At the bar I met a cartoonist who drew for the Voice, and an abstract painter whose day job was creating steamy covers for pulp novels. The cartoonist told me that if I really wanted to stop wasting my time on Hollywood biographies and self-help manuals, he had a friend over at Gryphon I could talk to. A week later, I was having lunch with the Gryphon man, who said if I was willing to work for half my current pay, he would hire me in a heartbeat. I told him I would have to talk to my wife. I had not meant to use that word, and it was the only time in my five years with Lil that I did.

I invited the cartoonist to Lil’s opening on what I thought was a lark, but when he came, I realized how much I had been counting on him showing up. He, Grete, Paul, and I made up Lil’s crowd. The rest had come to see Ostrund, who was apparently well established on the West Coast. It was an odd scene. Ostrund’s animal photos were so peaceful and composed, each one a perfect little still life, that they made Lil’s work seem almost random by comparison. Paul was the only dark-skinned person there. When he beat an early exit, Grete reluctantly followed, which left just myself and my drinking buddy on Lil’s side of the room. From his regular barstool the cartoonist always talked a blue streak, but that night at the gallery he was almost grave. I wondered if he wished he had gone back with Paul and Grete or maybe not come at all. Finally, I worked up the nerve to ask him what he thought of Lil’s work. Honestly? he said. I think your girlfriend’s a genius.

If he had been unimpressed or even lukewarm, that might have given me the push I needed to go over to Gryphon, and to hell with Lil’s photography. Instead he said: your girlfriend’s a genius. When I got home, I threw the Gryphon man’s business card in the wastepaper basket.

53. Ninth Street, Brooklyn, 1960

This one feels flash-frozen: kids sitting on a mantelpiece that’s been yanked from some fireplace and left by the curb; two men carrying what looks like a steamer trunk across the street while a girl in a torn dress throws a ball at them like she means it. Any second, the men are going to start walking again, and the ball will finish its arc. Looking at this photograph makes me feel like I’ve stumbled into the middle of something unfolding. It makes me feel invisible.

The first rule was quiet. No talking, no singing. Funny noises were definitely not okay; camouflage wasn’t camouflage if it attracted attention. If I saw something, I had to keep it to myself. A red motorcycle, a man tap-dancing on the sidewalk, a dog with a missing leg. “Mommy?” “Shh, Mommy’s working.” Talking when I’m outside still feels like interrupting.