Let me start with a glimpse of a pattern that, paradoxically, isn’t one, because it’s there and—as you’ll see later—it matters; four ambiguous, seductive pictures taken by a then-unknown-to-me artist named Peter Christopherson came to me by chance. They tumbled into my hands like so many other of my life-altering encounters, stirred into motion when Old Hazard rolls over in his sleep and sends those wonders not yet nailed into place skittering across time-space. They were a first sign of the invisible warp and weft, a tying together of wildly diverse things that would mark my relationship with this work, its place in my life and my work. I wasn’t in a record shop, nor a bookstore, nor standing before some hip newsagent’s racks—nothing like that. I was in my family living room (very near the end of my time there) with an older friend, back from his first European voyage and eager to impress with the horde of underground culture he’d brought home. And impress me he did.
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