He opens the door with a halfway-buttoned shirt, halfway-shaved face, leather loafers, and a slightly frazzled grin, but welcomes me in right away into exactly what one would expect Art Garfunkel’s apartment to look like. Stacks of books, demos, and records find homes beneath spindly-legged furniture. A large canvas decorated in colored signatures reads love from West Choir! and we heart Art.
Quipping about a recent trip to Switzerland, Art Garfunkel, now 77, makes only tiny, pointed movements paired with long and superfluous monologue. The wisps of his curls are visible on either side of his head, poking through the lenses of thick glasses. Looking out the window, he sighs and says, “I shouldn’t have come back to New York. I don’t want to see anyone.”
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