Warhol's Candid Camera

In 1968, a girl who looked like Lili Taylor shot Andy Warhol at close range in the lobby of his Factory. Miraculously, he survived, wig slightly askew. Almost 20 years later, his worst fear was more fully realized when he succumbed to tragically mundane complications of gallbladder surgery. But even that event could only be called death in the most literal, physical sense, what with his work and his overwhelming impact on pop culture—not to mention the legions of people who to this day pleadingly screech, "I knew Andy Warhol!"

Now he's more alive than he's been in years, thanks to Ric Burns's four-hour Andy Warhol: A Documentary Film airing on PBS ("Wow," the artist would have deadpanned), and Warhol's World (Hauser & Wirth/Steidl), a tubby little book featuring snapshots of his countless acquaintances, all taken by the alleged social-phobe himself. I'm in there, in various states of overdress and undress—the best proof I've seen of my own existence. (The only previous evidence was my brief appearances on pages 753 and 792 of the Warhol Diaries.) And what grand (Guignol) company to be in! When Andy lifted his camera and gently clicked, face set in a bemused smile, he nabbed bonafide candids—Stallone in a thong, Spielberg relaxing, Lagerfeld thinking. Using his uncanny power over people, the unkillable Warhol landed shots both purposely banal and wildly trenchant, and all are worth more than 15 minutes.

Click here to view the Eyewitness Gallery