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.