In 1967, three years after graduating from college, I landed the job of assistant art director at Seventeen magazine. It was a chirpy, all-female place—except for Horace, who archived illustrations and prepared layouts for production. In the art department, Ellen, Honey, Mary, and I worked in blue cotton lab coats. Open pots of Best-Test Rubber Cement perfumed the air. We were all a little high.
It was no secret in that sunny room that I’d fallen hard for Andy Warhol. I raved about him to Ellen, Honey, and Mary, raved to the point of vexation.
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