Experience: I was painted by Andy Warhol

He wanted to paint my portrait every year for 10 years. I was so young, I didn’t realise what an awesome opportunity this was

It is autumn 1978 in New York. The little round stool is hard, the studio cold, and I’m doing my best, aged 10, to sit still. There is a woman nearby, but I can see only silhouettes of her, intermittently, between bright flashing lights. I hear phones ringing, people chatting, but it’s mostly a peripheral, dizzying blur. My focus is on the photographer, Andy Warhol.

“OK, great, kiddo – a little to the right.” Andy pauses as I dip my chin downwards, acting as demure as a 10-year-old can. “Great.” There is some shuffling with the camera, and then a quick change of film.

My father, John Reinhold, a diamantaire [diamond dealer] and art collector, was best friends with Andy. Once, my father gave him a jar of diamond dust and suggested he use it in his work; that became his Diamond Dust series. My mother co-founded the Reinhold-Brown Gallery, so between both my parents, an interesting array of artists filed in and out of our Upper West Side apartment. But Andy was always my favourite.

Kiddo was his nickname for me. He called the apartment at least once a day, and on the occasions when I answered the phone, he’d always take the time to ask about pop culture in my pre-teen (and, later, teenage) world before asking: “Is your Pops there?” Whenever Andy stopped by, he would always, without fail, be carrying his red backpack. I never knew what was in it.

On that day, I slipped on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt with a Taurus motif. My father handed me a few dollars and the address of Andy’s studio, The Factory, and I hopped into a cab; in our household, it was quite normal to send a 10-year-old-girl by herself to downtown Manhattan to have her portrait painted by Andy Warhol.

At The Factory, there were people engaged in discussions and working on projects. The receptionist greeted me warmly and took me into a tiny bathroom. To my delight, she then opened a professional makeup case, revealing a 10-year-old’s dream array of coloured, glittery eye shadows, sparkling blushes and lipsticks. She caked my face with white foundation and contrasted that with bright red lipstick across my lips. I glimpsed myself in the mirror and had a fright: I looked like a wayward daughter of Pagliacci.

“Hey, kiddo.” It was Andy, surrounded by Polaroid cameras and discarded photographs. He led me to a stool in front of a blank white wall. “What’s that on your T-shirt? A bull? Did you bring any other clothes?” When I said no, he sent me back to the bathroom to turn the T-shirt inside out.

I sat for what seemed hours while Andy photographed me. He stood and kneeled and moved left and right, capturing different angles, while photos accumulated in random piles across the floor. He told me he was planning to use the Polaroids to make silkscreen paintings and prints.

He wanted to paint my portrait every year for 10 years as a series, showing the changes as I grew from 10 to 20. I was so young that I didn’t realise what an awesome opportunity this was. Each year, nearing my birthday, Andy would remind me, but I was so distracted by boys, friends and school that in the end I did just this one sitting. It was rare for Andy to paint solo portraits of children, and today when I see my paintings, I am reminded of how special he always made me feel.

We had other fun experiences. Andy twice signed a Campbell’s soup can for my school art teachers in an attempt to get me an A. And he took part in a scavenger hunt for my 12th birthday party: one of the tasks was to get his autograph, and he sat in a cafe all afternoon with my father until every team found him.

For Christmas 1981, Andy gave me an 80-page leather-bound diary. On each page, he had drawn an original charcoal sketch. At first, the drawings appear as amorphous forms that you can’t identify, but as you progress page by page, each slowly develops into a beautiful dollar sign. In 2010, Rizzoli published a reproduction of his gift in book form, Andy Warhol: Making Money. It was my way of sharing his kindness and generosity with the world.

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