Abstract

Abstract My first encounter with Julian Hochberg was in the fall of 1991. I was a newly minted graduate student at Columbia University and had been assigned to be a teaching assistant for Hochberg’s undergraduate perception class. I had arrived in New York a few days beforehand and wasn’t at all sure what to expect from my new situation—a new city, a new course of study, and a new teaching assignment. If Hochberg’s credentials and reputation as one of the giants in the field made me somewhat apprehensive, his office had me downright intimidated. It conformed exactly to my stereotype of an Ivy League professor’s office (or perhaps it subsequently came to define that stereotype for me—memory can be tricky). It was a large office—two stories tall—with overstuffed bookshelves straining under their load and every flat surface piled high with yet more books and papers. Assorted pieces of equipment from long-completed experiments or demonstrations were scattered haphazardly between the piles. It was at once a perception enthusiast’s gold mine and a sure sign that I would have my work cut out for me keeping on top of things in the upcoming semester.

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