Oh, no. I have lost Brian Eno.
Not literally, at least. He is sitting so close that my elbow occasionally grazes his yellow corduroy sleeve, our twin rolling chairs sidled alongside a pair of broad computer screens and between two bulky brown speakers he bought used from an elderly woman long ago. On a rainy Thursday morning in early June, we are dry inside his Notting Hill recording studio, a brick-lined space slightly bigger than a walk-in closet and as dim as one, too. A wall of shelves behind us holds eight decades of obsessions, curiosities, and memories—a crowded row of the tidy black diaries he’s kept since boyhood, an assortment of American gospel and Elvis Presley 45s, singing bowls, an Omnichord, two ukuleles, Polaroids, little pieces of art wedged into every corner, and a copy of the children’s book Walter the Worm. One of his Light Boxes hangs near his head, a circle of pink glowing from a square of green.
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