“I went to a party one time and had my palms read. She placed her hands over mine to examine them, but then she frowned and looked up at me sadly. I laughed, ‘I know,’ I said, ‘my life line’s broken.’ She said I wouldn’t live past thirty.”
He looked at me with the most peculiar fascination, sweeping his artificially colored hair out of his pale eyes. His fingers were bony and dry from years of dedication, grasping the coffee mug as he brought it up to his thin, chapped lips to take a sip.
I ran my fingers through my short, blond hair; it still smelled like peroxide and I smirked at my now boyish style.
“Edie, you look like a boy. A pretty boy,” he chuckled softly, reaching out to pet me gently on the hand.
I looked out the window. It was like a painting I had done once; the cars jammed together on the narrow pavement with the buildings that seemed to fuse together with the sky. There were people up and down the streets and I felt as if I were a pa rt of them.
“Edie, you’re a superstar” Andy laughed.
“And you, Mr. Warhol, are an artist.”
I used to be an artist. I didn’t always have hair that was an inch long or lashes that enveloped my eyes in feathery blankets. I used to live in Cambridge with my wealthy family- if you could call it a family at all. My father was strict and abusive and my mother was barely there at all. I went to school for art, I loved painting. Then my father stopped paying tuition and I moved to the city to pursue a career. And then, I met Andy.
Andy was tall and thin; his hair spray-painted to match his alabaster skin. He dressed only in black and I thought him to be a homosexual when he first introduced himself. His artwork was beautiful, bur people didn’t see the magnificence of it. He didn’t care, he knew he was talented and he thought I was, too.
He brought me to Studio 54 and cut off my long, dark locks. I was to be in his films; he was going to make me a superstar.
It was only several hours ago that I had been standing on the corner of Linnaean Street, arguing with the pay phone.
“Why are you wasting time painting pictures when you could be studying law?” my father said sternly over the phone.
“Dad I don’t want to be a lawyer. I’m an artist.”
“Not as long as you’re a part of this family, you aren’t. I’m not paying for you to daydream all semester, Edith!”
“Well then I guess I’m no longer a part of your family!” I slammed down the receiver and buried my face in my hands.
I exited the phone booth and walked down the road to the train station. I spent the remaining money I had and purchased a ticket that would bring me to Penn Station. I boarded the locomotive and took a seat by the window. Retrieving a folded piece of paper from my coat pocket, I smoothed it out and carefully sketched a large city with traffic stretched out the length of the streets and buildings that rose high above the clouds. I smiled; this is where I was going, this way my escape.
I arrived in New York late in the afternoon and strolled up and down West 54th Street, imagining what great artists and actors were among me. I stared up at the studio and a man with painted white hair smiled down on me. His teeth were a bit crooked and discolored, but his smile was pleasant and I grinned back up at him. I hadn’t know whom he was, but when he held his finger up to the window as if to say one moment I stood waiting on the sidewalk as he disappeared from sight.
I stood shuffling my weight from one foot to another, looking down at the dirty concrete beneath me. A door slammed and I jumped, frightened by the sudden noise.
I looked up and he waved me towards him, “Come along superstar!”
Not contemplating whether or not it was a good idea to be talking to this strange man, I followed at his heels, the door closing softly behind me.
“Sit here, sit here,” he said, patting the black leather sofa that was positioned awkwardly in the middle of the large room.
I did as I was told, pushing my long, dark hair out of my eyes.
“No need for that dear, we’re cutting it off!”
My eyes widened and I looked at him nervously, “you’re doing what?”
“We’re cutting off that pretty hair of yours, I want you to look like a boy,” he said excitedly and without hesitation, grabbed a lock of my hair and cut it off with shiny scissors.
I tried to think of something to say to stop him, but I figured it was already too late and just allowed him to finish what he had started.
When he was through, I had no more than an inch of hair, cropped closely to my head.
He looked at me with a thin hand propped up under his narrow chin before snapping his fingers together, “Aha, we need bleach. I want your hair as white as mine!”
