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Yahoo
12-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Yahoo
Why Eliminating the NEA Would Be a Disaster For Our Country (Guest Column)
I come from a family rooted in the arts. My grandmother, Enid Flender, was a dancer-turned-public school teacher; my grandfather, Harold Flender, was a writer; and my mother, uncle, brother and I were shaped by a public-school education that prioritized the performing arts. I grew up in Manhattan Plaza in New York City, a federally subsidized building for artists, and fell in love with movies at Anthology Film Archives in the East Village. I have had the utmost privilege of knowing a life with creativity at the center of it. And yet if it weren't for the National Endowment for the Arts, I don't know if I would have pursued a life as an actor. More from The Hollywood Reporter Jon Voight's Hollywood Coalition Asks Trump to Consider Tax Incentives, Too Cannes Dealmakers Are Already Sick of Talking About Trump's Tariffs Is Europe the Last Bastion of DEI in Film and TV? My first time on stage was with the National Dance Institute, or NDI, a nonprofit that benefits directly from funding from the NEA. Created in 1976 by Jacques D'Amboise, a star dancer of the New York City Ballet, NDI provides dance classes built into the public elementary school curriculum along with free summer programs. When I think of my time with NDI, my strongest memory is when a group of us were standing around a piano, clapping our hands, as we learned to keep the beat to the song 'Cement Mixer Putti- Putti.' (We were young.) We couldn't really find the beat; there were always a few of us a little out of sync. So the teacher had us close our eyes. Within a few claps, the entire group was synchronized. The key was to focus purely on what we were hearing and feeling as opposed to watching everyone else. Once we got it and opened our eyes, we were ecstatic. We had connected. We were a team. Now we got to concentrate our energy into our common goal: the performance. I remember the pure joy of being on stage at that performance after such hard work of rehearsing — a feeling not unlike what some children describe when playing a game after months of work in the gym. Some of my friends from the NDI program pursued artistic careers, but many did not. Even those who went into other professions still reflect upon their experience positively, though, for the values it instilled. In learning choreography, we gained discipline. In mastering a new song, we found confidence. We learned resilience, adaptability, and the value of working as a team. All skills that are useful whether you're a lawyer, a therapist, a pastry chef or a space engineer. (And as an actor, I will happily play any of these characters in a movie). The NEA made it possible. Right now, federal funding for the arts is in serious danger. The latest budget proposal that the White House sent to Congress asks that the group be eliminated. Many theaters and other arts organizations have already been told that their grants have been revoked, creating a haze of operational uncertainty. Their very survival is at stake. This is why I recently went to Capitol Hill with the nonprofit arts organization The Creative Coalition to advocate for the NEA, meeting with the Congressional staffers whose bosses are on the fence about the value of federal arts funding. It was a powerful experience to talk with these influential players and walk the halls of our nation's legislative offices. It was also sobering. We encountered resistance. Taxpayers shouldn't be supporting the arts, some staffers told us. But the visit reaffirmed my belief in the importance of arts funding. After all, even the skeptical staffers often had a favorite performance memory – a music lesson or play or dance classes that they had participated in. The argument to them almost made itself: if we only relied on private funding, many of them and other middle-class children may well have not had the chance. Arts funding is often the first thing to be cut by governments, when in fact it should be protected as essential. Creativity gives us purpose. Imagination advances humanity. The arts foster empathy, understanding, and connection. Access to creative expression — whether through dance, music, painting, theater, or film — helps us communicate on a deeper level and provides a bridge into the shared experience of what it means to be human. The National Endowment for the Arts doesn't cost very much. The United States allocates just 0.004 percent of its annual budget to the NEA. (In contrast, smaller countries like France, Germany, and the UK each invest a much greater percentage, over a billion dollars annually apiece.) And the money stimulates the economy. NEA grants have a powerful multiplier