Jessica Hale

My Name Is . . .

Warhol’s 12-Panel Marilyn

I am trying to find myself; sometimes that’s not easy.

It’s a mean trick, his dangling eleven neon makeovers in front of me like distorted mirrors to choose from— red face with white hair or blue with indigo edges, a film noir version. Eleven ways to shift the indelible pinup girl consumers carry in their minds when they hear that name, not really my name: Marilyn.

Even museum-goers, primed to see anew, miss the other eleven because the blonde, tousled, beauty-marked, eye-shadowed me in the upper left corner draws their eyes like the legend on a map or the GO square on a Monopoly board. Start here! My cage, their comfort zone.

The same shallow take still on display, racking up millions for Andy’s estate. Eleven of these girls don’t belong here; one of these girls is always the same.