“Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask and he will tell you the truth.” —Oscar Wilde
At a dinner in New York a few years ago, I sat across the table from artist Raymond Pettibon, who sat next to the boyfriend of a renowned fashionista. Over plates of pizza and pasta and many glasses of Nero d’Avola, I watched Raymond and the boyfriend engage in what looked like deep, serious conversation. I was jealous. I’m as fascinated with Raymond’s mind as I am his work, and seeing his moving mouth and expressive hands filled me with FOMO.
After dinner, a group of us stepped out to the sidewalk. Someone suggested we go for a nightcap at a bar around the corner. All were in, except for Raymond and his girlfriend, who said they were tired and needed to get home. Walking to the bar, I fell into step with the man who’d been talking to Raymond at the table.
“That guy I sat next to—what’s his name, Ray? Wow, so interesting!” he said.
“How so?” I asked.
“He’s a dog breeder. He breeds pit bulls. Pit bulls that fight to the death in these highly illegal dogfights. There’s this whole underground culture. Apparently he’s one of the top breeders.”