I didn’t argue, instead I nodded my head and within a moment he had peroxide slathered all over my freshly cut hair.
After a while, when my head began to burn with anticipation, he rinsed my hair and handed me a mirror, quite pleased with himself. I grabbed my hair in shock.
“I look like a twelve year old boy!”
He laughed, “I know dear, isn’t it lovely?”
“You truly are an artist, Mr. Warhol.”
“Why thank you eh…what is your name?”
“Edith, Edith Sedgwick.”
“Well Edie, I’m going to make you a superstar.”
Now, Andy laid the money down on the table and slid out of the booth. Grabbing his coat, which was faded with safety pins shoved through the collar, he took my hand and I jumped up from the table. In the last couple of hours, he had become my best friend and I had become his masterpiece.
I’m taking you to a party tonight,” he said with great enthusiasm as we walked hand in hand down Broadway.
“Oh, what for?” I squealed with excitement.
“Me, of course. I’m displaying my artwork.”
“Oh Mr. Warhol, that sounds just delightful!”
We went back to the studio and he ordered me out of my incredibly hideous outfit, as he had described it. He handed me dark tights and a dress that I had mistaken for a shirt. Leading me over to the mirror, he traced my eyes with thick, black makeup and stuck fake eyelashes to my lids that made me look like some sort o exotic bird. Andy looked me over for a minute, tapping on his temple with a slender finger. A smile crept upon his face and he walked into the other room. He came back holding two small chandeliers in his hands which he told me were earrings.
“Edie,” he whispered, “You’re a superstar now.”
We stepped out of the car and were blinded by hundreds of flashing bulbs. He grabbed me by the crook of the arm and led me towards the door. Shoving microphones and video cameras in his face, Andy told everyone that I was a superstar and then we disappeared behind heavy, steal doors.
“Why hello there, who, may I ask, do I have the pleasure of meeting?”
“I’m Edie, Edie Sedgwick. And you, are Mr. Bob Dylan!”
I giggled nervously and held out my hand which he graciously took in his own, bringing it up to his lips and gently brushing them over the tips of my fingers.
Andy rolled his eyes, signaling that he was going to mingle with a light tap on the shoulder, while I swooned over some young folksinger.
“So Bobby, where do you get the inspiration for such admirable songs?’
“I sing about what I see,” he smirked, reminding me with quivering lips of Elvis Presley.
He was remarkably handsome; he had bronzed, olive skin and clean, well-kept hair that hung about his face nicely. His eyes were dark and mysterious, downcast toward his feet while we spoke. I thought him to be rather awkward for such a well-known public figure.
“Well Miss Sedgwick, what brings you to the city; family?”
“In a way, I’m escaping from them.”
“Escaping? Don’t you have anyone you’ll miss? Brothers or sisters?”
“I had brothers; but they’re dead now. Bobby drown in the pond when he was twelve, Minty hung himself a few years ago…he said I was the only Sedgwick he could ever hope for,” I smiled slightly.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” his cheeks grew flush and he looked around uncomfortably.
I was about to say something when I heard someone call my name from across the room. I looked over a crowd of people to see Andy waving frantically, tapping his hand to his wrist as if to indicate the time.
“Well Mr. Dylan, it was very nice to meet you, but I’m afraid I have to go now.”
I turned to leave and Bobby grabbed me by the arm, he whispered, “you know, you really are something special Edie, I’ll see you around,” and with that he pecked me lightly on the mouth and vanished into the sea of people.
“I don’t like him, that…Dylan fellow,” Andy said, making a disgusted face.
“You don’t even know him, besides, what is there to dislike about the man?”
“I just don’t. He’s so ugly, anyway.”
“Don’t be jealous, Andy. He’s nothing like you! Plus, isn’t that a rather vain thing to say?”
“I am a deeply superficial person,” and with that he waved the thought away and we laughed into the cold, night air.
