My boy Hampshire

I'll travel to New York on Thursday to attend the opening of a show featuring my boy John Hampshire.  He of the labyrinthine meteorological renderings.  He of the dark subtexts and shadowy corners of the mind.  What's the name of that gallery?

You're asking me?
Yes.
I don't know.
And you can't just Google it while I type?
I suppose I could.
Then please ... if you don't mind?

I think it's on 25th Street.  Anyway, this is one of his paintings ...

... although he doesn't always call them paintings.  Particularly the monochromatic ones like the one shown.  He calls them labyrinths, and the majesty of the things cannot be grasped by looking at an image that's six inches long.  They, like Lynda Carter -- who I once met at the American Academy of Dermatology meeting -- can only be fully appreciated in person.

It's the Phoenix Gallery.  210 11th Ave, near 25th.
Thank you.
You're welcome.

You understand, by now, that because of severe underlying neurosis I'm incapable of talking about anybody but myself, other than in a manner slyly designed to to call attention to moi while ostensibly talking about somebody else.  All this by way of saying that I'm under the impression that one of the paintings he's showing is a portrait of me.

I may be completely wrong about this.  I'm not even sure where the notion came from.  But I'd urge you, the Minions of Magical Painting, to go regardless.  If you're feeling flush, buy one.

This is Adrianne Palicki, of Friday Night Lights fame, about whose upcoming interpretation of Wonder Woman I have some questions ...

Me?  I might have gone with Katy Perry.

This, of course, is Ms. Carter.