As a teenager (and no matter how they disparage themselves they’re all beautiful) I used to hang around the Village String Shop, Pietro Carbone, proprietor. (Gray beard, pink cheeks.) It was dark, like an old painting, and violins hung from the ceiling. Pietro also took care of guitars, and I was a folkie (out in Washington Square with Eric Darling, Roger Sprung and the rest of them, but that’s another story). Occasionally an old gentleman was there too, whom Pietro called Maestro. I called him Mr. Varese. He always asked about my music studies, and my guitar, and Pietro once got me to play a song for him. He was beatific, I can tell you. Pietro often said the maestro was sweet on me. "He likes you, Leslie. He’s a very famous man. You’ll see, one day you’ll find out how famous he is." I didn’t want to hear about it. (I would have said I was ugly and didn’t play well, see above.) Anyway, the maestro lived nearby and invited me to his house to see his paintings. I’m not good at art, got a c, and I didn’t think my mother would want me going with him, but Pietro assured me all would be well. The paintings weren’t even hung. They were mostly still on the floor, and the waste is that I can’t remember--didn’t know--any of the signed names, which were mostly first names, as in, "to Edgard from Pablo"--one I happen to remember. I am confident that others were of almost that order of magnitude. He offered me coffee, I escaped uneasily and didn't tell. Whoever those painters were, I may not know one from another, and never met "Pablo," but I knew Edgard, and played for him, and now the enthusiastic world is arranging it so he plays for me. Because of the wild reception of the Varese festival at the New York Philharmonic--Broad Street Review has the best writeup--I’d better get this memory down while I’m still breathing.