In many ways, Andy Warhol is the art world’s ultimate voyeur: obsessive and fetishistic, transfixed by beauty and celebrity while so often cast as remote, cold and dispassionate. The portrait that often emerges from his diaries is of a frigid hypochondriac, chronically lonely and isolated even as he moved as a star among the luminaries of late-20th century New York’s most effervescent cultural milieu. We often think of his work as somewhat impersonal – ithellip;

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