Letters & Essays: 1990s

Burning the Days

By James Salter

In Manhattan, in the lower right-hand corner, I had found a place in which to write, a room near the river, within sight of the cathedral piers of the Brooklyn Bridge. It was on Peck Slip, a broad street near the fish market, strewn with paper and ripped wood by the time I arrived each morning, but quiet with the work of the day by then over. I wrote in this room with its bare wooden floor and ruined sills for a year—it was 1958—struggling with pages that turned bad overnight.

My Dinner with Jasper Johns (and Robert Rauschenberg, Leo Castelli, Robert and Ethel Scull, Willem de Kooning, Franz Kline and Lots More)

By Richard Brown Baker

I have shamefully neglected this diary, in which I had meant to chronicle the art life of our metropolis, but the botheration of Christmas was too much for me. I dammed up, and until this sunny May morning, have had not the tiniest inclination to write a word in it. But I think I should capture a reference to last night’s dinner party.