Thus we find Andy Warhol, the self-portraying showman who had countless "last pictures" taken of him before he died, in a pose which does indeed recall a terminal stage; Arno Breker appears, with, of all things, a Joseph Beuys portrait in his hands. Carl Barks, the draughtsman who drew Donald Duck, is presented with a mischievious grin, not so different now from his own cartoon figures. William S. Burroughs faces us at gunpoint, peering from behind the pistol now menacingly watchful, now as if he were his own victim. Roland Topor peer enigmatically heavenward, eyes huge. Lech Walesa, cut at the edge of the picture to the right, has outgrown the format with his fat self-satisfying inflatedness, and Charles Bukowski's lifeworn face is more like a landscape of craters swathed in cigarette smoke.