effect, according to the Creative Coalition: every $1 awarded to an arts organization is shown to typically generate about $9 in private investment or consumer spending, turning that $207 million into roughly $2 billion. That NEA grant isn't a handout—it's a seal of approval for a project that then generates all kinds of private dollars that follow. These projects aren't Hollywood productions or Broadway shows, but local jazz festivals, museums exhibitions, arts education, and community theater — initiatives that enrich neighborhoods, build cultural identity, and stimulate local economies. These are year-round programs like the Miami Lighthouse for the Blind and the Visually Impaired, which provides music education for the visually impaired. Or Creative Forces, which supports arts programming for active military members and veterans. And hundreds more like them. The NEA is particularly vital for small and rural arts organizations that would otherwise lack access to major donors or corporate sponsorships. (Forty percent of NEA funding is distributed through state and local arts agencies, ensuring communities have a direct say in how funds are used.) Without the NEA, large cities might still sustain their cultural scenes, but I fear that rural and small-town projects — from arts education in Idaho to community theater in Maine — could vanish. Senior leaders at the NEA have just resigned en masse in the wake of the cuts. This is disheartening. But it doesn't make me lose hope. Congress will likely still have a say in what happens. And we can lobby Congress I'll even include number for the Congressional switchboard: 202-224-3121. If there's one thing I learned in Washington, it's that elected officials are tracking the feedback; these calls matter. Nearly every one of our 541 representatives has constituents who benefit from NEA grants. This is the moment to let each one of them know that they should keep the NEA alive. Every kid who wants to learn how to keep the beat to a song, every visually impaired person who wants to play a musical instrument and every Iraq or Afghanistan veteran who could use a little art therapy to help them recover from their trauma needs the NEA to stick around. Let's remind our representatives that they're out there. On our final night in DC, at a fundraising dinner, a few of my fellow delegates from The Creative Coalition did an impromptu musical jam at the front of the room. The space was filled with many of the Republican and Democratic staff members who we had met with earlier that day. Everyone started singing and dancing. (Or swaying!) As I looked around the room, the value was clear: the arts remind us to connect with each other. To have fun with each other. To sing with each other. The arts don't just entertain us —they bind us, define us, and give us the language to imagine the future. Pauline Chalamet is an actor and producer living in Los Angeles. Best of The Hollywood Reporter From 'Lady in the Lake' to 'It Ends With Us': 29 New and Upcoming Book Adaptations in 2024 Meet the Superstars Who Glam Up Hollywood's A-List Rosie O'Donnell on Ellen, Madonna, Trump and 40 Years in the Queer Spotlight
New York Post
10-05-2025
- Entertainment
- New York Post
Behind the glamorous — and often tragic — lives of Andy Warhol's muses
Earlier this year, Anthology Film Archives in the Lower East Side hosted a screening devoted to Naomi Levine. Touted by some as Andy Warhol's 'first female superstar,' Levine performed in many of the pop artist's early underground movies, like 1963's 'Tarzan and Jane Regained… Sort Of' and 1964's pornographic 'Couch.' Like many of Warhol's actors, she took off her clothes for his camera. Levine didn't care about fame, and never became famous, which is maybe why she doesn't even get a mention in Laurence Leamer's new book, 'Warhol's Muses: The Artists, Misfits, and Superstars Destroyed by the Factory Fame Machine' (G.P. Putnam's Sons, out May 6). She doesn't fit with its thesis. 'Warhol's Muses' is the latest entry in a long line of books and movies about the artist and his band of misfits. Like many, it portrays Warhol as a leech who used and manipulated others for the sake of his art and celebrity. 9 Andy Warhol with members of the Velvet Underground, including one of his most iconic female muses, Nico (to his left). Gerard Malanga But here, Leamer focuses on Warhol's women: the ever-evolving coterie of glamazons who accompanied him to parties, appeared in his films, and 'helped turn the Pittsburgh-born son of Eastern European immigrants into international artist Andy Warhol.' 