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November 14, 1967
Lake Valhalla

Dear Phil,

Thank you so much for advancing that substantial check. Shortly afterwards, we had to absorb an emergency repair bill for our declining Chevrolet. On Saturday past, as little Stephen and I strolled from the Noland opening at Emmerich (that "blown" citified bumpkin has contrived another line of self-consciously fussy "composed" awning patterns for Greenbergburdened Town and Country Garden Supplies, Inc.), [[strikethrough]] I [[/strikethrough]] we encountered Sid Tillson "spruced up" to look like a local Jewish Rex Harrison set for a spy bit in a London fog. He instantly pretended, "I'll shake your hand if you promise never to write another line." (A strategic reminiscence: In Richmond, two years ago, Barnett Newman told me that he had once advised an art history student-would-be painter who had shown him a batch of his criticism to "give it up, Sidney", Tillson, that is.) I promised not to shake (but, we did). Poo-poo punctilious Sib-nay then volunteered (as "Babs Blush" Rosette had once) that "critics had made me". Once again, I checked the zipper on my trousers. It was still securely zipped. That glance