Bob.

In April of 1996, shortly after being talked onto a raft afloat on a small artificial lake at Stanford University by a guy with a gun who was very, very angry with me (justifiably, I confess), I escaped to San Francisco with my friend, the painter Eric Sweet. We were in SFMOMA, gawping at Duchamp’s Boîte-en-valise, when Eric looked up, shouted BOB!!!, and sprinted off, knocking past a handsome woman with a distinctive white streak in her dark mane. Susan Sontag glared after him until he prostrated himself before one of Robert Motherwell’s elegies to the Spanish Republic, then pulled a shrugging face – as if to say, well, OK, I see what he means – that I will love her for forever.