'They would raise his social cachet dramatically and bring him the publicity and public adulation he so desired,' Leamer writes. Warhol called these women his 'superstars.' They included rebellious heiresses like Edie Sedgwick, bohemian artists like Christa Päffgen, a.k.a . Nico, and gorgeous outsiders like the trans icon Candy Darling. They helped the shy, awkward, gay Warhol meet rich buyers and gave him a sheen of glamour. And then, per Leamer, he cast them aside when they proved no longer useful. In 1964, Warhol was a successful commercial artist. But his 'fine art' — the paintings of Campbell's soup cans and Brillo boxes — wasn't selling, and his movies had barely made a blip. 9 Candy Darling, Andy Warhol, and Sylvia Miles at a premiere at the Rivoli Theater in 1971. Bettmann Archive Then he met Jane Holzer, a 23-year-old socialite living in an Upper East Side mansion with her young real-estate mogul husband, bored out of her mind. Holzer grew up in privilege in Palm Beach, Fla., yet had a defiant streak. When Warhol asked if she would be in one of his movies, she said: 'Sure, anything's better than [being] a Park Avenue housewife.' She made out with two men for 'Kiss.' She brushed her teeth and chewed gum for various 'screen tests.' Fully clothed, she suggestively peeled and ate a banana in 'Couch,' stealing the film from the naked people around her. 9 Andy Warhol with Edie Sedgwick, lighting a cigarette on one of his film sets. Getty Images In the evenings, she accompanied Warhol to party after party. By that fall, she was a bona fide celebrity, her every move documented by the press, who named her 'Baby Jane.' Her fame boosted Warhol's own star power. His art started selling, and he was appearing on the gossip pages, too. After Holzer was deemed passé, Warhol found other 'muses.' Brigid Berlin, the 'rotund and always foulmouthed' daughter of the chairman of Hearst Corporation, who went by the name Brigid Polk, entertained Warhol with anecdotes about her dysfunctional childhood. 9 Noami Levine was one of Warhol's earliest muses, according to sources. Anthology Film Archives 9 Andy Warhol and superstars Candy Darling (left) and Ultra Violet are shown at a press conference n 1971. Bettmann Archive Susan Mary Hoffman, a k a Viva, 'the Lucille Ball of the underground,' injected 'wicked wit and savage intelligence' into his porniest flicks. Isabelle Collin Dufresne, an erudite French girl known by the moniker Ultra Violet, had previously bedded Salvador Dalí, Warhol's idol. Many of these 'superstars,' however, crashed and burned. Warhol's silver studio, dubbed The Factory, attracted all manner of druggies, misfits and hangers-on. They shot up amphetamines so they could stay up all night. They worked for little to no pay, screen-printing designs or debasing themselves as Warhol coolly captured them on film. 9 Edie Sedgwick frolics in the bath in one of Warhol's 'underground' movies. Bettmann Archive 9 Victor Hugo (left), Jane Holzer (rear), and Andy Warhol attended the Metropolitan Museum of Art's Costume Institute Gala, New York, New York, December 6, 1982. Getty Images Ingrid von Scheven, or Ingrid Superstar — a New Jersey secretary who sometimes turned tricks for money — ended up addicted to heroin after her stint at The Factory. In 1986, at the age of 42, she went out to buy a newspaper and vanished. Most notorious was Edie Sedgwick, the incandescent, damaged heiress who electrified 1960s New York with her silver hair, gamine beauty, and reckless extravagance. Warhol captured her haunting vulnerability on camera, filming her putting on makeup and smoking a cigarette. Leamer doesn't seem to think much of these movies, but they are mesmerizing and moving. She broke Warhol's heart when she went off with Bob Dylan. (She died of a drug overdose in 1971.) 9 'Warhol's Muses: The Artists, Misfits, and Superstars Destroyed by the Factory Fame Machine' is written by Laurence Leamer. By the time the radical feminist Valerie Solanas tried to assassinate Warhol in 1968, Leamer would have us believe that the artist had it coming. And yet, not all of Warhol's 'muses' were victims. Nico — the German model and actress — had tried to launch a singing career for years before Warhol installed her as the frontwoman for noisy art-rockers The Velvet Underground. Her association with the band lasted only one album, but she went on to have an iconic solo career. 9 Author Laurence Leamer focuses on Warhol's women: the ever-evolving coterie of glamazons who accompanied him to parties, appeared in his films. Jacek Gancarz Mary Woronov — an art student when she fell in with the Factory crowd — kicked her drug habit and continued acting in indie films through the 1970s, '80s, and '90s; she's still a painter in Los Angeles. Ultra Violet credited both Dalí and Warhol for her subsequent art career, and exhibited work till her death in 2014. As for Baby Jane, she survived her 15 minutes of fame. She now lives in Palm Beach, surrounded by her collection of Basquiats, Harings, and, yes, Warhols.
