After looking at my animatic, I have decided that to make it look better, more professional, I am going to cut a section out from the middle of the sequence. At the moment the animatic is 1 minute, 1 second long. I need to cut that down to fit in to the specification limit, and I also feel that by cutting out some of the less needed part of the quote, I can focus more on working with the good parts and making it more appealing to the audience. This would also allow for my project to move also slower, with more flow, so that it is easier to read along the way.
The part that I will be taking out will be-
“not to speak of what ‘a’ beauty is. So that leaves me in a strange position, because I’m noted for how much I talk about ‘this one’s a beauty’ and ‘that ones a beauty.’ For a year once it was in all the magazines that my next movie was going to be called The Beauties. The publicity for it was great, but then I could never decide who should be in it. If everybody’s not a beauty, then nobody is, so I didn’t want to imply that the kids in The Beauties were beauties, but the kids in my other movies weren’t so I had to back out on the basis of the title. It was all wrong.”
These are some of the possible images that I could use for my project. I will edit them to suit in with my style.
Theme from ‘Blood for Dracula’, one of Andy Warhol’s films. This will be the music that I will lay over my project. I felt that it was important to keep the Andy Warhol theme going and I think that the soft, almost innocent sounding piano ties in well with the quote about beauty.
Theme from ‘Blood for Dracula’, one of Andy Warhol’s films.
This will be the music that I will lay over my project. I felt that it was important to keep the Andy Warhol theme going and I think that the soft, almost innocent sounding piano ties in well with the quote about beauty.
“I always hear myself saying, ‘She’s a beauty!’ or ‘He’s a beauty!’ or What a beauty!’ but I never know what I’m talking about. I honestly don’t know what beauty is, not to speak of what ‘a’ beauty is. So that leaves me in a strange position, because I’m noted for how much I talk about ‘this one’s a beauty’ and ‘that ones a beauty.’ For a year once it was in all the magazines that my next movie was going to be called The Beauties. The publicity for it was great, but then I could never decide who should be in it. If everybody’s not a beauty, then nobody is, so I didn’t want to imply that the kids in The Beauties were beauties, but the kids in my other movies weren’t so I had to back out on the basis of the title. It was all wrong.”
“Even Beauties can be unattractive. If you catch a beauty in the wrong light at the right time, forget it. I believe in low lights and trick mirrors. I believe in plastic surgery.
THE Philosophy of Andy Warhol (From A to B and Back Again),
Andy Warhol, 365 Takes.
The curators of the Andy Warhol Museum.
For my script I have taken a specific article, depicting Warhol’s life and work. The article was taken from The New York Times and was written on 5th December 2011 by David Dalton.
Depending on your point of view, Andy Warhol is the greatest American artist of the second half of the 20th century or a corrupter of art who destroyed painting and took us down the slippery slope of postmodernism. He is either a cultural transformer or a purveyor of campy kitsch. Descriptions of his personality range from “legendary sweetness” to “cold as a meat locker,” naïf peasant to cynical sophisticate, fine artist to con artist. In the first part of his career he was an iconoclast, in the second, the artist as businessman. Why such diverging views? Well, look at his origins. As the only Pop artist to come from a blue collar background, he was an enthusiastic believer in the American Dream, but coated it with a layer of icy camp. Born in 1928 into the slums of Pittsburgh, Andrew Warhola was the fourth child of immigrant parents who barely spoke English. Just how odd and remote from mainstream America were his origins can be seen in “Absolut Warhola,” a hair-raising and hilarious documentary about Micková, the village in northeast Slovakia his parents came from. Andy was a sickly, often bedridden child, who played with dolls, idolized Shirley Temple and at an early age began drawing women’s shoes, cartoon characters and movie stars. By the time my sister, Sarah, and I became Andy’s first assistants in 1962, he was a successful commercial artist, famous for his whimsical drawings of shoes, cats, flowers and angels. Still, he craved recognition as a fine artist, and had begun making brutal paintings of nose jobs and campy reproductions of comic strips. His first iconic image, a painting of a Campbell’s soup can, would appear later that year. It was an idea he’d bought from the gallery owner Muriel Latow for $50. Although the last Pop artist to get a gallery, he soon became the leader of the pack, his modus operandi being shock value and a newly minted persona — shades, the white wig, leather jacket, silver boots and uncommunicative responses to reporters’ questions. (I’d met Andy before he became Andy Warhol. At that time he was shy, sweet and extremely talkative — especially about the sex lives of movie stars.) First, in 1963, came the idealized portraits of movie stars — Elvis, Marilyn Monroe, Troy Donahue and Liz Taylor. Next came the Death & Disaster series, disturbing images based on photographs of gruesome car crashes, race riots