PRINT September 1984


GARRY WINOGRAND AND I KNEW each other for almost ten years. We welcomed each other at airports at odd hours of day and night; we ate at each other’s tables, slept under each other’s roofs and smiled on each other’s children. But we never lived in the same city, nor were we ever part of each other’s daily lives for long times at a stretch. I was neither companion nor neighbor nor spectator nor bystander nor student—although at various times I was a bit of one or another of all these. It took me some years, in this world of telephones and airplanes and broken and far-flung relationships, to understand that he was my friend. I understood this largely through his constancy. He was a loyal friend. He always called to let you know he was coming to town. For some, he would not let three weeks go by without their hearing from him. When he came to New York he did his best to assemble his friends

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