Read The Daily News' 1987 article HERE.
I wrote in my memoir about the day Andy Warhol died, how I wondered if moving to NYC even made sense now that he was out of the picture. (There was a hole, but life always moves on.) Now how did it get to be nearly three decades later? Read HERE.
My pal Kevin Sessums recalls:
I remember this day in 1987 so well. I was working at Interview at the time. It was a Sunday. I had climbed the stairs to my sixth floor walk-up on Bleecker and Sixth Avenue after having been out that day and my neighbor Bill Dolive heard me putting my key in the door. He stuck his head out of his door and told me my boss had died. My first thought was that he meant my old boss at Paramount Pictures, Buffy Shutt, and I wondered how he knew her. Looking at my perplexed face he said, "Warhol. Andy Warhol died." I went inside. My knees buckled a bit. I sat on my futon that I folded up to use as a sort of on-the-floor sofa when I wasn't sleeping on it -- each of us, at night, unfolded. I folded up on myself in that moment on that folded-up futon. And cried. The next day at work, we were all in shock. Pop, in many ways, had died the day before. I was an usher at his funeral.