The late Reginald Marsh was a short, stocky, inconspicuous man, who for 34 memorable years moved quietly and almost invisibly about Manhattan with sketch pad and fountain pen. When he died last year at 56, the graphic record he left behind told what he had best loved and captured: the big city with its derelict Bowery bums, jaded burlesque queens and their wise-guy following of touts and sports, the day-to-day lives of Manhattan's anonymous masses, and everywherelolling on the beaches, powdering their noses in the mirror of a subway gum machine or just...
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