Because I didn’t see the point in refusing, I went out with Deidre and Hyler that night. A billionaire named Victor Ohnesorg supported their abused little Chelsea gallery. He also invited them to his Moth Parties. The old man flooded his uptown penthouse with light from a hundred aluminum chandeliers, Japanese paper lanterns, bulb-studded and wire-festooned coat trees, chrome Swedish lamps shaped like commas, the entire lot arranged to cast an appalling glow over his Sotheby’s centerpiece: a naked carbon filament from Edison’s lab, on a pure white box, in the middle of a dining room so bright it triggered migraines.

“A Syndicate of Angels,” Northwind Magazine No. 1

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