…
Andy and I would talk on the phone for hours each night about various things happening in the world and in our lives.
“I wonder if people are going to remember us.”
I paused to reposition the phone between my ear and my shoulder, “what, when we’re dead?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I think people will talk about how you changed the world.”
“I wonder what they’ll say about you…in your obituary,” Andy repeated the word several times, obituary, “I like that word.”
“Nothing nice , I don’t think.”
“No no, come on. They’d say ‘Edith Minturn Sedgwick: beautiful artist and actress…’”
“ ‘…and all around loon.’’
“ ‘Remembered for setting the world on fire…’”
“ ‘…and escaping the clutches of her terrifying family.’”
“ ‘Made friends with everybody and anybody…’”
“ ‘Creating chaos and uproar wherever she went. Divorced as many times as she married, she leaves only good wishes behind.’”
Andy laughed, “Well that’s nice, isn’t it?”
It was talks like those that we had for hours each night that I cherished most about our relationship.
…
Over the next couple of months Bobby and I developed a highly intimate relationship, both sexual and romantic. It was when I started telling people that Andy Warhol was a making a movie that both Bobby and I would be acting in, that I knew I had a crush on him. The movie was entitled “Vinyl” and was Andy’s interpretation on the movie “Clockwork Orange.” Although it was an all male cast, he told me I looked boyish enough to play a major character.
We began filming, the boys working out and chain-smoking cigarettes. I smiled at Bobby and he winked.
“Cut!” Andy yelled suddenly.
I looked at him, puzzled, “What was wrong with that?”
“Him…Mr. Dylan, could you move to the back of the room?”
“You won’t be able to see him if he’s all the way back there!”
“Exactly…ready, set, action!”
I stared at him in disbelief then stood up and walked off-screen.
“Edie…Edie, what are you doing?” Andy demanded.
I looked from him to Bobby, “We’re leaving, Mr. Warhol. I’m not getting paid for any of my work and I desperately need the money.”
Bobby and I left the studio, slamming the door with a loud thud. I was furious with Andy, how could be so conceited? It was some sort of insane jealousy that drove him mad when Bobby and I were together. He acted like a different person, rude and self-centered and cocky. It would be days before I would speak to him again.
Bobby rolled his eyes, “you know Edie, you don’t need guys like him. You can be a star baby; you need the money anyways, I’m tired of paying for everything.”
“I can’t take it anymore! I want to die.”
“And why do you want to die, Edie?”
I laughed, “Because my credit’s no good at Bonwit Teller and I just stole thirty dollars worth of underwear at Bergdorfs…and I think I might do it again.”
“You’re crazy, Edie!” Bobby yelled, “You’re an absolute loon! You’ve got that artist fag manipulating everything you do.”
We stood there on the corner of 54th Street, cursing at one another. I kept my eyes fixed on a discarded candy wrapper that was stuck between a crack in the sidewalk. He continued screaming at me as I trembled, trying to fight back my tears.
“Damnit Edie…I’ve got to go.”
I watched him walk across the street quickly and turn the corner; he didn’t even glance back at me. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and looked up towards the sky. Shaking my head, I started my journey home…alone.
It wasn’t until three days later that I returned to the studio. I had spent the last seventy-two hours in my apartment with a bottle of wine and heroin injections. My eyes were bloodshot and my pupils were dilated. I hadn’t showered and I smelled of alcohol and sweat. My hair was unkempt and makeup was smeared down my face, but I didn’t care. I opened the door quietly and found Andy lying on the couch I had sat on the first day I arrived in New York.
“Andy…”
“Oh, Miss Sedgwick,” he looked over at me and his eyes widened, “Edie…you’re a mess.”
I put my hand through my rumpled hair, attempting to smooth it out, “Andy I’m sorry.”
“Why do you love him, Edie? He’s no good for you.”
I bit my lower lip gently, “Because I can’t hate him.”
