Warhol's TG Star's Diaries
Candy's Fairy-Tale `Face'
By David Wiegand
San Francisco Chronicle
MY FACE FOR THE WORLD TO SEE
Candy Darling, Andy Warhol Superstar
Edited by Jeremiah Newton, Francesca Passalacqua and D.E. Hardy
Hardy Marks Publications, P.O. Box 90520, Honolulu, Hawaii 96835; 128 pages;
$22.95 |
Candy Darling, born James Lawrence Slattery, was 30 when she died in
1974 of cancer. Her illness was brought on by a now-banned hormone
treatment. You could say she died for love -- self-love.
What comes through in the selections of her letters and diaries in ``My
Face for the World to See'' is a childlike innocence about the world, an
indefatigable belief in fairy-tale endings and a relentless focus on herself
and the mundane, not unlike the world view readers saw a few years ago in
the more exhaustive ``Andy Warhol Diaries.''
As a boy, Slattery took refuge from the loneliness he felt at school by
playing hooky, watching ``Million Dollar Movie,'' reading Photoplay and
imagining himself as a star. None of that changed in his late teens when,
after experimenting with his single mother's makeup, he became Candy
Darling, one of Andy Warhol's superstars. Unlike some of the others, such as
Holly Woodlawn and Jackie Curtis, Candy aimed not to be a grotesque parody
of femininity but an idealized imitation.
UNWAVERING TONE
What stands out in the letters and diaries is the way the tone of voice
and focus do not change from Jimmy Slattery's childish jottings to Candy's
wardrobe plans. ``I didn't have Gym today. I lost my gym suit. Goody
Gumdrops. I HATE gym. Nobody likes it, you have to take showers & do
exercises & all. Phooey,'' Jimmy writes. Years later, Candy offers the
highlight of her day: ``When I went to the beauty shop Cinandre the other
day I went into the room to change into a smock and forgot which side to
wrap it to.''
Elsewhere, Candy would ``practice'' what she perceived as clever lines
to be used at parties: ``A woman without a man is like a slave without a
master,'' and ``What do
you mean I'm not alluring enough, maybe my name isn't Tondelaya but I've
brushed off more men than the porter at the Waldorf.''
She practiced jokes: ``Who does your material? Your tailor? It doesn't
fit.'' She records complicated hair-dying strategies: ``material: ultra blue
--starting at back right to back left to left side to right side. left on 1
hr. -- result lemon color roots few black spots. Born Blonde beautiful
beige. 30 mins.''
People make fun of her, but she takes it as proof that ``I'm destined for
stardom.'' ``Last week I went to IFA and was so glamorous that I overheard a
man in the outer room gasp out loud.'' Naive? Certainly, but there is a
sweet sadness to her simplistic self-focus: ``Only the rejection will
hurt,'' she writes her cousin Kathy about a dreaded family visit. ``But it
can never hurt me as much as I can hurt myself by not being myself. There is
one thing I must tell you because I just found it to be a truth . . . You must
always be yourself no matter what the price. It is the highest form of
morality.''
Like the Warhol diaries, the entries seem not worth our time at first,
but taken together, with their singular focus and tone of voice, they become
an oddly compelling distillation of shallow contemporary values. Not born female, Slattery latched on to a little girl's
fantasy, as packaged by Hollywood, as a path to self-fulfillment. Once he
became Candy, he never let go.
TRAGIC ENDING
Finally, having spent most of his life emulating Hollywood's great
tragic divas, Candy became one herself: ``By the time you read this I will
be gone,'' she writes in a letter to Warhol and other friends from her death
bed. ``Unfortunately before my death I had no desire left for life . . . I am
just so bored by everything. You might say bored to death. (D)id you know I
couldn't last. I always knew it. I wish I could meet you all again.''
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