"Is there anything you'd like me to tell your fans?"

That's the first thing I asked as I sat down in his smallish flat in Madrid. He gave me a sardonic grin, which I came to realize was his way of asking, "Are you seriously asking me this inane question?" I saw that look on his face a lot that afternoon.

Sitting on a rickety but comfortable couch, enveloped in smoke from his eternally-burning Gauloise, I had the sense of being closely watched for signs of intellectual, or perhaps aesthetic, inferiority. It was an uncomfortable experience, but I was expecting it. Newton Bigelow is a man who constantly subjects the world and the people in it to close inspection. He judges them by standards of his own invention, and those who don't measure up are quickly shown the door. Being in a room with him is always like being on the hot seat. You always feel closely scrutinized and on your guard.

Maybe it's the red shades. He wears them at all times. They're big and round, with thick lenses that look like they're made of actual glass. Though the rest of his wardrobe is conservative bordering on archaic, his glasses look like rejects from Elton John's yard sale. Seen through those red lenses, his eyes look like those of a praying mantis, intelligent and predatory. He never explains his choice of eyewear. When asked about it, he grunts something about his "condition" and quickly moves on to another subject.