Andy swung his feet off the arm of the sofa and put his hands on his knees, leaning forward. He stared at me for a long time, but he said nothing.
“Thank you for making me a superstar, Mr. Warhol,” I whispered, and with that I walked out of Studio 54 for the last time.
In less than a week my entire life came crashing down around me. I had lost the two people I had cherished most; a quirky, talented artist and a charismatic, beautiful singer. Although the relationships I had with these two men were very different, they were both highly intimate and loving affairs.
I went home to find all of Bobby’s things were gone and an eviction notice on the door. I ripped the yellow slip several times before tossing it to the ground. Sitting on the edge of the bed I rested my head on my knees and wept. I cried for Bobby and Andy and Minty; for my mother and my father, but I did not cry for myself.
I stood up and walked swiftly to the bathroom. Opening the medicine cabinet, I looked for anything that would help. I struggled for a moment with the cap before it snapped off and sent the pills pouring into the sink. I smiled down at the colorful drug and scooping them up into my palm, I opened my mouth and let them fall onto my tongue. Swallowing hard, I went to the kitchen, searching for a clean glass. I couldn’t find any, so I rinsed one off in the sink and filled it with vodka until it overflowed onto the counter, dripping down onto the linoleum tiles.
I went to bed to lie down, my whole body aching with pain. I was a few feet from the mattress when I suddenly felt light-headed and dropped to the floor like a ton of bricks. My eyelids began drooping down over my pupils and my vision became blurry. I let my eyes close slowly; I was twenty-nine years old.
…
Edith Minturn Sedgwick died on November 15, 1971. She predicted that her life would be short-lived, but lived life to the fullest.
Andy blamed Bob Dylan for Edie’s drug addiction. When interviewed about Edie’s death, he acted as though he had forgotten that she had ever existed at all. Andy died on February 22, 1987, in his sleep due to post operation complications. Bob Dylan disliked Andy Warhol as he thought him to be too manipulating and controlling over Edie, however he did admit to using Edie as publicity to further his own career. He married Carolyn Dennis in 1986 and they had a child together who was a closely guarded secret until a biography of Dylan’s life was published several years later.
He looked at me with the most peculiar fascination, sweeping his artificially colored hair out of his pale eyes. His fingers were bony and dry from years of dedication, grasping the coffee mug as he brought it up to his thin, chapped lips to take a sip.
I ran my fingers through my short, blond hair; it still smelled like peroxide and I smirked at my now boyish style.
“Edie, you look like a boy. A pretty boy,” he chuckled softly, reaching out to pet me gently on the hand.
I looked out the window. It was like a painting I had done once; the cars jammed together on the narrow pavement with the buildings that seemed to fuse together with the sky. There were people up and down the streets and I felt as if I were a pa rt of them.
“Edie, you’re a superstar” Andy laughed.
“And you, Mr. Warhol, are an artist.”
I used to be an artist. I didn’t always have hair that was an inch long or lashes that enveloped my eyes in feathery blankets. I used to live in Cambridge with my wealthy family- if you could call it a family at all. My father was strict and abusive and my mother was barely there at all. I went to school for art, I loved painting. Then my father stopped paying tuition and I moved to the city to pursue a career. And then, I met Andy.
Andy was tall and thin; his hair spray-painted to match his alabaster skin. He dressed only in black and I thought him to be a homosexual when he first introduced himself. His artwork was beautiful, bur people didn’t see the magnificence of it. He didn’t care, he knew he was talented and he thought I was, too.
He brought me to Studio 54 and cut off my long, dark locks. I was to be in his films; he was going to make me a superstar.
It was only several hours ago that I had been standing on the corner of Linnaean Street, arguing with the pay phone.
“Why are you wasting time painting pictures when you could be studying law?” my father said sternly over the phone.
“Dad I don’t want to be a lawyer. I’m an artist.”
“Not as long as you’re a part of this family, you aren’t. I’m not paying for you to daydream all semester, Edith!”
