Images are nothing like objects. They are like ghosts, they are pale, mysterious representations; they lack any sense of dimension. They are satisfyingly empty; we can project our own impressions upon them, and they become personal, beautiful. They become extensions of ourselves. You can lend them depth through your own contemplation, or they can continue to be frivolous, silly pieces sitting there for their purely superficial value. Images are weightless. I find this very soothing. They take up absolutely no space in our junk-filled world and yet continue to be perfect and a canvas for our admiration.
An artist is somebody who wants to turn the whole world into images but usually ends up making more objects instead.
Andy Warhol thinks it all comes down to images and nothing but images. His art couldn't care less about what's beneath the surface. To him, nothing could be more corny than agonized anguished art that seeks to uncover hidden depths. He finds this pretty foolish and contrived.
People find the world to be radically deficient. And therefore images never satisfy them. They always want more. But Warhol just shrugs his shoulders and suggests that enough is enough. The world for him, is not deficient but if anything, overly full and junky.
A picture is worth a thousand words, and that's the literal truth. I could spend hours gazing into a crisp, flat image, and creating spatial pretenses in my own mind, smelling scents that do not exist, tracing the curves of objects that simply aren't there; maybe they never existed at all. I always wondered why I found buying expensive fashion and photography magazines so engaging and fascinating, and why tearing the pictures which pleased me out and collecting them seemed like a worthwhile way to spend an afternoon. Now it has come to me: they can sometimes tell many more stories than a book. And the best part is.. the stories come from your own crazy, feverish, dizzy-with-the-colour-pink-and-umbrellas-and-seascapes-and-other-things mind. The image merely provides the scenery or atmosphere. It's a teensy backdrop for your own tired imagination.