n 1952, the writer Truman Capote, a recent success in literary and social Icircles, began to receive an almost daily barrage of fan mail from a young man named Andy Warhol. An illustrator for shoe designers, fashion maga-zines, and the like, Warhol made pretty, stylized drawings, some of which he sent to Capote, hoping the author would include them in one of his books. Capote did not respond. One day he came home to find Warhol talking to his mother, with whom Capote lived. And Warhol began to tele-phone almost daily. Finally Capote put an end to all this: "He seemed one of those hopeless people that you just know nothing's ever going to happen to. Just a hopeless, born loser," the writer later said.

Ten years later, Andy Warhol, aspiring artist, had his first one-man show at the Stable Gallery in Manhattan. On the walls were a series of silkscreened paintings based on the Campbell's soup can and the Coca-Cola bottle. At the opening and at the party afterward, Warhol stood to the side, staring blankly, talking little. What a contrast he was to the older generation of artists, the abstract expressionists—mostly hard-drinking womanizers full of bluster and aggression, big talkers who had dominated the art scene for the previous fifteen years. And what a change from the Warhol who had badgered Capote, and art dealers and patrons as well. The critics were both baffled and intrigued by the coldness of Warhol's work; they could not fig-

ure out how the artist felt about his subjects. What was his position? What

was he trying to say? When they asked, he would simply reply, "I just do it

because I like it," or, "I love soup." The critics went wild with their inter-

pretations: "An art like Warhol's is necessarily parasitic upon the myths of

its time," one wrote; another, "The decision not to decide is a paradox that

is equal to an idea which expresses nothing but then gives it dimension."

The show was a huge success, establishing Warhol as a leading figure in a

new movement, pop art.

In 1963, Warhol rented a large Manhattan loft space that he called the

Factory, and that soon became the hub of a large entourage—hangers-on,

actors, aspiring artists. Here, particularly at night, Warhol would simply

wander about, or stand in a corner. People would gather around him, fight

for his attention, throw questions at him, and he would answer, in his non-

committal way. But no one could get close to him, physically or mentally;

he would not allow it. At the same time, if he walked by you without giv-

ing you his usual "Oh, hi," you were devastated. He hadn't noticed you;

perhaps you were on the way out.

Increasingly interested in filmmaking, Warhol cast his friends in his

movies. In effect he was offering them a kind of instant celebrity (their

"fifteen minutes of fame"—the phrase is Warhol's). Soon people were

competing for roles. He groomed women in particular for stardom: Edie

Sedgwick, Viva, Nico. Just being around him offered a kind of celebrity by

association. The Factory became the place to be seen, and stars like Judy

Garland and Tennessee Williams would go to parties there, rubbing elbows

with Sedgwick, Viva, and the bohemian lower echelons whom Warhol had

befriended. People began sending limos to bring him to parties of their

own; his presence alone was enough to turn a social evening into a scene—

even though he would pass through in near silence, keeping to himself and

leaving early.

In 1967, Warhol was asked to lecture at various colleges. He hated to

talk, particularly about his own art; "The less something has to say," he felt,

"the more perfect it is." But the money was good and Warhol always found

it hard to say no. His solution was simple: he asked an actor, Allen

Midgette, to impersonate him. Midgette was dark-haired, tan, part Chero-

kee Indian. He did not resemble Warhol in the least. But Warhol and

friends covered his face with powder, sprayed his brown hair silver, gave

him dark glasses, and dressed him in Warhol's clothes. Since Midgette knew

nothing about art, his answers to students' questions tended to be as short

and enigmatic as Warhol's own. The impersonation worked. Warhol may

have been an icon, but no one really knew him, and since he often wore

dark glasses, even his face was unfamiliar in any detail. The lecture audi-

ences were far enough away to be teased by the thought of his presence,

and no one got close enough to catch the deception. He remained elusive. Early on in life, Andy Warhol was plagued by conflicting emotions: he des-perately wanted fame, but he was naturally passive and shy "I've always had a conflict," he later said, "because I'm shy and yet I like to take up a lot of personal space. Mom always said, 'Don't be pushy, but let everyone know you're around.' " At first Warhol tried to make himself more aggressive, straining to please and court. It didn't work. After ten futile years he stopped trying and gave in to his own passivity—only to discover the power that withdrawal commands.

Warhol began this process in his artwork, which changed dramatically in the early 1960s. His new paintings of soup cans, green stamps, and other widely known images did not assault you with meaning; in fact their mean-ing was totally elusive, which only heightened their fascination. They drew you in by their immediacy, their visual power, their coldness. Having trans-formed his art, Warhol also transformed himself: like his paintings, he be-came pure surface. He trained himself to hold himself back, to stop talking.

The world is full of people who try, people who impose themselves ag-gressively. They may gain temporary victories, but the longer they are around, the more people want to confound them. They leave no space around themselves, and without space there can be no seduction. Cold Co-quettes create space by remaining elusive and making others pursue them. Their coolness suggests a comfortable confidence that is exciting to be around, even though it may not actually exist; their silence makes you want to talk. Their self-containment, their appearance of having no need for other people, only makes us want to do things for them, hungry for the slightest sign of recognition and favor. Cold Coquettes may be maddening to deal with—never committing but never saying no, never allowing close-ness—but more often than not we find ourselves coming back to them, ad-dicted to the coldness they project. Remember: seduction is a process of drawing people in, making them want to pursue and possess you. Seem dis-tant and people will go mad to win your favor. Humans, like nature, hate a vacuum, and emotional distance and silence make them strain to fill up the empty space with words and heat of their own. Like Warhol, stand back and let them fight over you.

[Narcissistic] women have the greatest fascination for men.... The charm of a child lies to a great extent in his narcissism, his self-sufficiency and inaccessibility, just as does the charm of certain animals which seem not to con-cern themselves about us, such as cats.... It is as if we envied them their power of retaining a blissful state of mind—an unassailable libido-position which we ourselves have since abandoned.

—SIGMUND FREUD