“Well then I guess I’m no longer a part of your family!” I slammed down the receiver and buried my face in my hands.
I exited the phone booth and walked down the road to the train station. I spent the remaining money I had and purchased a ticket that would bring me to Penn Station. I boarded the locomotive and took a seat by the window. Retrieving a folded piece of paper from my coat pocket, I smoothed it out and carefully sketched a large city with traffic stretched out the length of the streets and buildings that rose high above the clouds. I smiled; this is where I was going, this way my escape.
I arrived in New York late in the afternoon and strolled up and down West 54th Street, imagining what great artists and actors were among me. I stared up at the studio and a man with painted white hair smiled down on me. His teeth were a bit crooked and discolored, but his smile was pleasant and I grinned back up at him. I hadn’t know whom he was, but when he held his finger up to the window as if to say one moment I stood waiting on the sidewalk as he disappeared from sight.
I stood shuffling my weight from one foot to another, looking down at the dirty concrete beneath me. A door slammed and I jumped, frightened by the sudden noise.
I looked up and he waved me towards him, “Come along superstar!”
Not contemplating whether or not it was a good idea to be talking to this strange man, I followed at his heels, the door closing softly behind me.
“Sit here, sit here,” he said, patting the black leather sofa that was positioned awkwardly in the middle of the large room.
I did as I was told, pushing my long, dark hair out of my eyes.
“No need for that dear, we’re cutting it off!”
My eyes widened and I looked at him nervously, “you’re doing what?”
“We’re cutting off that pretty hair of yours, I want you to look like a boy,” he said excitedly and without hesitation, grabbed a lock of my hair and cut it off with shiny scissors.
I tried to think of something to say to stop him, but I figured it was already too late and just allowed him to finish what he had started.
When he was through, I had no more than an inch of hair, cropped closely to my head.
He looked at me with a thin hand propped up under his narrow chin before snapping his fingers together, “Aha, we need bleach. I want your hair as white as mine!”
I didn’t argue, instead I nodded my head and within a moment he had peroxide slathered all over my freshly cut hair.
After a while, when my head began to burn with anticipation, he rinsed my hair and handed me a mirror, quite pleased with himself. I grabbed my hair in shock.
“I look like a twelve year old boy!”
He laughed, “I know dear, isn’t it lovely?”
“You truly are an artist, Mr. Warhol.”
“Why thank you eh…what is your name?”
“Edith, Edith Sedgwick.”
“Well Edie, I’m going to make you a superstar.”
Now, Andy laid the money down on the table and slid out of the booth. Grabbing his coat, which was faded with safety pins shoved through the collar, he took my hand and I jumped up from the table. In the last couple of hours, he had become my best friend and I had become his masterpiece.
I’m taking you to a party tonight,” he said with great enthusiasm as we walked hand in hand down Broadway.
“Oh, what for?” I squealed with excitement.
“Me, of course. I’m displaying my artwork.”
“Oh Mr. Warhol, that sounds just delightful!”
We went back to the studio and he ordered me out of my incredibly hideous outfit, as he had described it. He handed me dark tights and a dress that I had mistaken for a shirt. Leading me over to the mirror, he traced my eyes with thick, black makeup and stuck fake eyelashes to my lids that made me look like some sort o exotic bird. Andy looked me over for a minute, tapping on his temple with a slender finger. A smile crept upon his face and he walked into the other room. He came back holding two small chandeliers in his hands which he told me were earrings.
“Edie,” he whispered, “You’re a superstar now.”
We stepped out of the car and were blinded by hundreds of flashing bulbs. He grabbed me by the crook of the arm and led me towards the door. Shoving microphones and video cameras in his face, Andy told everyone that I was a superstar and then we disappeared behind heavy, steal doors.
“Why hello there, who, may I ask, do I have the pleasure of meeting?”
“I’m Edie, Edie Sedgwick. And you, are Mr. Bob Dylan!”
