This is no longer Ultra Violet, the imposing and mysterious Andy Warhol Superstar.
Sometimes, when she finds something amusing, Ultra snorts. It is a short and sweet snort, and it becomes a 74-year old lady named Isabelle, but it is, nonetheless, a snort and not quite the appropriate mode of expression of a Warhol Superstar.
I first met Ultra Violet in early 2007 at a reading I was giving of Who Killed Andrei Warhol at the Ukrainian Institute of America on Fifth Avenue and Seventy-ninth Street. The organizer of the reading lived in her building and invited her. She was dressed in a bright violet sweater and head wrap. I extended my hand; she placed her hands together and bowed. We exchanged a few uncertain words. I gave her a signed copy of Whiskey Priest; she gave me a signed copy of her memoir, Famous for Fifteen Minutes. We exchanged cards and phone numbers. She said she had a studio in Chelsea and that I should visit. I said I would. I never did.
I didn’t hear from Ultra for over a year. Then, in May 20…