In June last year I fell backwards down the up escalator at the subway station on 51st and Lexington. The strongest impression while falling was an awareness of my surroundings. The rest of the subway ride was a strangely alert and embodied time. Reading in the airport bar I am filled with the confirmation that making or receiving art is about the body as an internal process of recognition of pleasures and scars. The only time that his friends ever saw Giacometti smile was when he broke a leg and fell into the gutter in Rome. At last, he said, something has happened to me.