There was some really good pool going on at Magoo’s in TriBeCa and our names were up next on the chalkboard. It would be hard having to tear ourselves away. Still, duty was duty: around the corner on Franklin Street was an “artistic event” we had to cover.

That was what the young man at the gallery had said when we’d stopped by earlier: “You’re here to cover the event?” Not having thought of it in quite those terms, I’d hesitated a second before nodding tentatively. “And when will your review be published?” he persisted. I’d peered at him, taking in the desperate beard, the eager horn-rimmed glasses (Ralph Lauren classic), the white-on-black knit vest patterned loud and heartily with musical notes, and explained as politely as possible that I couldn’t make any promises: that depended a little, I said, on how much of an...


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