My path toward world fame as an artist began in the fall of 1965 when I published my first poster, Are We Next? I had become a loosely Bohemian freelance artist who felt compelled to freely express my true feeling about our country’s ongoing ethical disaster in Vietnam by creating this poster. Like many others I was against our government’s foreign policy agenda of the time, a policy best surmised as “money makes might and might makes right.” This unfortunate agenda was first directed toward the Cuban and later the Vietnamese people. Having studied some Eastern and Western philosophy and having read parts of the New Testament of Jesus, I knew that something better was possible on our planet. I couldn’t bear watching this kind of major mistake continue to go down without even a peep like so many millions of others seemed so readily inclined to do. America’s foreign policy can only find its strength in the understanding that “Right Makes Might,” never the other way around. This I still hold dear.
In the fall of 1965 I was married to my dear wife of 40 plus years, Eva Christine. This was the luminous beginning to my time as an up and coming freelance artist; it was a time that was both exhilarating and exceptionally demanding. During that brief, wonderful period of artistic creativity I designed many well-received posters for any number of San Francisco dance/concert venues. I designed, printed and then personally delivered most of my earliest work. My first poster for the Family Dog was called the “Tribal Stomp.” I printed 300 good ones for Chet; the total cost for these 300 posters in 1966 was $60 or twenty cents apiece. Recently one of these has sold at auction for over $24,700.
Early on the weekly attendance at the Fillmore and Avalon Ballrooms seemed fairly modest, with attendance in the hundreds. But, rapidly, the numbers bumped up to a few thousand each week. With attendance increasing I was able to convince the promoters to spend more money to print posters with two or more colors on larger sheets. Larger stock sizes meant they could be cut to a bleed line, have postcards included to be trimmed out, and eventually include tickets all on the same sheet. This made the artistic possibilities ever more exciting. Because of their uniqueness, many people began eagerly collecting these posters. Soon, plenty of other artists became intrigued with these new artistic possibilities, as well. Before long an entirely new poster art genre and its booming print industry had begun in earnest, all due to the development of the unique San Francisco psychedelic rock poster.
My workload rather quickly expanded. I began doing just the artwork and arranged for others to do the printing. This all was evolving while I was meeting the difficult, inflexible, short term scheduling deadlines required for dated dance/concert events. Each poster included several notable bay area acts and eventually even national and international entertainers and musical groups made the billing. Time was always the most important factor in event poster production. One of my most demanding considerations lay in dealing harmoniously with the often acrid personalities of promoters and their tight scheduling demands. All of which, for me, was characteristic of the unique, post-”Trips Festival Bohemian” dance/concert poster scene of the mid-60s’ San Francisco.
The public awareness of my work quite rapidly increased. Early in 1966 I began to be contacted by local media and more clients. Soon, many more from well beyond the city limits of San Francisco were calling, requesting commission work and newspaper, television and film interviews. I did occasionally find time for work other than posters, including illustrations for Ramparts and later two Time Magazine cover commissions (though paid for, neither TIME covers were published). I illustrated a Newsweek poster/cover for their international edition. I was commissioned to do a poster for the LA offices of the J. Walter Thompson Company. For this commission I was approached by Ron Ziegler, later to be the press secretary for Richard Nixon. (As a side note, the J. Walter Thompson Company was also headed at that time by another future Nixon appointee, ‘Bob’ Haldemann.) This poster became what I call my Open Up & See! poster. The ‘Operational Research Society of America and the Technical Institute of Military Science’ (ORSA-TIMS) commissioned me to illustrate their convention’s program cover. I was also asked to make the poster for the final Beatles concert tour event at Candlestick Park in south San Francisco. I had quickly become a notable, or perhaps notorious, artist.
Though this was a grand and exciting period it was also plenty tough on me both physically and mentally. The deadlines, late nights and the harshness of over work took their toll. At first mostly local media were interested in me as a unique poster artist, but when I became a national and then even an international artist of note this new publicity thing and all its additional work became almost as demanding as doing the artwork and producing the posters. My single-handed management of my new art career and its PR expanded until coping with it all became my daily concern. My first hard won copyright contract with Bill Graham, a good one for artists, was at last fully shouted out in negotiations and was agreed to and signed by all. (Tragically for me, this contract would somehow become ‘lost’ a year or so later according to the Graham office people.) My oncoming fame brought the persistent calls requesting more and more public exposure as the media pressure intensified. All these regular media requests for information and personal interviews caused me to be almost constantly in need of additional, restful sleep.
So by mid-1967 I had been well noted in scholarly, professional, art and design publications and most major news magazines including Time and LIFE. Several art museums wanted to buy my original artwork and posters. The MoMA requested and bought my posters for their collection at a time when many artists would have been proud just to have their work accepted when donated. My posters were moving abroad and amazing the art acquiring communities as far away as the Louvre in Paris and even the Hermitage in Soviet Leningrad. So many requests for my personal attention and my artwork were coming in that I was soon exhausted by it all. Throughout the art world I had rather rapidly become world famous.
