There were the typically overpriced children's colored pencils and "contemporary art" coloring books, t-shirts printed with the MassMoCA logo as well as wall drawings from the Sol LeWitt show, mugs, postcards, etc. I ended up buying five of the postcards there, but at the same time I found myself drawn to the other, more expensive items in the store. "It would be so cool," I thought, "to have a t-shirt with giant red and yellow circles on it. And contemporary art coloring books! I could always use a new coloring book to look at and color in whenever I'm free. And I could learn more about contemporary art at the same time."
I picked up the book and started flipping through it, and I found myself both fascinated and slightly appalled by the truly paint-by-numbers-like approach that this book adopted. It was no different from what I'd expected - pages containing outlines of famous works by modern artists, all white and ready to be colored in - and yet I was turned off it as soon as I began looking through it. It struck me as a little bit terrible and disheartening that these artworks, which were all considered original and daring when they were first produced, were then so easily commodified and packaged in this coloring book, to be then distributed for a $20 fee in art museums like MassMoCA all over the country. It was enough to keep me from buying the book, and while you could argue that my postcards were printed with the same principle in mind, I rationalized that it was alright for me to buy them because I really did love the images they depicte

Thinking it over now, though, it seems to me that at least some of the artists featured in the coloring book probably wouldn't have minded at all. Andy Warhol, for example, was all about bringing commercial aspects into art. At the height of his career, he didn't even create his famous silk-screens on his own; instead, he had a staff of assistants who made the works according to his introduction, and essentially his art was mass-produced. Hence the name "The Factory" for his studio in New York at the time. He made art using brands and icons, and his most famous works, such as the silk-screened Marilyn Monroe and the can of Campbell's, all draw on household names and the fact that such images were instantly recognizable. Instead of ignoring the fact that art could be a commercial product, he incorporated the idea into his works and took Art off its pedestal, using it to explore his interest in pop culture and all things mass-produced.
Part of his success also came from the fact that he really did love the idea of mass consumption and even saw a kind of poetry in it: "What's great about this country is that America started the tradition where the richest consumers buy essentially the same things as the poorest. You can be watching TV and see Coca Cola, and you know that the President drinks Coca Cola, Liz Taylor drinks Coca Cola, and just think, you can drink Coca Cola, too. A coke is a coke and no amount of money can get you a better coke than the one the bum on the corner is drinking. All the cokes are the same and all the cokes are good. Liz Taylor knows it, the President knows it, the bum knows it, and you know it."

In that sense I'm sure Andy would have had no objections to being featured in a coloring book. In fact, he was also known for a series of paintings called "Do It Yourself," in which he imitated the style of Paint By Number kits, which were very popular then.
I think that initially I was disturbed by the idea of art being so blatantly commercialized because I'm used to treating art with reverence. Art, when I was little, meant going on an outing to a museum in New York to stand in line and quietly admire gently lit oils from behind a velvet rope. And yet, Andy Warhol proved that art didn't have to be caught, tamed, and stared at like an exotic, endangered zoo animal. Art could be treated simply as a product, and, what's more, people could come to value art that depicted mass-produced products and art that was mass-produced itself. Instead of ignoring the buying/selling aspects of artworks (which are usually discreetly handled through auctions or art expert evaluations), he chose to flash them in the faces of his audience. True, he was reviled for it - but in the end, his legacy lives on because he challenged the definitions of what was art and what was commercial. I'd love to be present at a hypothetical meeting between Warhol and Adorno & Horkheimer. I imagine it would end with Adorno & Horkheimer sternly disapproving of Warhol's works and denouncing them as the products of a sick, hopelessly commercialized mind devoid of culture and artistic sensibilities, and with Warhol shrugging and saying in his signature deadpan: "If you don't like it, I can do another color for you that'll match your living room sofa. Would you like that?"