Andy and Christina Wylie moved into the other half of the house, 21 Flagg Street, in 1970. The three of us had been friends for a long time, since Andy's freshman year at Harvard. Christina was pregnant and in August 1970 Nicholas was born. Andy, who has this demonic energy, would weed the backyard every couple of weeks, tearing up the brick patches altogether, rather than just pull up the weeds growing in the cracks. Then he would lay down a brand-new brick design. I would watch him from my kitchen window, going like a dervish. We often ate meals together, drank wine in the evening, played with Nicholas, talked about politics, CIA agents, and drug laws.

Andy and I had a theory that the custodian Harvard had hired to look after Flagg Street real estate was an informant for the CIA. He would come into our houses, allegedly to check for drippy faucets, look in every room to size the place up, and ask us ingenuously if we knew where he could get some dope. As if we'd fall far such a stupid set-up. He didn't even bother to carry a wrench. When something really needed to be repaired, he brought his helper who did the actual work.

I took the picture of Andy with a purpose. He had been reading Artaud and was convinced I could take an 'Artaud spirit' photograph of him. I didn't know what he was talking about, but we went to the side of the house and he went through twenty poses. On the roof of my car, on the top of the shed where the garbage barrels are kept, against the garage.

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