Harry Smith returned to visit my house, his old room behind him, about a year after he’d migrated upstate to Cooperstown with two dozen boxes of his paintings, books and several hundred hours of tapes he’d made on my Sony Pro Walkman of the ambient sounds of lower Manhattan (climaxing July 4, 1985) – microphone wrapped in towel on windowsill sucking in dog barks & auto horns from the battery to lower East Side for months. Now it is August 30th, 1986.