Any denizen of New York can tell you how much negligible celebutante-trash struts Her pavement. For me, this was astronomic in proportion; a divine signal. I'd moved to New York for this, but had been eluded for the last two months, finding nary a paint splatter on clothing other than my own...
Yesterday afternoon, I was with camera crouched, picturing wheat-pasted paper clouds on partitions, when I perceived a presence abreast. I looked no more than ten lateral feet to discover Chuck Close, a famous famous famous American artist, sunning himself, puffing perhaps a Parliament, outside of his inconspicuous printing parlour. Chuck's well worn eyes met my youthful ambition, his robust spirit acknowledged mine, and offered patronly push toward precipice of inevitability. The future of New York has infinite serendipity in store, but as they say, the first time for anything will be remembered.
To see just how hard Chuck Close gets down, peep this
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