Crista Cloutier

It’s not unfair to say that his mouth was a mess. I often walk past the acupuncturist’s dark office and see him sitting there alone. Dr. Tian is from China and speaks very little English. He has a pronounced overbite and a severe stutter that was often so bad that he drooled onto the piece of paper upon which he drew to communicate with me. He must be very good, I thought. After the exam, he told me that I was so yin-deficient that my tongue had been shrinking for years.

Hanging out with William Wegman and his dogs in NYC. I am there to interview him for my forthcoming Working Artist video. Up until a few years ago, I worked in the art business and Wegman w as one of my artists. In my office I had the last photograph he ever took of his first dog, his muse, Man Ray, taken right before Man’s death. It was a haunting image of the dog looking at his own reflection in a puddle. Wegman could not bear to look at it so we never published it.

I brought no Italian with me to Rome. At the Brazilian Embassy, I tell the guard that I am to there to see visiting artist Vik Muniz. He speaks no English. My best mime only warrants a raised eyebrow. In desperation, I plead, “Parlez francais?” though I do not. A call is placed and I gather that I have been mistaken for a french journalist of great repute. “French” because everyone now speaks to me in french, though my only reply is my customary Gallic shrug.