Wandering through the Revolver Gallery at 77 Bloor Street West, I get the sense that Andy Warhol would have done really well on Instagram. His square portraits of various filters seem made for the photo-sharing platform, perhaps even anticipated it.
Compared to his oversized canvases filled with bright colours, Warhol himself seems small to me, the opposite of larger than life. At the centre of the gallery, a TV plays a documentary on his life. He is a think waif of a man, a flickering black and white memory.
Realizing that everything Warhol did was informed by fame, I wonder what he’d think of our current culture of celebrity, of Lady Gaga and the Kardashians, of selfies and Snapchat.