Guns and poses.

I CAME TO NEW YORK CITY IN 1974. IN NEW YORK CITY IN 1974 Andy Warhol was the fastest gun in town. In 1990 I wrote on a painting, ANDY WARHOL WAS A FUCKING ASSHOLE AND SO WERE ALL HIS FUCKHEAD FRIENDS AND I'M GLAD HE DIED. When I wrote it I was thinking about the movie The Gunfighter, starring Gregory Peck. Later that year I was asked, "Is it Mr. Prince versus Mr. Warhol, or is it Richard loves Andy?" I answered the question the same way the clown did when asked, "I heard you just married a two-headed lady--is she pretty?" He said, "Well, yes and no."

The noes: Andy wore a silver wig, and I shave what little hair I have. Andy did a lot of self-portraits and loved to have his picture taken; I've done only one self-portrait and can't stand the way I look, especially in photographs. Andy went out all night, and I go to bed around 7:30. Andy liked to surround himself with celebrities; I'm a loner and have no friends. Andy made movies, and I watch movies. Andy collaborated a lot, and I have a fear of grouping. Andy liked to go out with Bianca Jagger; I once met Bianca Jagger at a party, and she made me nervous. Andy wrote books, and I collect books. Andy had lots of assistants, and I work alone. Andy had scars on his stomach and torso; I have a scar on my head. Andy liked to take Polaroids; I've never had a Polaroid come out the way it's supposed to. Andy didn't swim--something about the bathing suit--I swim a mile a day and don't wear a bathing suit. Andy was an A student; my marks were mostly D-plus, C-minus. I'm a recovering heterosexual; Andy was O'Sexual. Andy was a good photographer; I'm the worst photographer in the world. Andy's paintings were industrious and mechanical; my paintings are about working up a routine, going on the road, and crossing into Laos.

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Andy wore a blazer and tie, a white shirt, and dungarees and loafers, while I wear cargo pants, sneakers, and a T-shirt that says, "I just heard from Bill Bailey. He isn't coming home." Andy hired a private nurse when he went to the hospital to get his gall bladder out; the nurse fell asleep, and he choked to death on his own fluids. I paint nurses. Andy published a magazine, and I buy every magazine on the newsstand, bring them home, jump up and down on them, and tear them apart. Andy used to let other people answer questions for him; I make things up, shovel the shit, and pretend to know more than I do. Andy once appeared on an episode of The Love Boat; when I was five I was a guest on The Howdy Doody Show. Andy lived with his mother; I once asked my mother to please pass the salt, and it came out "You bitch, you ruined my life." Andy produced a rock band called the Velvet Underground ... I'm so far underground that I get the bends. Andy liked the television show Hollywood Squares; I just pitched a TV-game-show idea to CBS called "Who Gives a Shit?" Andy was shot in the stomach by the feminist playwright Valerie Solanas, and I was stabbed in the arm by my first wife. Andy had an opening at the ICA Philadelphia in 1964, and so many people came that there was a line around the block; I had a show at the Daniel Weinberg Gallery in Los Angeles in the '80s, and three people showed up.

The yeses: Andy and I have the same birthday, August 6, and we used to go to the same dentist. I remember running into him in the waiting room. I didn't shoot him; I said, "Hi, I'm Richard." He said, "Hi, I'm Andy." And we shook hands.

Richard Prince is an artist based in upstate New York. His next solo exhibition opens at the Sammlung Goetz in Munich in November.

The king of Pop--and the artist who broke the Pop-art mold. The author of the indelible emblems of our mass-produced present, but also our bewigged and goofy conscience. Andy Warhol is the mirror in which we see our moment best. In the following section, thirteen artists and one poet measure their worlds against his.