With his ever-present flat affect, Andy Warhol denied being a communist during an interview, suggesting that his ambition to secure an order for a painting from Imelda Marcos was sufficient proof of his status as a capitalist. In this short look at Warhol's place in the history of art, Arthur Danto says that, in creating his portraits of celebrities, which were sold on commission, Warhol achieved something akin to a Hegelian sublation: he exteriorized the internality of his subject, at once canceling out and preserving an idealized portrait of the sitter. Furthermore, Danto claims, in creating a star-system where he celebrated the ruffians and ne'er-do-wells of underground New York, Warhol accomplished what the communists could not do with all the spying technology inside the Kremlin; that is, whereas Josef Stalin was obsessed by the need for an internal cleaning of a Russian society filled with dedicated citizens, Warhol divested communism of its ideology by creating paintings which made communism into an American-style commodity. Danto makes clear his view that Warhol's pop art reflected the political equality that developed out of the ending of the ideological Cold War period. In the post-Cold War Warholian universe, God was an unappeasable consumer who militaristically deployed goods into people's lives according to the politically-derived wage-scale of their employer's largesse. The Kennedy assassination gave pop art it's cue to celebrate history in the televised recall of the tragedies of the present. Perhaps Danto is correct in seeing Andy Warhol as a key bellwether American personality, in that he viewed personality as nothing more than a quantum of social capital based on an individual's earning power. Had he not died in a New York hospital, Warhol might have seen his giant portraits of Chairman Mao sell for as much as $47 Million. To be sure, Warhol was always a financially-minded artist; he was always checking to see if his collection of cookie jars had gone up in value, kept detailed notes of receipts and tips in his diaries, which Danto suggests was a sign of his IRS troubles, (Warhol experienced numerous audits from his having been a major contributor to the Democrat party when he created a portrait of a green-colored Richard Nixon with fangs, with a caption suggesting a vote for George McGovern was a better idea.) Danto reveals that Warhol always wished he could be a Republican but couldn't accomplish the switch in good conscience; he leaves open the question of whether he wished he could be straight with both good skin and a clear conscience. Now, thirty years after his death, what is the lesson to be learned and, moreover, what do we have left of Andy Warhol? His work, it seems to me, has the value of the cultural capital which provided him with his image-repertoire, ephemeral, conceptual and, from the perspective of 2022, faded from memory as fast as a flash of lightning. But like the experience of watching MTV, you had to be there in order to remember why it was significant. His was an art void of presence: like the silk screen rendition of Leonardo da Vinci's Last Supper, the reigning values of his sign-system were the price tag attached to the artworks he created; it may be that the lasting significance of his art is in its distorted commercial value, rather than in the cry of protest embedded in the artwork itself; this, to me, is the true standard of artistic validity and importance. After reading this book I have decided that Warhol's art, a product of the Cuban Missile Crisis and other historic events from the 1960s, lacks the sincerity that truly great and consequential art demands. Two stars.