POPism by Andy Warhol, Pat Hackett

outfits and began to dance. But then the phonograph went wrong and they had to start all over again, only this time they couldn’t seem to get anywhere. The rest of the dancers came in anyway, but finally they got so mad they just ignored the phonograph completely and suddenly it was the sound of their own drumming feet that was getting them going and instead of dancing the formal dances, they turned into a circle of runners around the church and, little by little, they pulled the whole audience into a snake coiling around and around till gradually they all slowed down and… stopped.
    For another of his ballets Freddy canvassed the shops that sold window-display material till he got the glitter he wanted—the idea of using cheap, sleazy elements was unusual at the time because of the cliché aspect. Freddy’s piece started from a soft note on the organ in the darkened church. A little light appeared in the center of the balcony, and as the organ note swelled, the light grew till you saw a woman leaning over the light base. She was draped in chiffon and looked more like a mound of light with a face on top of it than a real woman. Slowly, she lifted her arms, picking up a little glitter, and as the crescendo increased, so did the glitter until she became a cloud of glitter in a light. Then she faded away into silence and darkness.
    Stanley told me, “One night, I was walking with Billy Name and Freddy on the Lower East Side. There was no wind, but it was very cold, it was winter. We came to a group of buildingsthat were being razed. One of them was a church. There was sort of an altar place you could just make out in the rubble. Freddy rushed across the street into a store that was still open and bought a penny candle, came back and took all his clothes off, lit the candle, and danced through the set for the life of the candle.”
    This spring of ’63 I had met a just-married, twenty-two-year-old beauty named Jane Holzer. Nicky Haslam took me to a dinner at her Park Avenue apartment. David Bailey was there, and he’d brought the lead singer in a rock-and-roll group called the Rolling Stones that was then playing the northern cities of England. Mick Jagger was a friend of Bailey’s and Nicky’s and he was staying down at Nicky’s apartment on East 19th Street at the time.
    â€œWe met him when he was Chrissy Shrimpton’s maid,” Nicky told me, “Jean’s younger sister. She put an ad in the paper—‘Cleaner wanted’—and up turned Mick. He was a student at the London School of Economics; he was just cleaning flats to pay his way. And then she fell in love with him. We kept telling her, ‘But Chrissy, he’s so awful looking,’ and she’d say, ‘Not really.’”
    This is a little like prehistory, because almost nobody in America then had heard of the Rolling Stones—or the Beatles. At Jane Holzer’s dinner I’d noticed Bailey and Mick. They each had a distinctive way of dressing: Bailey all in black, and Mick in light-colored, unlined suits with very tight hip trousers and striped T-shirts, just regular Carnaby Street sport clothes, nothing expensive, but it was the way he put things together that was so great—this pair of shoes with that pair of pants that no one else would have thought to wear. And, of course, Bailey andMick were both wearing boots by Anello and Davide, the dance shoemaker in London.
    The next time I ran into Jane, on Madison Avenue, she was just back from the big ’63 summer in London when everything had really started to happen there. She couldn’t stop raving about a club in Soho in back of Leicester Square, the Ad Lib, where the Beatles would walk by your table—the kind of place where, say, Princess Margaret could come in and nobody would even bother to look up, the beginning of the melting pot in class-conscious London.
    Jane looked terrific standing there in the new