James' assistant comes out to collect me, and we head down a long corridor to his office suite. She asks me to wait on a leather couch on the far side of his office, and she lets me know he will be with me momentarily. I look up to study the various black and white prints he has framed around his office: Vasily Kandinsky, Kiki Smith, Louise Bourgeois, Paul Klee and Kara Walker. There is also a beautiful Robert Graham nude bronze on a pedestal by the window. Although I am pleased with myself for being able to identify all the artists, I'm fighting panic out of sheer intimidation. I'm not even a published writer, but I'm pretending to be one. I am really feeling out of my league.