<http://schema.org/articleBody>
"  It&amp;#039;s hard for me to believe it has been 20 years since Andy Warhol died at age 58. Twenty years ago, I thought that was old. Now I think otherwise. His death was so unexpected (complications after a simple operation), and it felt at the time \u2014 and now \u2014 that a huge chunk of New York City was missing. He was a part of this city in the way that, say, the Statue of Liberty is.  SEE LOOKBOOK: BAZAAR 140TH: THROUGH THE YEARS I met Andy through my friend Paige Powell around 1985. He was in his mid-50s, and I was very young, as was Paige. She worked with Andy at the Factory, where he made his paintings, and she also worked at Andy&amp;#039;s Interview magazine. They spoke almost first thing in the morning (the first person Andy spoke to was Pat Hackett, his diarist) and right before they went to sleep. For about the last two years of his life, I went to dinner with Andy and Paige at least two nights a week. Occasionally, we&amp;#039;d all spend time together on the weekends. It was fun going anyplace with Andy: soup kitchens on Thanksgiving, flea markets, fancy restaurants, and nightclubs like Area and the Limelight. His tastes were eclectic. He loved movies and dance. Even if he fell asleep at a performance, afterward, when he woke, he would always turn and say, &amp;quot;Oh, gee, wasn&amp;#039;t that so great?&amp;quot; He went almost anywhere; he didn&amp;#039;t want to have to stay home.   During those last years, a lot of people were pretty horrible to Andy. He was considered by most of the art world to be a has-been pop artist whose time was over. Often when we entered a room, you could feel the vibration change. People felt they were suddenly in the presence of a star, and yet there was frequently hostility toward him. Sometimes my friends and I felt the need to protect him, and whoever was with him sheltered him from the crowds. He seemed oblivious, except when his wig was maliciously ripped off at an event for his book America. Andy pulled up the hood of his leather jacket and went on with the reading.  Andy had started his career doing advertising and illustration in the 1950s. He liked his mother&amp;#039;s handwriting, so he asked her to write his text where it was called for. These drawings show such joyfulness and innocence and a unique, identifiable style. Even though they capture an era, the &amp;#039;50s, they remain fresh. Diana Vreeland was the fashion editor of Harper&amp;#039;s Bazaar at the time, and she appreciated Andy&amp;#039;s work. How prescient of her and the magazine to have hired him to illustrate their clever copy. During his life, there was only one major museum retrospective of his work, and when he died, he didn&amp;#039;t have a place to show in New York. But since then, he has been showcased in museums around the globe, and a museum in Pittsburgh is dedicated entirely to him. He&amp;#039;s one of the only American artists to have his own museum! Andy, I think, would have been thrilled. Once, when I told him of some hurtful things that had been written about me, he said, &amp;quot;Oh, gee, Tama. It&amp;#039;s not what they say about you; it&amp;#039;s how many inches they give you.&amp;quot; I know now that, as with so much Andy said, he was right. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.harpersbazaar.com/culture/features/a104/warhol-years-140-0207/>