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[...] I remember asking what his paintings were like and him evading by saying that he was, ha ha, taking a leaf out of David Lynch’s book and refusing to explain his work to other people. I said I wasn’t asking for an explanation, just information. Like: Are they oil or acrylic? Large or small? A…

But there was no path; he was deep in an impenetrable throng of Antipodeans, apparently regaling. He made a swinging motion like he was telling a baseball story. I decided I could embark on a fact-finding mission until the final inning and hit my head on the overhang above the steps on my way out t…

[...] Do these kinds of getting-to-know-you details even matter? I didn’t think to wonder at the time. The creative New Yorker scoffs at them, his performance against the cocktail-party question “So what do you do?” lasting at least three times as long as a normal response would. Don’t ask me what …

You had to hand it to her. You really did. I was shut out of the conversation, both physically and in that I had no idea what exhibition she was talking about. Having by that point only nodded along to tedious study-abroad stories, I looked like a hanger-on. The back three-quarters of her head had …

[...] When it was my turn I looked him in the blurry eyes over the top of my glasses—I am tall but not as tall—and offered a closemouthed smile that I hoped conveyed my skepticism about the experience we were about to undertake together, wagering that he probably hated his job and if he didn’t then…