and electric chairs. The following year, 1964, he radically changed direction again, creating his Flower paintings, brightly-colored images of giant flower petals, once again appropriated — this time from a photography magazine. Never happy with the messy business of painting (“I want to be a machine”) he made his last hand-painted canvas, “129 Die in Jet” (the front page of a New York tabloid), in May 1962. Unhappy with the blobby image of the crashed plane, Sarah suggested to Andy that he use the photo-silkscreen process, a method of reproducing photographic images on canvas. Andy instantly grasped the potential of this new technique. Silk-screening wasn’t simply a novel process — the appropriation of photographs as art — it amounted to a radically new art movement. From now on art would be a conceptual matter. Warhol, often seen as a kind of idiot savant of the avant-garde, had, with this act, changed art into something kitsch and strange: postmodernism. Bored with painting, Andy began making movies in 1963. He made movies that didn’t move, with actors who couldn’t act. “Sleep” is a six-and-a-half-hour movie of the poet John Giorno sleeping (actually 28 minutes looped), and “Empire” is an eight-hour movie of the Empire State Building at night. Period. In January 1964 he moved his studio to the commercial loft on East 47th Street that soon became known as the Factory. Its floating population of drag queens, speed freaks, hustlers and exhibitionists became Warhol’s new repertory company — known as Superstars — for his next phase of movie-making. “Horse,” “Blow Job,” “Vinyl” and “Kitchen” were deliberately provocative films involving gay sex, S-and-M and absurdist plots written by Ronald Tavel. The most luminous of these superstars was the doomed charismatic heiress Edie Sedgwick. Warhol’s fame and infamy soon increased exponentially. In 1965 Warhol announced he was quitting painting for good. “It’s too hard,” he told me. (I never knew when he was kidding.) In 1966 he made his most famous film, “The Chelsea Girls,” essentially vignettes of various Factory types flaunting drugs, sex, violence and outré behavior in the Chelsea Hotel. It became an immediate commercial success. The so-called “Screen-Tests,” three-minute films that seem to expose the anxious souls of various friends, celebrities and artists sitting in front of a fixed camera, are devastating 20th century portraits. In June 1968 Valerie Solanas, a paranoid-schizophrenic writer and fanatical feminist, shot Warhol, seriously wounding him. Miraculously he survived. After he recovered, Andy expelled the freaks from the Factory and essentially became the chief executive of his own very lucrative brand, with endless portrait commissions and Warhol films now made by Paul Morrissey. He lived almost another 20 years, during which he produced some amazing paintings — the portrait of his mother and the self-portraits in a fright wig. Unfortunately, these works tend to get buried under a mass of insipid portraits and desultory commissioned art. The shooting seemed to neatly divide his life in two. The first part, the life of an eccentric genius, the second that of an embarrassingly dizzy, society-schmoozing, money-mad artist manqué and shopaholic. He died as the result of a routine gallbladder operation on Feb. 22, 1987. Appropriate for such a prankster, a massive memorial service was held for him at St. Patrick’s Cathedral on April Fool’s Day. Twenty-three years after his death, his face and art are on T-shirts, iPods, blue jeans, sunglasses, Christmas cards, handbags, skateboards and wallpaper. He’s everywhere, like an aesthetic vampire haunting the culture, taunting the art world, making cash registers sing. Now that everything in the culture is in quotation marks, we have embraced Warhol without irony. In some ways Warhol’s innovations have become too successful. As the culture changed and absorbed his ideas — about art as a commodity and the artist as C.E.O. — what had once been shocking is now all too common. Warhol had become less an artist than a trademark — he had become his own brand, with Andy Warhol as its logo. To add insult to injury, his pop-cult approach made any criticism of him look fuddy-duddyish. Living at the end of his art form, Warhol simply delivered the coup de grace to outmoded ideas of what art should be. Art could be, and would be anything — or nothing. Under the cynical, scanning eye of postmodernism, all art, even of the recent past, appears dated. Pop art — a 1960s movement that focused on everyday objects, comic books and mediated images — now seems quaint and whimsical, but not Warhol. So far he has resisted fossilization — because with Andy you can have your cake and eat it, too. You can have him with or without irony, and it all still works. And because he was a master of the double-take, everything about him remains ambivalent. Once you choose one aspect of Warhol over another, you miss the point. Like Jean Cocteau’s definition of himself, Warhol is “the lie that tells the truth.” His paintings have the paradoxical quality of being both sexy and icily mechanical, and this ambivalence is at the core of his art. Even the affectionate nickname he was given at the Factory — Drella — is double-edged, a fusion of two disturbingly irreconcilable images: the waif-like Cinderella and the sinister, manipulative Dracula.
The New York Times.
Monday 5th December 2011.
Written by David Dalton.