I giggled nervously and held out my hand which he graciously took in his own, bringing it up to his lips and gently brushing them over the tips of my fingers.
Andy rolled his eyes, signaling that he was going to mingle with a light tap on the shoulder, while I swooned over some young folksinger.
“So Bobby, where do you get the inspiration for such admirable songs?’
“I sing about what I see,” he smirked, reminding me with quivering lips of Elvis Presley.
He was remarkably handsome; he had bronzed, olive skin and clean, well-kept hair that hung about his face nicely. His eyes were dark and mysterious, downcast toward his feet while we spoke. I thought him to be rather awkward for such a well-known public figure.
“Well Miss Sedgwick, what brings you to the city; family?”
“In a way, I’m escaping from them.”
“Escaping? Don’t you have anyone you’ll miss? Brothers or sisters?”
“I had brothers; but they’re dead now. Bobby drown in the pond when he was twelve, Minty hung himself a few years ago…he said I was the only Sedgwick he could ever hope for,” I smiled slightly.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” his cheeks grew flush and he looked around uncomfortably.
I was about to say something when I heard someone call my name from across the room. I looked over a crowd of people to see Andy waving frantically, tapping his hand to his wrist as if to indicate the time.
“Well Mr. Dylan, it was very nice to meet you, but I’m afraid I have to go now.”
I turned to leave and Bobby grabbed me by the arm, he whispered, “you know, you really are something special Edie, I’ll see you around,” and with that he pecked me lightly on the mouth and vanished into the sea of people.
“I don’t like him, that…Dylan fellow,” Andy said, making a disgusted face.
“You don’t even know him, besides, what is there to dislike about the man?”
“I just don’t. He’s so ugly, anyway.”
“Don’t be jealous, Andy. He’s nothing like you! Plus, isn’t that a rather vain thing to say?”
“I am a deeply superficial person,” and with that he waved the thought away and we laughed into the cold, night air.
…
Andy and I would talk on the phone for hours each night about various things happening in the world and in our lives.
“I wonder if people are going to remember us.”
I paused to reposition the phone between my ear and my shoulder, “what, when we’re dead?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I think people will talk about how you changed the world.”
“I wonder what they’ll say about you…in your obituary,” Andy repeated the word several times, obituary, “I like that word.”
“Nothing nice , I don’t think.”
“No no, come on. They’d say ‘Edith Minturn Sedgwick: beautiful artist and actress…’”
“ ‘…and all around loon.’’
“ ‘Remembered for setting the world on fire…’”
“ ‘…and escaping the clutches of her terrifying family.’”
“ ‘Made friends with everybody and anybody…’”
“ ‘Creating chaos and uproar wherever she went. Divorced as many times as she married, she leaves only good wishes behind.’”
Andy laughed, “Well that’s nice, isn’t it?”
It was talks like those that we had for hours each night that I cherished most about our relationship.
…
Over the next couple of months Bobby and I developed a highly intimate relationship, both sexual and romantic. It was when I started telling people that Andy Warhol was a making a movie that both Bobby and I would be acting in, that I knew I had a crush on him. The movie was entitled “Vinyl” and was Andy’s interpretation on the movie “Clockwork Orange.” Although it was an all male cast, he told me I looked boyish enough to play a major character.
We began filming, the boys working out and chain-smoking cigarettes. I smiled at Bobby and he winked.
“Cut!” Andy yelled suddenly.
I looked at him, puzzled, “What was wrong with that?”
“Him…Mr. Dylan, could you move to the back of the room?”
“You won’t be able to see him if he’s all the way back there!”
“Exactly…ready, set, action!”
I stared at him in disbelief then stood up and walked off-screen.
“Edie…Edie, what are you doing?” Andy demanded.
I looked from him to Bobby, “We’re leaving, Mr. Warhol. I’m not getting paid for any of my work and I desperately need the money.”
Bobby and I left the studio, slamming the door with a loud thud. I was furious with Andy, how could be so conceited? It was some sort of insane jealousy that drove him mad when Bobby and I were together. He acted like a different person, rude and self-centered and cocky. It would be days before I would speak to him again.
