Who Killed Andrei Warhol

In early 1968, Oleksandr “Sasha” Ivanov, a determined and passionate young Soviet journalist, came to the United States to write about the impending collapse of America’s Capitalistic Society.  There was little time to waste, for in his view this catastrophic event would take place in just six months, scarcely enough time to record his impressions  in the diary he kept constantly at hand.  This diary would later provide the basis for Alexander J. Motyl’s delightful and well-written novel, “Who Killed Andrei Warhol.”  (Andy Warhol, by the way, was of Ukrainian parentage, which explains why the Ukrainian version of this famous American artist’s first name was used.)

Sasha arrived in New York City in the midst of a sanitation workers’ strike with tons of rotting garbage sitting along the curbs, adding credence to his theory of America’s imminent societal collapse.  There were signs of poverty and crime everywhere; drunks and homeless people sleeping on the sidewalks; muggings and thefts taking place in broad daylight; and signs of conspiracy and civil disobedience on every street corner. Sasha was shocked by what he saw.  “We do not have such squalor anywhere in the Soviet Union,” he commented. “Even other capitalist countries do not have such open misery in the midst of wealth.”

Immediately upon his arrival, Sasha was taken under the wing of the American Communist Party who provided him with a small office in which to work and write.  Surrounded by newfound friends who gave him support and encouragement he began to tell his story.  But it was slow going at first, primarily because his knowledge of American slang and customs was woefully inadequate.  On the first day, for example, he ordered a “BMT” at the local deli instead of a “BLT” and was given directions to the nearest subway station instead of a sandwich.  Later in the afternoon, he began handing out money to every panhandler who asked for spare change (because he passionately believed that change was needed in America) and was followed by an army of “new friends” until his money finally gave out.  On the second day, he was mugged for the first time. Still, Sasha soldiered on, sometimes attacking local customs as if they were part of a greater, more important class conflict.  I particularly enjoyed the great pizza adventure which was described as follows:  “As I dropped the bag into an enormous pleated trash basket, I noticed that the tip of the pizza is bent and that the cheese and oil are slithering down my hand.  I raise the pizza, open my mouth, extend my tongue and take a bite.  The oil scalds the roof of my mouth and I cool the dough and cheese mixture by moving it from side to side with my tongue.  Finally, I swallow.  By now, my right hand is covered with oil and I fear that my shirtsleeve is also stained. But I am determined to defeat the class enemy, whatever the cost!  I embark on a tactical retreat and use my left hand to unfold the pizza and position it for attack and defeat.  Finally, it sits before me, helpless on the greasy white plate.  Victory is mine. Leninist tactics triumph once again!”

During the six months that Sasha remained in the United States he witnessed a variety of historical events including the assassination of Doctor Martin Luther King, the occupation of the president’s office at Columbia University, and more anti-war protests that can be listed here.  But for Sasha, the most singular event in his visit was meeting Andrei Warhol.  It was bound to happen, as Warhol’s gallery, “The Factory” was next to the American Communist Headquarters on Union Square. The moment he laid eyes on Warhol’s art, Sasha was convinced that he was some kind of proletariat genius.  “Andrei,” he said, “your art is proletarian.  It is the art of the workingman.  It is revolutionary!”

“Uh, yeah? No kidding?  Fab.”

“Your art liberates the worker, Andrei.  It defies capitalism and heralds socialism.”

“Yeah?  Fab.  Have a pretzel.”

As  Sasha and Warhol’s friendship began to develop, the above conversation took place on numerous occasions and each time, Warhol’s responses made it abundantly clear that he had no idea what Sasha was talking about.  But all that was of little importance, because as was often the case, Warhol managed to create a work of art out of something that did not exist.  Specifically, he created a dialogue between two people who were utterly clueless about the subject they were discussing; or, to be more specific, between two people who were utterly clueless that they were clueless about the subject they were discussing.  It was classic Warhol at its finest!

Fortunately for us, America’s Capitalist Society did not self-destruct during Sasha’s visit to New York City in 1968.  Nevertheless, “Who Killed Andrei Warhol,” provides a cleverly written, tongue-in-cheek, tragic comedy that makes for a good read regardless of your political affiliation.  As for who actually killed Andrei Warhol, you have to read the book to learn the answer to that question.  Be warned though, “Who killed Andrei Warhol,” is a Russian novel; and we all know that everyone dies in a Russian novel.

“Who Killed Andrei Warhol” is an excellent book, Comrade Motyl.  Spacebo!

Who Killed Andrei Warhol
Alexander J. Motyl
Seven Locks Press (2007)
ISBN 9780979585203
Reviewed by Ron Standerfer for Reader Views (6/08)