Let's be clear that Andy Warhol did not write any books between 1994 and 1997, because he was 7-10 years dead.
In a fit of stocking-stuffing genius, however, starting in Holiday '94, The Warhol Foundation executed several keyword searches on the artist's archives, and published themey little books of drawings, prints, and quotes, which cluttered the cash register areas of Rizzoli.
The first two, of course, were Angels, Angels, Angels and Cats, Cats, Cats, which scored apparently unexpected, direct hits on the unimaginative aunt demographic.
I say apparently unexpected, because in 1995, the Foundation only plotzed out the Christmas no-brainer Ho, Ho, Ho! in 1995, while 1996 saw the release of Love, Love, Love (Feb. 14); Yum, Yum, Yum (April); and Flowers, Flowers, Flowers (May).
Just as the last books, Style, Style, Style and Shoes, Shoes, Shoes: The Autobiography of Alice B. Shoe (1997) scrape the bottom of the cloying, cutesy barrel, the series stopped, barely scraping the surface of Warhol's deeply superficial legacy.
Why is there no Soup, Soup, Soup? Or Mao, Mao, Mao? How about Crash, Crash, Crash, Electric Chairs, Electric Chairs, Electric Chairs, or roll it up into one Death, Death, Death? Or if they really wanted to stay true to the Warhol legacy, they'd have Fame, Fame, Fame; Money, Money, Money; and Junkie Heiresses, Junkie Heiresses, Junkie Heiresses. So gifty.
