Category: smaller text

The next time I ran into Paul it was evident the years had treated him well. I’d heard his last show had sold out prior to opening, and it appeared that this one may have, too. Although curious, I was too embarrassed to ask for the price list—I’d recently been ill and felt disheveled, in contrast to Paul, wearing one of those socialist worker’s coats cut in a luxurious fabric that probably cost more than a small car, and floating between wealthy collectors and foundation people on the arm of his gallerist, an attractive asian woman with silver-streaked hair. After a period of indecision—although our last meeting had been somewhat unpleasant, probably due to my habitual defensiveness and unacknowledged envy, I still considered him a friend—I slowly worked my way in their direction, and as I approached them, held out my hand and called, “Beautiful—congratulations!” When Paul turned quizzically to his companion, it became clear to me that he had no clue as to who I was.

Whatever is the typographical term for the dot over the lowercase “i,” I prefer sans serifs with round ones. Whatever is the typographical term for a round one. Especially in the previously unfashionable medium weight. I spent $600 on this typeface. I could have gotten some acne sneakers for less. I could have downloaded it a hundred times for free. Paying for it made me feel virtuous, like contributing to NPR. Actually, contributing to NPR made me complicit in its unbearably smug TED Talk vocalisms and overcooked sound design. I turn it off whenever I hear it. I don’t use the typeface anymore, either. It was designed by a typographer who had to sue his partner for non-payment, and has since departed the company. If I’d downloaded it for free I’d probably still be using it.

R. was my best friend, mentor, and on more than one occasion my salvation. After I lost my gallery he covered my rent for 6 months and later refused repayment. At his memorial service I was stunned to see dozens of people I had never met, one after another, hour after hour, rise to honor the memory of the friend and colleague they’d had the privilege to know. What would it be like, to be a man of that quality? When the time comes, who will step up to speak for me? Perhaps my bitter son, or my ex-wife, who blames me for him. Or Ritchie the bartender, who thinks my name is Mike, or the girl at the food truck, who once smiled at something I said.

By our last visit his situation had markedly deteriorated. He slept in the living room on a beige recliner with an overcoat for a blanket. When I asked what was in the bedroom he said, “the archives,” quickly followed by “don’t go in there.” He enthusiastically extolled the virtues of his cat: “When he senses a deficit of healing energy, he jumps on my lap. The purring is at first very loud, as he clears the area of disruptive vibrations. At a certain point, the audible component drops off, signaling a reversion to more subtle wave patterns.” I commented that his cat seemed to be getting on in years. I wondered if when the time came he would consider a new companion. “That won’t be necessary,” he said. Looking back, I wish I had asked more. About his cat, and his archives. I wish I had shown an interest.