There she was. As vibrant and eye-catching as the day Andy “made” her. Or rather, turned her into yet another one of his “products.” But Marilyn was no Campbell’s soup can. No Brillo box. Alas, that was essentially what Andy turned her into by “playfully” immortalizing a publicity still from 1953’s Niagara (which was itself kind of an insult as it was hardly her best work, her greatest character reference—granted, who really remembers what any of even her most famous character’s names were?). As though Marilyn hadn’t already been commodified enough during the time she was alive—now she needed to be further preyed upon by the likes of that smarmy skulker, who saw fit to create what would become known as the “Shot Marilyns” in 1962, shortly after her death.

And unlike Da Vinci, Andy didn’t have to put much work into creating a portrait that would effectively render Marilyn into the new Mona Lisa (ha! can you imagine Da Vinci deigning to screen print?). The painting in the museum that all the so-called art enthusiasts flocked to. But they didn’t care about art. They cared that Marilyn was a recognizable face. More than that—an “iconic” one. Something (not someone, mind you) worthy of posting on their social media. Just as the Mona Lisa once was in their eyes…before Marilyn arrived onto the scene. They put her in a museum that was far enough away from the Louvre where it shouldn’t have been that competitive between the two women. But, as it turned out, it was. Mona Lisa lost at least seventy-five percent of her hordes, who were now much more intrigued by Marilyn’s less vague smile. Sure, it was very clearly a “barbiturate smile” and therefore not genuine at all, but it was much more pleasant to look at for people than that smug, inscrutable expression on that stuck-up bitch Lisa’s face.

Lisa was all prude, where Marilyn was all sex. And that, in the end, was always what sold. In this case, museum tickets. Although the museum, called Pop Eye’s (the owners didn’t much care about the association that name would have with the spinach-eating cartoon or the chicken and waffles franchise), had only opened about a year ago, it was already drawing tourists in droves. And the original “Shot Sage Blue Marilyn” by Andy was on permanent display there. Its crowning jewel. The piece that cinched the deal on the price of admission (thirty euros—for now).

Some people, particularly those from the U.S., rose the question of what a person as quintessentially American as Marilyn was doing on display in Paris like this. The museum director was happy to answer that Marilyn and her films had always been taken more seriously in France. (And besides, that’s where the painting’s true owner conceded to “permanently” loaning it). Although Edith, who was born in Los Angeles before her French father took them back to Paris after her mother died, didn’t know if that was entirely true, she was glad nonetheless that Marilyn was here. Because she felt that it was true what the museum director said, that Americans still really only saw her as a caricature (Warhol included).

Even though “Shot Sage Blue Marilyn” was a contributing element to that caricature, Edith couldn’t resist going to “pay her respects.” Now that the museum had been open for a while, Edith figured that the fanfare surrounding it might have calmed down. She never imagined that it would be as it was for the Mona Lisa in what could presently be described as “back in the day.” Because, in many ways, that notion was somewhat sacrilegious to her—even though she knew that Marilyn touched far more in the “modern” person than Mona Lisa. Worse still, she knew that the men visiting just wanted to see a pretty girl smile without having to command her to do so (“You’d be even prettier if you smiled,” “Smile” and “You should smile more” just being some of the usuals they like to spout at women they don’t even know).

In this sense, Andy was even more monstrous for “generating” this iteration of Marilyn. Because he was a gay man. He was supposed to be an “ally” to someone like Marilyn, the “tragic figure” that gay men so love to romanticize. But he wasn’t. He sold her out (literally) like any straight man would have (and so often did). It was a traitorous act. And now, here all these people were, gawking at her like the spectacle that had also been made out of her in life. But it was worse, because she could no longer speak for herself at all. The words were put into her mouth. “Who she was” described with so-called expertness by the museum tour guide.

Standing toward the back, crowded out by the swarms (Brillo) boxing her out from getting a good look (just as they once had in front of the Mona Lisa), Edith suddenly felt as cheap and dirty as Marilyn was made to feel by a man like Darryl Zanuck. This wasn’t “honoring” Marilyn’s memory, it was further desecrating it. Instead legitimizing a bastard like Andy and his claim over helping to “immortalize” her. Well, fuck that. Marilyn was immortal all on her own. She didn’t need help from some drooling dweeb with bad hair and bad skin. That Andy let his Marilyn series be shot at by a performance artist, Dorothy Podber, was telling of his lack of true care for her. After all, if he saw someone donning gloves and pulling a revolver out of her purse to raise at the paintings, shouldn’t he have jumped to stop her? (wouldn’t there have been plenty of time to do so?). Even if he originally thought that what Podber meant by “shooting” the paintings was to photograph them. He was probably too chicken shit to bother with trying to prevent her from letting the bullet rip. Even though it was years before the sight of a woman with a gun might give him PTSD (courtesy of Valerie Solanas in 1968).

Andy was the final source for perverting Marilyn. Fully transforming her into an object designed solely to be gawked at by less attractive, less beneficent people. As this epiphany dawned on Edith, she realized she had no idea what she was doing there, trying to “peep” at Marilyn like some pathetic married man going to a porn palace in 70s-era Times Square. That’s not who she was, and not who she wanted to be. So, all at once, she stopped trying to “get through to the other side.” She didn’t want to be on the other side, to cross that line between someone who let Marilyn “rest in peace” and someone who let her be exploited by yet another man (regardless of his supposedly “superior” sexuality when it came to treating women with “respect”).