underscored this anxious selectivity of image in My Marilyn (1965).
Test Subjects 37

Warhol. Natalie Diptych. 1962.

2010 Andy Warhol
Foundation for the Visual
Arts/ARS, New York.

and so redoubled her uneven stewardship of her iconicity. Warhol also underscores
the constructed nature of such images at the level of procedure: with his brash colors
and thick lines often off-register, his portraits appear as blatant make-up, even
extreme make-overa cosmetic construction of disparate parts (lips, eyes, brows,
hair . . . ).12 Especially in silkscreens involving multiple images (e.g., Natalie or Marilyn
Diptych [1962]), the making up of the subject vies with its breaking down, and often
appears to lose.
A proposition can be extracted here, one that is historically specific to a society
of spectacle but possessed of a psychological validity that might extend beyond it. If,
in the first instance, the ego is a kind of image (according to psychoanalytic theo-
ry, our investment in our bodies as images is the initial step in the formation of
our egos), then the image might be taken as a kind of ego or ego-prosthetic.13 In

12. By the early 1980s Warhol had developed an archive of these parts that he used freely in his
silkscreens.
13. I have in mind Freud on narcissism and Lacan on the mirror stage, among other texts. I usually
accept people on the basis of their self-images, Warhol writes in The Philosophy of Andy Warhol, because
their self-images have more to do with the way they think than their objective-images do (p. 69). However,
many of his silkscreens play precisely on the gap between objective-image and self-image, body and
ideal body, ego and ideal ego, and it is in the gap that many of the untitled films stills of Cindy Sherman
came to operate, too. On this point see my Return of the Real (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1996).
38 OCTOBER

a spectacular society two models of the image predominate over all others: the image
as commodity and the image as celebrity (as Edgar Morin pointed out long ago,
these two are often condensed into one: star-merchandise).14 Of course, these
images are offered up expressly for our projections, and this process drives spectacu-
lar culture more than anything else. Now if it is true, as Michael Warner has argued,
that the mass subject cannot have a body except the body it witnesses, it might sug-
gest why Warhol evoked this subject primarily through commodities and celebri-
tiesfrom products like Campbells and Coke to stars and politicians like Marilyn
and Mao, to all the cover people of Interview magazine.15 As Warhol knew, the mass
subject might also be evoked through another set of proxies, its objects of tastethat
is to say, its kitschas he does in his wallpaper flowers (1964) and folksy cows (1966).
Yet all is not perfect in this system. For example, the vicissitudes of the star in the
making of an image for mass spectatorship might be compounded by the vicissitudes
visited on this image by the fickle projections of the mass subjectits desires, disap-
pointments, and so onfor if the star lives by our projections, he or she dies by
them, too (as does any product). In the figures of Elvis, Liz, Michael, Oprah,
Geraldo, Brando, and the like, Warner writes, we witness and transact the bloating,
slimming, wounding, and general humiliation of the public body. The bodies of these
public figures are prostheses for our own mutant desirability.16 Warhol was very keen
to this sadistic side of consumption (we eat up stars, he remarked in 1966), which is
also intimated in his distressed images of commodities and celebrities alike.17
This distressing is not removed from the drilling or testing of the subject
mentioned above. Another nature . . . speaks to the camera rather than to the
eye, Benjamin asserted in A Little History of Photography, and in his treatment
of the photo-booth pictures, the mug shots, and the publicity images Warhol sug-
gests that different natures also speak to different photographic genres and cam-
era set-ups.18 He was especially intrigued by the particular nature that speaks to
the movie camera. This is a primary concern of his films; in fact, both the psycho-
logical vicissitudes of self-imaging and the technological training of the modern
subject are most evident there, and nowhere more so than in the Screen Tests.
Made with a 16mm Bolex camera on tripod, each Screen Test is the given
length of a 100-foot roll of film, just under three minutes in the shooting, and each
was to follow these guidelines (which were often violated): a stationary camera, with

