I’m sitting on a bench in Madison Square Park, reading a book, when a man approaches me holding a camera. He looks as though he’s determined to ask me something. I pretend not to notice – I’m in no mood to be disturbed. ‘Hi there,’ he calls out. I look up and give him a perfunctory smile. ‘I’m a photographer, and I noticed you sitting there and wondered if I might take your picture. It’s very striking.’ As he says this I feel my body stiffen and my face flush. He’s looking at me smiling, mentally framing his shot, probably preparing what he’s going to say next when I give my assent. Like, ‘Just do what you were doing, pretend I’m not here.’ While I appreciate his respectful approach, I can sense the refusal leaving my lips before I’ve even made up my mind. ‘Sorry, but I’d prefer not to have my picture taken.’ He looks slightly crestfallen when I say this, but recovers quickly. ‘What’s that you’re reading,’ he asks (out of genuine curiosity, or because he feels he needs to save face?) I hold up the book, an account of a young French artist studying painting in China, and give a one-sentence summary. ‘Oh,’ he says, ‘I don’t know that one. I’m also a painter!’ I nod vaguely and he departs. This statement about being ‘also a painter’ throws me, and for several minutes I sit there on the bench trying to get back into my reading, but finding myself instead puzzling over this assertion of being both a photographer and a painter.