February 26, 2009 in Warhol Marginalia
In 1976, Warhol was beset by personal and professional turmoil, feeling snubbed by the “real” art world and unlucky in love. Studio 54 was a year away, but his coke-fueled acolytes and investors were busy assembling a cheap exploitation flick on which to slap his name: Andy Warhol’s Bad. It’s intriguing to think of Lucy’s TV best friend starring in a movie where a crying baby is thrown out a high-floor Manhattan window, and it almost came to be. But Vivian Vance schooled them: Sick thrills don’t pay my bills.