14. Edgar Morin, The Stars: An Account of the Star-System in Motion Pictures (New York: Grove Press,
1960), p. 137. On commodification vis--vis personification in Warhol, see Jonathan Flatley, Warhol
Gives Good Face: Publicity and the Politics of Prosopopoeia, in Jennifer Doyle, Jonathan Flatley, and
Jos Esteban Muoz, Pop Out: Queer Warhol (Durham: Duke University Press, 1996).
15. Michael Warner, The Mass Public and the Mass Subject, in The Phantom Public Sphere, ed. Bruce
Robbins, (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1993), p. 250; reprinted in Publics and
Counterpublics (Cambridge, Mass.: Zone Books, 2002).
16. Ibid, p. 250.
17. Gretchen Berg, Andy Warhol: My True Story, in Ill Be Your Mirror, p. 90. Given how Warhol identi-
fied with these products, there might be an implicit connection between such images and his own body-
image.
18. Benjamin, Little History of Photography, p. 510.
Test Subjects 39

Warhol. Screen Test: Susan Sontag. 1964. 2010 The Andy

Warhol Museum, Pittsburgh, PA, a museum of Carnegie Institute.

no zooming in or out, and a centered sitter, face forward, full in the frame, and as
motionless as possible. Conceived as filmic portraits (they were initially called stil-
lies), the Screen Tests are, in effect, photo-booth pictures, mug shots, and publicity
images rolled into one. Of course, they are not screen tests at allnone was a proper
audition for a scripted moviebut they were tests nonetheless. Indeed, without ulte-
rior motive, they were pure tests of the capacity of the filmed subject to confront a
camera, hold a pose, present an image, and sustain the performance for the dura-
tion of the shooting. Each sitter attempted to do so, moreover, not only without the
armature of given character or the benefit of scripted direction, but also under the
strain of enjoined immobility and in the midst of ambient distractionsthe subjects
were frequently teased, prompted, or otherwise provoked by Factory onlookers, and
sometimes they were simply abandoned by Warhol or whoever was nominally in
charge of the filming.19 In short, the sitter had no one truly to interact with, not even
in the guise of the camera, which, fixed in position, offered no reciprocity at all. If
there was a scenario here, then, it was one of an unaided encounter with a technolog-
ical apparatus, in the blank face of which the lone subject was left to project a self-
image as best he or she could.
Somehow we attract people who can turn themselves on in front of the cam-
era, Warhol once commented of his films. In this sense, theyre really superstars. Its

19. In a sense the sitter is laid bare to the same extent Warhol is self-protected (or, again, self-baffled).
40 OCTOBER

Warhol. Screen Test: Sally Kirkland. 1964. 2010 The Andy

Warhol Museum, Pittsburgh, PA, a museum of Carnegie Institute.

much harder, you know, to be your own script.20 Yet many Screen Tests attest precise-
ly to the difficulty of this turning on, this self-scripting, and the sheer duress of filmic
iconicity and coherent presence becomes the principal subject.21 Certainly there is
distress at the level of the image: often the lighting is inconsistent and the exposure
uneven, and occasionally the image blanches altogether; also, as in the silkscreens,
flashes and pops sometimes occur, and the camera jumps jerkily or zooms abruptly at
moments, too. Yet there is even more distress in the place of the subject, in its
encounter with the camera.22 The lighting is frequently harsh (especially on
women), which causes some sitters to resort to sunglasses for protection. Others
attempt to look away, as if the gaze of the camera might thus be averted, while still
others try to stare the camera down, as in the mug shots, as if it might blink firstor
as if such staring were the best way (the only way) to project and to hold a self-image

20. Letitia Kent. Any Warhol, Movieman: Its Hard to Be Your Own Script (1970), in Ill Be Your
Mirror, p. 187. This being-your-own-script might be less difficult in our age of MySpace and Facebook.
21. As Callie Angell writes, Some subjects seem overcome with self-consciousness, squinting into
the bright lights, swallowing nervously or visibly trembling, while others rise to the occasion with
considerable force of personality and self-assurance, meeting the gaze of Warhols camera with
equal power. As the collection of Screen Tests grew, these provoked responses gradually became the
overt purpose or content of the films, superseding the original goal of the achieved, static image.
See Callie Angell, Andy Warhol Screen Tests: The Films of Andy Warhol, Catalogue Raisonn, Volume 1 (New
York: Abrams, 2006), p. 14. This volume is a treasure for Warhol studies.
22. Some later Screen Tests, Angell writes, seem to have been deliberately staged to make things
as difficult as possible for the subjects (ibid., p. 14).
Test Subjects 41