Sometime in the late fall of 1967 I met Andy Warhol. He had been in San Francisco in the spring of 1966 to perform at the Fillmore with a troupe of entertainment associates known as the “Exploding Plastic Inevitable.” Although I made the poster I did not attend the event. When Andy and his friends returned in 1967 I took part with them in an on-air interview one afternoon at a downtown San Francisco radio station. That’s where I met Andy. He had returned with the Exploding Plastic Inevitable, including Nico, Ultraviolet and The Velvet Underground, to perform at an odd venue called The Cinematique Coffeehouse & Palace of Pleasure someplace in San Francisco. After the radio interview we exchanged small talk before heading off in our separate directions. Andy mentioned his latest film, his filming of a California sunset. We were getting ready to leave when Andy asked if I knew of anything fun that was happening that evening. I knew of nothing special so I happened to ask him to drop in over at my place, possibly to talk more about sunsets and art. Since Andy looked blank at that and said nothing I assumed he’d taken that option off the table. As I left the radio station to head home I gave him my address and phone number in case he might ever want to get in touch. I left the station and drove home.
It had been another full day of it following several long nights of work and I was tired that night. As I drove up to Mill Valley during the late afternoon I looked forward to getting to bed early and catching up on sleep. My wife, Eva, had already left to attend her rehearsal at the Straight Theater where she was soon to perform in a play called ‘The Interviewer’ with Fred Ward. Our infant son Colin was under my mother-in-law’s care for the evening, so right after sunset I went straight up to bed and was soon fast asleep.
I awoke suddenly at around 8:00 p.m. or so. Our doorbell was ringing. I was soon awake enough to go downstairs and see who was at the door still, of course, in my pajamas. I opened the door a crack and squinted out. Two strangers were standing there under the porch light. One said, “Is this Wes Wilson’s place?” I hesitated a moment and said “Yes.” They quickly explained that they, along with Andy Warhol, had come up from the City for a visit, “If that’s ok?” By now I was fully awake, “Why of course!” I probably said. They happily waved toward the street, “This is it!” they signaled. Soon several more came walking up from what looked like a long limousine parked out there on the street. Yes, indeed, the one coming up the path wearing dark glasses was Andy Warhol. “Welcome!” I must have said as I ushered them all inside.
Sometimes people can muddle through such unexpected circumstances to happily benefit everyone in the end and I had firmly decided that somehow this was going to be one of those times for me. There I was, still wearing my pajamas, sleep tousled and sleepy-eyed, with a fresh house full of guests to host (and determined not to complain about not getting a phone call first or anything). I was determined to do my best and be the undaunted, always generous host. As luck would have it, no one even mentioned my rumpled appearance or my pajamas. Two of my guests wordlessly sized up my situation and understood in a flash what needed to be done next. Immediately, these two jolly, wonderful souls volunteered to help prepare and serve party goodies. So the three of us went directly to the kitchen to forage and soon enough sufficient party food and drink was located and being properly served. Nico, an exceptionally attractive, but somehow really sad looking, blonde chick from Munich (“Miss Pop Art ‘66″) quickly placed one of her newer records on the phonograph and turned up the volume. Someone else thoughtfully rolled up a few joints and passed them around. It didn’t take long before everyone was settled in and the party thing was a-happening!
Again the doorbell rings! With some trepidation this time (could it be the police?) I opened the door a crack. A man and a woman were standing there. ‘Who or what?’ I asked? They were smiling and explained that they were reporters from ‘The New York Post’ who had come to conduct their interview with me. I couldn’t remember this so I asked, “What interview?” They looked shocked and explained that they had scheduled an appointment for tonight’s interview over the phone with me only a few days earlier. “Don’t you remember?” they gently chided. “Well – no” I think I said. So, there I was – peering out the door all tousled, bleary eyed and still wearing only pajamas while there was some kind of odd, adult party obviously going on behind me. At that moment I realized that I certainly didn’t look like the type who ‘never forgets’ things like appointments. I remembered my promise to myself about remaining “undaunted” that evening so I apologized for any misunderstanding while insisting that I simply could not give them their interview that evening. However, the two of them looked so disappointed I found myself opening the door and inviting them in to join our party anyway. They smiled in agreement and in they came.
Informally introducing them to all the party people by first names only they were flabbergasted when they realized that the guest in the dark glasses named Andy was in fact Andy Warhol. To everyone’s astonishment they suddenly plopped to their knees in a show of spontaneous reverential adoration right there on the floor in front of ultra-super-cool Andy. Then, before they had recovered their senses, they began plying him with giddy questions. Perhaps they were hoping they might score an interview with him instead? Andy’s unresponsive blank look as he panned across the wide-eyed hubbub was especially funny, even hilarious! Andy’s silence was every bit as funny as Jack Benny at his classic best. Everyone except cool Andy was obviously amused, such fun!
