Andy

I look at Andy Warhol and I get sad,

I see him and I see us all,

behind the wig, the glasses and the clothes,

I see a man hiding behind a character.

I look at his work and I feel a lump in my throat.

Empty images with a hard hidden reality,

we live in a shallow world.

There is nothing behind the first thin layer,

there is no solidity but lightness.

There is image without content

and pleasure without spirit.

Nothingness had never had as much meaning as in his works.

Today impalpable images that appear on the palm of our hand build a world of which Andy would be the king.

Maybe I'm exaggerating,

maybe it's always been like that.

Perhaps this emptiness of the soul has accompanied us all along,

perhaps history is a dark sky

of which we only remember a few stellar moments.

I don't know,

but I look at Andy Warhol and I get sad.