at all, to keep it intact (the problem is that this staring is often so fixed that it
becomes strained in its own way).23 As in the photo-booth pictures, some testees
resort to posing and/or mugging that, when histrionic, can appear defensive and,
when aggressive, can seem desperate. In short, no matter how self-possessed the sit-
ters might be (and a few were professional actors), many subjects of the Screen Tests
are stricken and exhausted by the process.24 For some sitters the ordeal was primar-
ily psychological: the Screen Test, the poet Ron Padgett commented, was like doing
an instant Rorschach on yourself.25 For others the strain was physiological as well as
psychological, as if the body-image as such were under attack. You sit staring at the
camera, the actor Sally Kirkland remarked, and after a while your face begins to dis-
integrate.26 This is a severe testing indeed, and the distress seems to affect men no
less than women, straight no less than gay.
The film director occupies exactly the same position as the examiner in an
aptitude test, Benjamin wrote in the mid-1930s; and this testing is more difficult, not
less, when the director is removed or indifferent, as is the case with many Screen
Tests.27 And yet, Benjamin continued, the film actor, who performs not in front of
an audience but in front of an apparatus, is in a good position to pass the test, for he
is trained to address the camera, to win it over, as it were, to the advantage of his or
her performance. According to Benjamin, a primary interest in the movies of his
time lay in this technical triumph: most citydwellers, throughout the workday in
offices and factories, have to relinquish their humanity in the face of an apparatus,
he argued, yet in the evening these same masses fill the cinemas to witness the film
actor taking revenge on their behalf not only by asserting his humanity (or what
appears to them as such) against the apparatus, but by placing that apparatus in the
service of his triumph.28 The situation of the Screen Tests is very different: such
revenge might be attempted, but it is rarely achieved; the apparatus triumphs over
the sitter far more often than the reverse; and there is no humanist redemption in
the face of the camera. As Christopher Phillips has argued, Warhol moves toward a
symbolic identification with the position of the technological apparatuswith the
gaze of the machine.29 And, for the most part, the viewer has little choice but
to associate, sadistically, with this machine vision or to identify, masochistically,
with the filmed subject under its powerat times the latter seems almost the
only common ground of humanity here. In fact, in Warholian cinema at large,
to film a person often meant to provoke and/or to expose him or her, and to be

23. For example, Jonas Mekas barely blinks, yet in time his eyes water, he gulps awkwardly, etc.
24. Angell, Andy Warhol Screen Tests, p. 206.
25. Ibid., p. 150. This is an interesting formulation, but what does it mean? Imagining your own
image, trying to image it, to project it, to sustain, and to interpret it at the same time? Warhol, of
course, went on to produce his own Rorschach paintings in 1984.
26. Ibid., p. 109.
27. See Benjamin, The Work of Art in the Age of its Reproducibility, in Selected Writings, Volume 3:
19351938, ed. Michael W. Jennings et al. (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2002), p. 111.
28. Ibid.
29. Christopher Phillips, Desiring Machines, in Public Information: Desire, Disaster, Document, ed.
Gary Garrels, (San Francisco: San Francisco Museum of Art, 1995), p. 45.
42 OCTOBER

filmed meant to parry this probing or to be laid bare by it.30 As a result the view-
er cannot idealize the filmed person, as is usually the case with Hollywood cine-
ma. One can only empathize, intermittently, with his or her travails before the
relentless camera, that is, again, to empathize with the vicissitudes of the subject
becoming an imagewith wanting this condition too much, resisting it too
much, or otherwise failing at it.

30. Some films suggest an S&M theater that was sometimes extended to the Factory at large. Certainly
there was a psychological volatility to the Factory roles, with Warhol as a director who was by turns kind
and cold, passive and aggressive (he was called Drella, a fitting contraction of Cinderella, dreaming of
the ball, and Dracula, sucking the blood of others), with a great tension between inhibition and excess,
withdrawal and exhibitionism, deathly stillness and sexual motility, narcissism and aggressivity. For a view
of the Factory as a social microcosm in Bakhtinian reversal, see Annette Michelson, Where is Your
Rupture? Mass Culture and the Gesamtkunstwerk, in Andy Warhol, ed. Michelson (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT
Press, 2001), pp. 91110. For a view of the Factory as an expansive space of gay relationality, see Douglas
Crimp in this issue.