And Howard and I would remark, again, on the irony, Howard sometimes mocking me. The Jewish Museum. How is it that I, a Jew who tried, tried not to be a Jew, have my painting there. But what makes up the identities of art in that museum, what identity do you have to claim? Yes, I am Jewish. Did I have to be Jewish? I am Jewish. Born of a Jewish mother. I have, finally, to accept that.

And the elevator, not a large museum, its entrance cramped, the elevator up to the second floor, and the permanent collection.

Sometimes they had moved it, moved my painting. To another room, another wall. I became alarmed when I didn’t see it, when it wasn’t where I was expecting it. And I’d walk then from room to room, scanning the walls, Howard behind me, until . . . until I saw it.

It was such a relief then, when I saw it. Its whiteness. Of course. Its simplicity. That luminosity; how had I done that?

Critics have admired the artist’s technical mastery: the use of a monochromatic, white-based palette to create a canvas infused, paradoxically, with multiple hues and shades.

Howard and I would stand then, in silence, looking at the painting. Once I was standing next to a Japanese man, he took a photo of the painting with his phone.

Critics have interpreted the painting’s simplicity and whiteness as suggesting a wish, or quest, for spiritual transcendence, or moral virtue.

But other critics suggest that the painting is a depiction of erasure, even death.

The artist herself has said she feels any work of art must be open to multiple, even conflicting, interpretations.

Howard and I would move on then, and look at other paintings, so many other paintings. There were Chagall’s lithographs, and especially: his doves. Not swans, but doves! Of course, they are white, too.

And then, down the elevator, out of the arched entrance-way, into the sunshine: the light of the avenue, but dappled, by the trees.

And Howard and I would walk, we had a favourite coffee shop, but it was far down, on 75th, and across to Lexington. Such a long walk, we talked about so many things as we walked.

We’d have coffee at the small table outside, in warmer weather. Or inside, cramped, when it was colder. On winter days the windows steamed, from the bustle and noise of people inside.

They made good coffee. Or perhaps it was lunchtime, and Howard would have a sandwich, I more coffee. Howard never pressed me to eat. Howard knew that for me to eat was something of an ordeal, an imbibing of things, of outside things, of currents, that I didn’t want. That I don’t want. Senseless, to your ears, I am sure.

And once we went to the museum, it was an ordinary Tuesday, Howard had retired and wasn’t working by then, and we couldn’t find the painting. We went again through the rooms, retracing our steps, looking for it, then walked in the opposite direction, through all the rooms, the galleries, looking and looking for the painting.