An artist acquaintance invited me to an exhibition in the East 40s organized by a femme-owned art collective in Brooklyn. https://thelockerroomnyc.com/New-York-Is-Dead I go with two friends. Alighting an Uber in the pouring rain, we hurry to the entrance where we’re stopped. Willowy lotus-eaters in their 20s flow around us as if we were insensate rocks in their sparkling stream. “You only have one ticket,” said the woman at the door, fixing us with gimlet eyes. We hadn’t realized it was an invitation-only opening night gala. One of the first events as the city starts to open up after the pandemic lockdown. I importune her, saying I had a personal evite from an artist. After pointing out it was oversubscribed, she relented but not without a gratuitous “OK, but don’t stay too long.”