In October 1972, Lawrence Ferlinghetti came to Boston to read at Tufts. We went to the Grolier Book Shop, where he talked to Gordon Cairnie, the proprietor, about life at City Lights in San Francisco and the woes of the small bookseller. They posed for pictures in front of Cairnie's bookcases of first editions. Gerd Stern came over. We went to the Walker Evans show at the Museum of Fine Arts; it was the last day and the place was mobbed. There were huge murals of some of the images. One, a big stuffed chair with an avocado plant growing high above it. I had my camera. The possibilities were irresistible. Lawrence arranged himself in front of the picture in such a way that it looked as if he was sitting in the chair, if you looked at him quickly. No one in the museum paid any attention to us. They walked right by as we were laughing and posing, taking pictures of ourselves in front of pictures.
This was the first time I had met Ferlinghetti, though I knew his work well and had heard about him for years from Creeley and Ginsberg. He knew my work and had seen some of it at Bob's and Allen's house and in various little magazines. So it was like two distant cousins finally meeting each other. He had with him a copy of his eight-year-old son Lorenzo's book, The illustrated Wilfred Funk, which City Lights had just brought out. He showed it to everyone, read from it. He is very serious, proud of his work, and very polite. Soothing almost.
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