The creature known as the dandy has
become, now more than ever, an endangered species. With the waters
being crowded with boring metrosexuals, crummy hipster beards and the
most banal of them all, the fake tanned gym rat, where are the true
peacocks of the world?
Over the past few days, I've been
haunted by the spectre of Fred Hughes. Best known for bridging the
gap between underground art and the portrait-artist-for-hire world
for the legendary Andy Warhol, Hughes was as striking of a figure as
his boss. Originally from Texas, Hughes was a born dandy with an
aesthetic eye for everything in his life, whether it was paintings,
people, clothing, knick knacks and perhaps, life in general.
Pseudo-adopted in his college years by the de Menils, who were heirs
to the Schlumberger oil fortune, they took the young art history
major on significant art buying trips in New York and Europe. Soon,
“Le Dauphin” crossed paths with Warhol and history was made. It
was Hughes that was with Andy when he was shot by SCUM manifesto
writer Valerie Solonas. It was also Hughes that led Andy to all sorts
of chi-chi portraiture gigs, affording Warhol to take more risks with
the art that actually mattered but also to force the art world at
large to really examine what is art. To this day, there are people
that vehemently loathe Warhol and his art, but anything that makes
you feel that strongly must have something there. Part of the genius
of Warhol is that he completely left it up to you to judge and
whether or not it was deemed art, he just kept quiet and kept
creating.
Hughes went on to be executor of Andy's
estate after he passed in 1987 and per the request of Warhol's will,
founded The Andy Warhol Foundation for the Visual Arts. A few years
later, Hughes was forced out due to infighting with the organization's
president, Archibald L. Gillies. However, the ultimate setback was being diagnosed with
multiple sclerosis, which ended up taking his life
in 2001.
It may seem odd that this
semi-bohemian, DIY loving, strictly working class girl from the South
to be thinking of a man who was as chic and dandified as Hughes, but
much like Warhol himself, he was a man that came out of fairly humble
origins (his father was in the furniture business). Despite that or maybe even because of this, he
was able to, thanks to a hawk-like sense of art-keen and a lack of
fear, to be this raging, omnisexual creature of sheer style. Due to
all of these things, he crafted the kind of exact life he wanted,
with only an unpreventable health issue getting in the way. On top of
all that, I love anyone who is fully committed to just being whomever
they truly are. So many live the life of the worst sort of regret,
which is the kind born of “what if.” There are few things that I
personally find more haunting than that. In addition to that, a cat like
Fred Hughes absolutely loved art and even better, was reportedly the
inspiration for the title character in Paul Morrissey's “Blood for
Dracula.” Fred, I salute you, no matter whatever assortment of
bitchy things Bob Colacello wrote about you in “Holy Terror.” The
world needs more people who are not afraid to be striking and more importantly, not afraid to be.
With a lot of buzz bounding about with
awards season, it always make me wonder why we put so much stock into
these things. Of course, all creative people, myself definitely
included, want if not outright crave attention, respect and
affection. That's the truth and there is nothing inherently wrong
with wanting feedback and appreciation for your hard work. That's
just human. However, the big fallacy with awards, whether it is
something as big as the Oscars or as small as an online poll, is that
the truly deserving rarely win. It's like someone cut off the
multiple heads of your high school's student council and those heads
grew into a rainbow assortment of awards shows. Think about all the
great artists who have never won versus some of the milquetoast
equivalents that did. If you want to know the best way to support
your favorite artist, fuck the awards and give them something they
can actually use.
Like a livelihood.
A nice statue isn't going to pay
anyone's rent or feed their kids. Buy their books, watch their
movies, listen to their music, look at their paintings, etc etc. Let
them know that their message in a bottle isn't just rotting away into
the ether.
If you need something fun, splashy and
trashy to wash away the bitter taste of my mini-rant, then check out
my piece on the great 80's horror film tome, “Bleeding Skull”
over at Dangerous Minds. Still needing a refreshment? Then wash that
bad boy down with my “Employee Recommendations” at the fabulous
Rupert Pupkin Speaks blog. You'll be glad you did!
Enjoy!
