Every now and then I have a sudden, starry desire to write: "Life is, at its core, a search for truth. For authenticity." Of course we can argue about defining truth or identifying it, about whether truth and authenticity are synonyms, and about whether it's a search or a crazed, losing struggle. But still, true love, true self, true seeing; the search is the thing, right? And art lights the way, or so it seems to me.

I held to this belief through the hypocrisies of modernism, the irritations of French theory and the banalities of pomo – only to land here, whatever we call this post-truth present. Truth? Pah. Blame Trump, of course, but behind that, blame Warhol.

The Art Gallery of NSW's new Warhol show is titled Adman: Warhol before pop – leveraging off the mid-century MadMen vogue, of course, but also making the point that Warhol himself so tirelessly made. Nothing is higher. In a capitalist democracy, everything is commercial. Even the hautest of the haute is actually in the swamp of populism. In this, Warhol foreshadows Trump.

Don't misunderstand. I've always loved Warhol: the soup cans and soapboxes, the Maos and Marilyns; the books and illos and the gorgeous, attenuated early work for Vogue, Vanity Fair and Playboy. But in the truth department, Warhol didn't give a hoot. And – here's the thing – just as WestConnex acts out futurism, from a century earlier, so Trump acts out Warhol.