Fortunately, this serendipitous bit of humor had really broken the ice for the rest of the evening and a warmly entertaining party then ensued, thumping along merrily into the Mill Valley night to various odd Velvet tunes with fun titles like “Heroin.” (Whatever floats their boat, I recall thinking at the time.) I soon felt sufficiently relieved of my hosting duties and began to enjoy this unusual array of fascinating guests. There was our party’s centerpiece, Andy Warhol, parked in the middle of the living room couch with friends wedged in closely on either side. Our two newest guests raptly kneeling nearby with Andy not looking especially happy but deftly fending off each attempt at meaning with his steady cooling emptiness. When I spoke with Andy again I found him not the least inclined to be conversational. His shortness, his clipped speech, meant that he preferred watching and listening, occasionally fielding brief irrelevant or comic phrases when he felt compelled to respond. This was, apparently, the way Andy was. His friends seemed mildly entertained by these brief utterances but soon I had to quit trying to keep up with all this silliness. After all, who ever really cares to know everything about nothing?
There was the beautiful Nico, obviously proud of her latest recordings which all seemed such basal tones of cynical madness. She seemed to deeply enjoy being thoroughly enmeshed in her own kind of darkness, gracefully slouched there next to the speakers, clothed in purple and black, all folded womb-like into her shroud. Maybe she’s on something besides pot and booze, I wondered? At least she talked some. No, I didn’t know that she had a part in a Feline movie along with three hundred pounds worth of Richard Simmons and all! La Dolce Vita! Not much else was being said. Lou Reed might be a super guitarist but he didn’t seem at all friendly. Maybe he was worried about me hitting on Nico? I don’t know. I suspect that as a rule worried people are no fun at parties. Over all the party helpers were the kindest and jolliest of the bunch. How interesting this all was!
No one seemed to notice or care that I was wearing pajamas, with the exception of Ultra Violet who was sitting beside Andy. She made note of my odd attire at one point by playfully jerking open my pajama waistband with a wicked little grin. Funny girl! It was interesting to note that she was the one who turned Andy on to the Campbell soup can idea, the piece that brought him such fame. A soup can painting, what an idea! Mostly Andy sat quietly as if he were the shy child on a rowdy schoolyard. He was somewhere in there hiding behind cool dark glasses, protecting his pinkness. His expressionless look seemed also a way of projecting arrogance, like maybe he was jealous of something? Maybe like a spoiled child always wants the others’ toy? After a long while Andy finally said something directly to me. He asked me to please show him my studio. I was most happy to oblige and change the focus, I agreed and up the stairs we promptly went to check it all out. This signaled the other guests to follow, too. Everyone wanted to see what Wes Wilson’s art studio looked like.
My studio contained my current work in progress, sketches and all. Odd stacks of rock posters were scattered about on the floor, a sprayed on manikin or two, my work table and a business desk all covered at the time with numerous business cards, notes, receipts, newspapers and magazines, etc. Andy took it all in slowly and said very little. Andy’s only comment of note that I can remember came when he noticed a magazine (CA Magazine) on my desk which had pictured on its cover a number of political buttons depicting various symbols or funny sayings with contemporary 1967 meanings such as “Make Love, Not War,” etc. One button in particular caught Andy’s eye and he suddenly laughed out loud for perhaps the first time that evening. He pointed out that one of the buttons read “Pop Art Stinks!” Then, grinning, Andy said, “It does.” In that instant I learned the essence of Andy’s artistic agenda, i.e. making a stink! Now I could fully understand where he was coming from. We chuckled some more and soon returned to the downstairs where we discovered there were no more snacks or drinks left. Especially tough on everyone was that there were no more nicotine cigarettes. By then everyone had become talked out. The hi-fi went silent and Nico gathered up all her records. My best pot had largely gone up in smoke, too. It was finally time for Andy and all to be driven off in their limousine.
When Andy rose to depart he had softened considerably. He politely thanked me and kindly made me promise to be sure and visit him whenever I came to New York City. He called his place the factory and gave me his address and phone number. I thanked him and assured him that I most certainly would, maybe even the following year. Ultra Violet adds a nice “see ya” and off with lovely Nico they all went, slipping quickly off into the night. We’d had such fun! I then fell back into bed and slept like a log.
The following year, in July of 1968, after receiving a hefty and helpful unsolicited award for my contribution to art from the National Endowment for the Arts (Thanks to a Mr. Roger Stevens) I did manage to fly to New York City. Unfortunately, however, Andy had just been shot and almost killed by a deranged female acquaintance and lay isolated in the intensive care unit of some New York City hospital. Consequently, I missed my chance to visit him. Within only a few years it seems, Andy Warhol died.
It’s been many years now since I’ve been as famous as I was during those heady 60s days.
I like to think that Andy enjoyed his visit that evening. It was a wonderful opportunity for both of us to meet yet another ‘world famous artist.’ I’ve also wondered if somehow I may have helped to inspire Andy’s world-famous quote. Too bad he’s gone and I can’t call him up and ask him.
“In the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes.” Andy Warhol, 1968
