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The Andy Warhol retrospective, which began in Berlin last year and has just opened at the Tate Modern, in London, demonstrates a number of interesting things. The first is that Warhol, fifteen years after his death, remains a contemporary; the revolution in taste that he set off in 1962, his year of miracles, rolls on. Second, we have reached a point at which it's possible to distinguish between what is good, bad, and O.K. in the Warhol opus. And, third, the Tate Modern, a renovated power plant that opened to ecstatic fanfare two years ago, is a scandalously lousy place for looking at art.
Not even the gorgeous Marilyns and Maos, lit with spotlights, can pierce ...