I wonder if it says something damnable about me that I move through my days trying to avoid being noticed or visually scrutinized, shying away from cameras or any kind of observation really, yet I have this lifelong dream of being immortalized in one of Chuck Close's enormous photorealistic warts-and-all paintings, those pitiless gazes at painfully real faces, with their discomfiting asymmetries and turkey wattle necks and huge pores like moon craters.