My name is Jon Warhol. That’s right, WARHOL! There it is in capital letters, identical in spelling to the American Pop Art icon, Andy Warhol. All my life, my friends, friends’ parents, doctors, professors, cashiers, and especially art majors have asked: “Are you related?” To which I usually answer “Yes, a cousin, but he’d be so old, that if he were alive, I would probably call him Uncle.” This question on basic lineage was always followed by a checklist:
“Have you ever met him?” “No – he died in ’87, I was born in ’91.”
“Do you have any of his paintings?” “No, but I like Campbell’s Soup.”
“That’s cool that you’re related!” It does start conversations.
This brief and disinterested exchange, which varies depending on how many “art appreciation” courses the asker has taken, has been happening for 21 plus years, and our cultural synchronicity is such that the same questions are always asked in the same order. I once knew the script so well I was able to glaze over the experience by saying “Yes. No. No. Yes.” without listening to the questions. For most of my life, I didn’t understand Andy’s place in the Warhol family line or really “get” who he was.
This changed my senior year of college when I was assigned to “… tell the story of someone or something significant who we either knew or were connected to …” I planned on talking about surf music and Dick Dale because he gave me his guitar pick at his last performance at the Surf Club in Ortley Beach before Super Storm Sandy destroyed everything. This prompted the professor to ask “How in the name of everything in the world with inherent artistic value could you not be interested in your relation to one of the most undisputedly significant artists of the twentieth century?”
The professor suggested I make a documentary on the Warhol family line and my relation to Andy. I respectfully declined, because unlike the rest of the world, I was not constantly aroused by the subject. It was put to a class vote and Andy beat surf music 10:1. I set out to gather information and do research on the late-great artist and figured what better way than to interview the oldest surviving and most conveniently accessible Warhols, John and Mark, my Dad and Uncle.
About the name
The song “Andy Warhol” from David Bowie’s 1971 album, Hunky Dory, is preceded by a bit of dialogue where the producer says “This is Andy War-haul, take one.” Bowie chimes in and states “Um, actually it’s War-hole, as in holes.” I disagree with Bowie – both pronunciations are technically correct in the sense that they get my attention when someone yells “Hey Warhol!” But for my whole life, I’ve pronounced the surname as War-Haul, like U-Haul. When I sat down to interview my father and uncle, I discovered the family name, like many others of twentieth century immigrants, has gone through some de-ethnifications and re-Americanizations. Originally Varchol or Varhol, the family name became Varhall or Warhol or Warhola in America (to make matters worse, the “h” was one of those throat-clearing sounds). This was Andrew Warhola’s birth name that he shortened to Warhol.
The naming connection for our ethnicity was that, if you were the “son of” someone, an “a” was added to your name. Like how Dracula is the son of Dracul. If you were a female relative, daughter, or wife, “ova” was added to your name like Martina Navartilova. So that story of the “a” falling off Andy’s name in his portfolio case is just a story — at some point you drop the “a”.
On being a Warhol
John: “Warhols are unnatural. We’re not a natural thing.”
Mark: “Warhol is a catch-all phrase meaning an argumentative quarrelsome person.”
John: “Varchol is a Polish word meaning an argumentative person, a squabbler, a pain in the ass. Somebody you just really don’t want to be around.”
Mark: “It’s in the blood. There’s this certain lack of desire to socialize that seems to be in the Warhol… thing. There’s this one self-portrait where it’s Andy Warhol’s face in camouflage. I always thought that was a sort of real self portrait of not just Andy, but Warhols in general. There’s this desire to kind of disappear.”
This valuable bit of insight into not just Andy, but all the Wahols, is something I have experienced my whole life. There is a certain reserve and general reticence as a family. As I grew older I was able to see more of it not only in myself, but my father, uncle, grandparents, and even in old interviews of Andy.
© 2012-2013 Limited Risk, Inc.
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