The first time I went to Musée Nissim de Camondo, in Paris, was about 40 years ago, with Richard Buckley. Back then, the museum didn’t have the power that it does for me now, a man in my late 60s. The chairs have become my friends, my touchstones. They know history—they have seen too much—but they are still there, aging but always beautiful. Richard and I exchange random e-mails, pandemics come and go, but the chairs remain.
