MaNHaTTaN Linear

by Lynda Crawford

Images come to mind: sitting with Robert in libraries and on park benches, in coffeeshops, and in his wonderful two rooms on Varick Street drinking tea, plotting out our magazine, and talking about our struggles with life and art.

After I had cancer, I visited Robert. I guess we were planning another issue of the Linear and I was embarrassed about having no hair, or very little, thanks to chemo. As I was leaving, he went into his bedroom and came back with a folded maroon knit cap. “This will help,” he said. It was just what I needed.

I visited him at the nursing home in the Bronx. Sitting outside on the veranda, a haven for the smokers, lots of pigeons on tables, he suggested we could be on the Mediterranean somewhere, sitting under an umbrella. He could elevate anything.