When I was about 14, I developed my fascination with Andy Warhol. I read all of his strange books, not really suitable for a girl who still collected stickers and yet in him, I found solace. I suppose I dreamt of a place like The Factory where weirdos and creatives were welcome on their own terms, to be honest, I still crave such a place. And back then high school was the painful antithesis of the Factory, I was bullied. My love for Warhol has remained true, his museum in Pittsburgh is a place I want to experience more than you could imagine. Every few years I delve back into my Warhol love with the fervour of an obsessive ex-girlfriend. I re-read all his books, now marked and annotated beyond comprehension and then I’ll make my way through a handful of his awfully bizarre films. He really was a curious man and thankfully, he’s been analyzed from every angle by writers whose books I’ve also read. I’ll never truly be able to summarize why I adore him so. He gives me hope. He was vulnerable, creative and yet commercial too, a combination fiercely aspriational for me. He also was very good at drawing out the stories people had within them, which is something I’ve been told I do. There is no conclusion as to why I’m sharing this, except when these photos were shot I was in the midst of another Warhol obsession. I have a book about him in my hand and I remember as we shot these photos, I was distracted thinking about him.
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