In Williamsburg, before the rents ballooned and the irony calcified, there was a window of time when people believed they were creating something important. It was 1997/8 and for one humid, candlelit evening, we were in Notting Hill — or at least pretending hard enough that it almost held. This was before 9/11, before algorithms, before Uber and influencers and curated realities. Nostalgia has turned it golden, but even then, we knew something delicate was happening. Fragile. Possibly delusional. But pure in its own chaotic sincerity.   The apartment belonged to Caulder, a 29-year-old gallerist with no formal gallery and no formal income. He wore tuxedo pants every day and claimed not to believe in chairs. His loft had one couch, no television, a salvaged butcher block table, and a faint, inescapable scent of eucalyptus.   The party began late because parties always began late. The guests arrived in staggered waves, all limbs and linen, clutching wine bottles wit...