Bobby rolled his eyes, “you know Edie, you don’t need guys like him. You can be a star baby; you need the money anyways, I’m tired of paying for everything.”
“I can’t take it anymore! I want to die.”
“And why do you want to die, Edie?”
I laughed, “Because my credit’s no good at Bonwit Teller and I just stole thirty dollars worth of underwear at Bergdorfs…and I think I might do it again.”
“You’re crazy, Edie!” Bobby yelled, “You’re an absolute loon! You’ve got that artist fag manipulating everything you do.”
We stood there on the corner of 54th Street, cursing at one another. I kept my eyes fixed on a discarded candy wrapper that was stuck between a crack in the sidewalk. He continued screaming at me as I trembled, trying to fight back my tears.
“Damnit Edie…I’ve got to go.”
I watched him walk across the street quickly and turn the corner; he didn’t even glance back at me. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and looked up towards the sky. Shaking my head, I started my journey home…alone.
It wasn’t until three days later that I returned to the studio. I had spent the last seventy-two hours in my apartment with a bottle of wine and heroin injections. My eyes were bloodshot and my pupils were dilated. I hadn’t showered and I smelled of alcohol and sweat. My hair was unkempt and makeup was smeared down my face, but I didn’t care. I opened the door quietly and found Andy lying on the couch I had sat on the first day I arrived in New York.
“Andy…”
“Oh, Miss Sedgwick,” he looked over at me and his eyes widened, “Edie…you’re a mess.”
I put my hand through my rumpled hair, attempting to smooth it out, “Andy I’m sorry.”
“Why do you love him, Edie? He’s no good for you.”
I bit my lower lip gently, “Because I can’t hate him.”
Andy swung his feet off the arm of the sofa and put his hands on his knees, leaning forward. He stared at me for a long time, but he said nothing.
“Thank you for making me a superstar, Mr. Warhol,” I whispered, and with that I walked out of Studio 54 for the last time.
In less than a week my entire life came crashing down around me. I had lost the two people I had cherished most; a quirky, talented artist and a charismatic, beautiful singer. Although the relationships I had with these two men were very different, they were both highly intimate and loving affairs.
I went home to find all of Bobby’s things were gone and an eviction notice on the door. I ripped the yellow slip several times before tossing it to the ground. Sitting on the edge of the bed I rested my head on my knees and wept. I cried for Bobby and Andy and Minty; for my mother and my father, but I did not cry for myself.
I stood up and walked swiftly to the bathroom. Opening the medicine cabinet, I looked for anything that would help. I struggled for a moment with the cap before it snapped off and sent the pills pouring into the sink. I smiled down at the colorful drug and scooping them up into my palm, I opened my mouth and let them fall onto my tongue. Swallowing hard, I went to the kitchen, searching for a clean glass. I couldn’t find any, so I rinsed one off in the sink and filled it with vodka until it overflowed onto the counter, dripping down onto the linoleum tiles.
I went to bed to lie down, my whole body aching with pain. I was a few feet from the mattress when I suddenly felt light-headed and dropped to the floor like a ton of bricks. My eyelids began drooping down over my pupils and my vision became blurry. I let my eyes close slowly; I was twenty-nine years old.
…
Edith Minturn Sedgwick died on November 15, 1971. She predicted that her life would be short-lived, but lived life to the fullest.
Andy blamed Bob Dylan for Edie’s drug addiction. When interviewed about Edie’s death, he acted as though he had forgotten that she had ever existed at all. Andy died on February 22, 1987, in his sleep due to post operation complications. Bob Dylan disliked Andy Warhol as he thought him to be too manipulating and controlling over Edie, however he did admit to using Edie as publicity to further his own career. He married Carolyn Dennis in 1986 and they had a child together who was a closely guarded secret until a biography of Dylan’s life was published several years later.
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