By C. Graham Campbell, Ph.D.
I have always been proud of my name and its heritage from the highlands of Scotland. But then to suddenly see it plastered all over campus dorms, magazine covers, and television news stories about the new ‘Pop’ art was just more than my twenty-one-year-old self could rationally tolerate.
With a last name like Campbell in the pre-Warhol days “Soup” became my inevitable moniker. “Hey, Soup, come here,” became music to my adolescent need for acceptance in high school. And a few years later along comes this clown with his stupid cans.
Flat likenesses, the opposite of the more enjoyable Monet who we spent so much time on in Introduction to Art History class sophomore year in college.
Why would anyone “paint” such silly, useless, superficial, banal junk. “Kitch” my philosophy professor insisted. This overly serious, Viet-Nam-War-protesting religion major demanded meaning, purpose, and theology. I could imagine Monet’s water lilies growing and see light reflecting off the water onto them. The only thing a can could do was sit there and eventually rust.
One of the lunch options in the college dining hall on Saturdays was grilled cheese and tomato soup. I couldn’t stand the smell, so I went uptown.
Leaning of the existence ekphrastic essays, I rejoiced. “Revenge at last. I’ll blow him right out of the broth with my sarcasm and long simmering fury.” My often razor-sharp tongue will flow with a half century of resentment right into my loving-it keyboard fingers. I’ll learn so much about him I’ll shoot holes in his stupid cans.
Then as I was researching this essay, I came to see his work differently, with more respect, but not necessarily more forgiveness. I read several essays in journals about him. Then read his life story on Wikipedia and, of course, double checked their facts. In addition, I discovered a helpful essay in Britannica Online and an essay on History Website. And checked “Brainy Quotes.”
Much to my surprise, I came to see him as a man who traveled his own path without much concern for criticism. Brainy Quotes includes him saying, “Don’t pay attention to what they say. Just measure the inches.” (Men can be so addicted to measuring things in inches.) In this way he is a bit like Dylan, Bob not Thomas, who underwent withering storms of criticism when he went electric after the Newport Folk Festival 1965. Initially an acoustic artist, Dylan was an imitation of Woodie Guthrie which was entirely too confining for him. But the peace, love and ‘do your own thing’ generation could not handle someone actually doing that. This was also true for me of my reaction to Warhol.
I judged him before I knew him.
Warhol presents art reflecting a flat, superficial, trite world. In another Brainy Quote, he says, “If you want to know about Andy Warhol, just look at the surface of my paintings, films, and me. And there I am. There is nothing behind it.” And, in an amazingly true oxymoron, “I am a deeply superficial person.” He is as is his art. I also read his “The Philosophy of Andy Warhol: From A to B and Back Again,” which in some ways serves as a sort of autobiography. From A to B and Back Again. Not going too far or deep. Perhaps he died before he got to the rest of the alphabet. Others see him protesting the superficial. To me he actually lives it out, embraces it, embodies it, and insists that’s all there is. In college I wished I could burn it all as a protest of capitalistic systems that fostered such tripe.
I, who was devoting his studies to going deeper and still do search below and above what he portrayed, had to let go of what I want him to do, be, and paint. Just as we had to let go of Dylan as an acoustic artist to discover his musical poetry. Warhol’s book was actually painful to read. I kept wanting him to be more, different, insightful. And he is perfectly content with not being any of those things. My options were to toss the book or let go of my expectations for him and his work. I chose the latter. And even came to enjoy his portraits of Mao, Marilyn Monroe, and Jackie Kennedy.
In life I often have to let go of how little I really know. The more I read the more I understood and even began liking his work.
By 1964 the Campbell Soup company added insult to my self-chosen injury by jumping on the bandwagon of a great marketing opportunity. They sold paper dresses painted as soup cans for one dollar and two Campbell Soup Can labels. It was the perfect combination of art, marketing, superficial, flimsy dresses, and popular culture. The originals of those dresses now sell for $7500.
It would be interesting to see what he would do with today’s social media. I bet he’d love to sing “Material Girl” with Madonna.
When I let go of my agenda for his art, I also see myself more clearly. Now, at seventy-six years old, I’m more like him than I like admitting. In my deepest inner writer self, there is a part of me that wants someone to help me author kitschy essays that grab popular culture. They can put the titles on paper dresses and pants or even put soup cans on them and sell them for whatever as long as they send me the money. At this point my inner war protester college student who still resides within me is screaming “SELL OUT,” “puppet of capitalism,” along with every other 1960’s slur at me. Andy got superficial when he was younger than I and it took me a couple of decades to catch up. So, in addition to my anger at his soup cans, I am also jealous.
I want my fifteen minutes of fame especially if it comes with lots of money like it did for him. Sometimes art not only holds up a mirror to who we are but who we will be. Maybe, a little capitalism coming my way would not be an entirely dreadful thing. Andy may be the prophet not only of fifteen minutes of fame but also the prophet of fifty years later.
So, Andy, I still dislike your soup cans but last night I hung an 8×10 print of one in my bedroom. That does not mean I forgive you but who needs forgiveness from an old guy who hasn’t had his fifteen minutes yet.
And I am really glad you painted boxes of Brillo pads and not boxes of graham crackers.
Graham Campbell, Ph.D. was born in Canada and immigrated to this country with his parents at the age of three. He is a seventy five year old retired psychologist and a late blossoming author. He has a master’s degree in theology, a doctorate in pastoral psychology and training in Spiritual Psychology. He now spends most of his time involved with family, writing, meditating, and exploring what being an elder means. His work has appeared in Ravens Perch, Bicopa, Braided Way, and Steel Jack Daw, among others.
After the Art 