It was 6:32 am on February 22, 1987, when the world was woken up to the loss of Andy Warhol at his New York City estate. The renegade pop artist who once quipped “Art is anything you can get away with” surely reflected that sentiment in the Campell’s soup cans, the magnum opus that cemented his place in pop art history. Would there be another to replace him — somebody who mastered the craft of pop art in their own way? If so, I think it would be years in the making. I’m sure no one was even asking that question at the time though. I know my mom wasn’t thinking that when she went into labor on the same day 3,000 miles away in Alaska, far from the cosmopolitan hotbed of art where Andy flourished.
I was born that very same day around 8 pm under a starry arctic night in Anchorage. My mom named me Whitney, with Laurel being my middle name, and Anderson my last — bearing the legacy of my dad, a 3rd generation commercial salmon boat captain. Busy with their new daughter and my two other siblings, my parents were the last people to know Andy Warhol died that day — until I told them 24 years later when I myself discovered the peculiarity of such “antithesis connections” (if that sounds weird, bear with me) between Andy Warhol and me. I was 24 and had just moved to NYC in search of art opportunities when I visited the Guggenheim one day. They had an Andy exhibit going and that is when I learned about the many polarities/antitheses between us:
He died on the morning of 2/22/87; I was born the night of 2/22/87
Our initials are swapped: mine are WA, his are AW.
-He was a man, I am a woman
-He was blond, I am brunette
-We were born on opposite ends of the country
-Interestingly, we are both pop artists but miles apart in approach. For instance, I rail against his infamous quote “Art is anything you can get away with” and you can see it in my work. I’m not trying to get away with something — as a purist, I have to consistently remind people that there areno shortcuts to my work, no projections or digital manipulations going on. The amount of labor and originality I put into my pieces pales in comparison to an Andy Warhol SCREENPRINT— and I’m not bragging, I’m stating a fact. Andy was rubbing it in our faces that he was getting away with low-grade art disguised as a sophisticated laborious art form. The only reason he is famous is because A: his renegade spirit and style was a slap in the face against normative art practices at the time which, by default, made him standout, and B) his vital social connections helped prop him up. Art has little to do with merit and Andy started that trend, just like how the Kardashians capitalized off being famous for being fa[ke]mous.
Anyways, with all these opposite connections, I got to thinking: was I Andy’s anti protégé? Am I the new female Andy Warhol pop cultural artist on the rise — the new renegade against him? While building up my own art enterprise the past 12 years, I love entertaining such a lofty idea. Plus, having started drawing when I was 5, I already surpassed the 10,000 mark of mastery by my early 30s.
18x24" hand-colored pencil/ 2018 / from my drawing archives
Crisco lard, Aftershave, Heinz Ketchup, Dairygold — oh, did you see those Warhol Argo corn starch portraits sell for 5 million last week at Christie’s? Neither did I — because the collection doesn’t exist! But you have heard of Campell’s Soup — sold for millions. Seriously, when you think about it, Andy could have picked any household item out of the 1960s and it would have stuck. Just imagine: the high art world would be gaga with interpretations behind cornstarch boxes or containers of lard right now instead of this canned soup. But it was Campbell’s that ended up being the chosen one to cement his legacy — the first to blatantly mimic low art, the post-industrial life of consumer culture. No one could imagine plucking a commercial brand from the shelf that was worth .75 cents and unabashedly misappropriating it as million-dollar art. Andy was a genius without the brains and I find that one part annoying and the other part endearing.
Speaking on Andy’s penchant for Campbell’s parallels what I’ve been creating for years, my own product “muse”: Swedish Fish. It all started when I was 19 — just a low-key intrigue over these cute little candies. Perhaps it was their ubiquitous nature that so many can relate to and appreciate them — but I learned over time why it captured me on a more innate level. Just the two words Swedish and fish embody my family’s legacy of Scandinavian seafarers: my great-great grandfather sailed from Åland (an archipelago between Sweden and Finland) to Chignik, Alaska in the late 1880s. He helped settle the fishing village it would become, the spawning grounds to the most prized sockey salmon run in the world. So naturally, having grown up as a fisherman’s daughter and professional artist, I can distinguish the five salmon species markings like Miranda Priestly can cerulean blue over lapis blue. I don’t know what compelled Warhol to create his Campbell’s Soup but I feel good to know my Swedish Fish paintings have a rich story behind them. If I’m ever known in the art world like him, I think that art collection will be one of my claims to fame.
Following the Warhol connection, I discovered other peculiarities about myself through the names that created my identity. Whitney means “white island” (one of my favorite things in the world is a blank white canvas and having no one around me— I create best in the quiet). Laurel is the victory wreath (I was a high-performing athlete most of my life). My mother named me after Mount Whitney, the highest mountain in the contiguous United States. I attended Kings Elementary School in Edmonds, WA. I later attended Summit High School in Frisco, CO. As the 3rd fastest girl in the nation at 5000 meters, I received a full-ride athletic scholarship to Duke University (Mind you, I did not go there because I was a Cameron Crazy — heck, when I got there JJ Redick walked by me and I didn’t even realize who he was). So, all of these regal names —Kings, Summit, Duke, and then being born at “Providence” hospital — feels like my life story is beyond just coincidence. What’s crazy is nobody else is a fine artist in my family on both sides of my mom and dad. Blood relatives, first cousins, and aunts and uncles — nada. The only person who was a legit artist was my great-grandmother Elma — amassing only a small stash due to taking care of family during the Great Depression and WWII years. In the midst of going through trials and tribulations, all these peculiarities are a reminder to me that God did place me here on earth as an artist to serve a special purpose.
Outside of my venturous journey, I’m very traditional inside. Sometimes I wish I was a wife and mother already or a Basic Becky who had a more relaxed upbringing and grew up on the same coldesac in a Leave It to Beaver Family. Being a Professional Artist/DukeAthlete/LegacyFisherman’sDaughter seems pretty glamorous, I know. But heck, I’ve wished so often to be in other’s shoes than my own — ironically a great motivator that a lot of high-acheivers adopt to keep them rising to the top.
Modern society glamorizes the struggle of any individual who has succeeded in their particular skill set or who comes from a rough blue-collar background like mine in the midst of this nerdy Digital Era. We all know rappers who make a living off their vocal game and the nostalgic lyrics from their gritty past. They never forgot where they came from and what made them. Same here. Upon reflection, I find my own achievements to be driven by contrasting emotions: some self loathing in one area of my brain mixed with a high sense of self worth in another. To an extent, the presence of lackis fuel to a hungry heart. But I’ve learned something over time: there is cost/benefit to every life story and thinking the grass is greener on the other side is a waste of precious energy. Stick to your pasture, your lane. Nonetheless, thank you for being here and witnessing mine, blog post after blog post— gleaning wisdom where you can. I hope I inspire you to reflect on what makes you YOU. Now, for all the ones who have mastered their skill and other people think they want in, I leave you with my favorite little mic-drop:
There once was a master pianist playing brilliantly on the keys with spectators all around watching him. One came up to him and remarked “Wow, I would give aaaanything to play like that!” The piano man suddenly stopped, turned around and asked, “WOULD YOU?” . . . . . . . .
