William Wegman
[Artist, b. 1943, Holyoke, Massachusetts, lives in New York.]

 I was really relieved not to have to drag something in front of the camera, I could use a pencil and paper. A regular pencil and typing paper. That appealed to me. (On his drawings) 
 Sometimes I’ve drawn on autobiographical material, maybe situations that I’ve felt trapped by, and turned them into something else, but in a very superficial way. When you find yourself thinking and worrying about certain things they become ridiculous. 
 I was born on a tiny cot in southwestern Massachusetts during World War II. A sickly child, I turned to photography to overcome my loneliness and isolation. 
 The best thing about Fay isn’t visible in a photo. It’s her voice. You say: “Fay, speak,” and she sounds like a distant thunderstorm. (On his canine model, Fay Ray; 1987.) 
 My Weimaraners are perfect fashion models. Their elegant, slinky forms are covered in gray—and gray, everyone knows, goes with anything. 
 In 1978 I decided not to work with Man Ray as an act of self-discipline. I didn’t want to rely on him. Man Ray hated not working, though. He would come into my studio, see me drawing or working on photographs, and just slump down at my feet with a big sigh. Fortunately for both of us the year ended. Polaroid had invented a new camera, the twenty-by-twenty-four, and I was invited to Cambridge, Mass., to experiment with it. Naturally, I took Man Ray and we were working again. 
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