Has a mortgage and three lovely children. And a wife. And a dog. He has no notches on his belt or axes to grind: he has never met a member of the royal family, he has never killed a bird. He is from Canada. He has lived in Paris for longer than he can remember. He hasn’t shaved in almost a week. He writes principally for money, but also for theatre and film. His plays, written in English or French, have been performed throughout his adopted and native lands. He finished two feature-length films in 2018 but they won’t make any money. They’ll make it into festivals, which might be fun, sure. But fun is not what he needs. Fun is old. He is old. He’s been a contributing editor at Art Review since, well, forever. He loves art. He hates art. He hates cyclists who ring their bells to warn pedestrians. He hates pedestrians who don’t get out of the way. He hates cars. He likes Shakespeare. He likes wine. He lacks cash. He lacks couth. He wanted to put a DONATE button on this site but wasn’t allowed. It’s crass, he was told. So what? he said. His knee hurts and his clothes are ratty. He hasn’t eaten in a three-star restaurant in years. None of his posh friends return his calls. He has a hole in his shoe and a skip in his step and a song in his heart. The song sucks. It goes like this: nah-nah-nah, nah-nah-nah. It’s really annoying. Nah-nah-nah, nah-nah-nah, over and over and over. Nah-nah-nah, nah-nah-nah. You can’t hear yourself think.


    FOTO: Lasse WindChristoffer Berdal