Over a year ago, a mutual friend let the artist Michael Smith know I was interested in doing an interview with him. The friend showed Smith the previous piece I’d published, an interview with someone also named Michael. Smith’s only response, as far as I know, was “Which Mike is he going to interview next?”

Before long, Smith invited me and the friend to sit in his living room, which had an armchair and a television and several small paintings resting on a shelf he’d installed near the ceiling. Smith talked about the walnuts he’d been putting in his oatmeal and asked what the protocol was for throwing away old batteries. He talked about studying painting when he was young—before the performance work, the videos, the installations, the drawings; before the character of Mike or Baby Ikki ever stood onstage in front of an audience—and about how the head of the Whitney Independent Study Program let him stay for an extra semester because he was so tidy. He liked to sweep, he said. And from what I could tell, this was still true. His house was very tidy.