PRINT Summer 1994


PETER AND I TALK ON THE PHONE A LOT—once a week at least, but generally more. Frequently he is just back from some place or I am about to go off, and it is a matter of touching base and catching up. We speak about things seen on the road but mostly about what is going on in New York, which, for better and worse, is our city. Although I used to be able to keep the pace, Peter covers more ground than I do now, having earned the privilege of wandering in the galleries and museums whenever he pleases by having paid the currently steep price for free-lancing while I, at present, am salaried and deskbound.

Occasionally we do the rounds together, but less and less. In a way, that’s good, since the delayed communication necessitated by our separate schedules allows for impressions to sink in and words to lock in that might otherwise have vaporized in ambulatory conversation. By the time the phone

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