![]() Next to the muzzle of a gun, the black hole of the camera is one of the coldest things in the world. ![]() They just turned around and walked away, leaving me with a running camera pointed at my face. After turning on the camera, everybody left me there, alone. What I really liked was all the attention, but it didn't last very long. Besides, I liked the freedom of anonymity. At the time I figured: he's the artist here - no need for formalities. Later, I would learn that he was painfully shy and would rather eat ground glass than talk to a stranger. Warhol did not introduce himself, which was fine with me. Finally, I was led to the far end of the cavernous studio and told to wait - there was a lot of waiting here in the Factory - then Warhol walked over and people buzzed around while a camera was set up in front of my face. In the 1960s, it was important to be cool. Nothing happened for about an hour while I was ignored by the others who were busy ignoring each other. I said yes, of course, knowing that the opportunity of being used by a famous artist in any way was better than sitting in art classes, which I was failing anyway. They looked like foreigners now, as the steel doors of the elevator shut on their faces, and I forgot that I ever knew them. I watched my classmates file into the elevator as they started back to Cornell without me. Maybe I'll get Andy to do one of us together - we could set it up right now." Allen Ginsberg's already done one, he was great. "You just look into the camera for 15 minutes. "Andy's doing something called Screen Tests," he whispered in my ear. I felt very special indeed as he led me to a little silver-painted couch. I had met him before when he came up to Cornell to read his poetry, and I was happy to see him now. Out of the gloom, poet Gerard Malanga walked up to me, ignoring my classmates and flashing his blond hair and insolent manner.
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