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The Stranger (1946, Orson Welles)
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[“Voici ce que je vois, ce que j’entends. Je vois le temps qui a passé. J’entends les sons de la ville. Les vies de mes voisins. Et le chant d’un oiseau. Je nous vois. Nouvelles et non épuisés. On remplit cette espace avec nos vies. C’est un labeur acharné. C’est le travail le plus dur que je connais. Quand je vois cette espace je vois ce labeur précieux. Je vois notre impression dans tout. Les minces couches de souvenirs font cette chaise, font ce cabinet, font le tapis. Mais si soudainement et venu de nul part un étranger devait entrer dans cette pièce? Qui verrait-il? Que entendrait-il? Est-ce qu’il sentirait quelque chose en étant ici? Est-ce que j’aurais honte de ce qu’il voit?”]
‘Ghost Tropic’, Bas Devos, 2019
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Gabbeh | Mohsen Makhmalbaf | 1996
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horrifying
Song of Avignon (1998) directed by Jonas Mekas.
Source: horrifying
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Hommage à Zgougou (Short) | Agnès Varda | 2002
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Keith Vaughan (British, 1912-1977), Seventh Assembly of Figures (Nile Group), 1964. Oil on canvas, 122 x 137.5 cm
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Naked (Mike Leigh, 1993)
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New York, 1970, Ernst Haas
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In Proust and Signs, Gilles Deleuze writes that “to fall in love is to individualize someone by the signs he bears or emits”. Love is, to use a distinction from Roland Barthes’ Camera Lucida, about “punctum”, not “studium”. We love what pierces us, pricks us, gets under our skin. This is never a question of a generality (let’s call it the idea of literature) but something individual or singular (the material fact of corporeal, affective encounters between myself and a host of other agencies and entities in acts of erotic signification). Deleuze goes on : “Love is born from and nourished on silent interpretation”. Interpretation bears a gap between what one thinks one knows and a singularity from which we cannot divert our attention. In this sense, when interpretation and love are comingled, interpretation cannot have as its goal the total elucidation of an object. The point is not the end, as it were, but the task. I interpret literature not to understand it, or to present readings of it as if those were things that could be accomplished, but to “stay with the trouble” that is literature, to use Donna Haraway’s beautiful phrase.
Nathan Snaza, Animate Literacies (via bergmans-ghost)
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“Of the different persons who compose our personality, it is not the most obvious that are the most essential.”
“[I]n exploring one sector of the vast zone that extended round me, I had succeeded only in pushing back still further that unknowable thing which, when we seek to form a definite idea of it, another person’s life invariably is to us.”
“I could, if I chose, take Albertine on my knee, hold her head in my hands, I could caress her, run my hands slowly over her, but, just as if I had been handling a stone which encloses the salt of immemorial oceans or the light of a star, I felt that I was touching no more than the sealed envelope of a person who inwardly reached to infinity.”
–Marcel Proust, The Captive
Image: Notebook draft of the Madeleine scene
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CÉLINE SCIAMMA AND BONG JOON HO © photographed by Chad Hartigan at the Oscars After Party February 9, 2020
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Curiosity. The word, however, pleases me. To me it suggests something altogether different: it evokes "concern"; it evokes the care one takes for what exists and could exist; a readiness to find strange and singular what surrounds us; a certain relentlessness to break up our familiarities and to regard otherwise the same things; a fervor to grasp what is happening and what passes; a casualness in regard to the traditional hierarchies of the important and the essential. I dream of a new age of curiosity. We have the technical means for it; the desire is there; the things to be known are infinite; the people who can employ themselves at this task exist. Why do we suffer? From too little: from channels that are too narrow, skimpy, quasi-monopolistic, insufficient. There is no point in adopting a protectionist attitude, to prevent "bad" information from invading and suffocating the "good." Rather, we must multiply the paths and the possibilities of coming and goings.
Michel Foucault, The Masked Philosopher
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Frida (2002) dir. Julie Taymor
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50’ x 50’ pillow, 1970. Freestone, CA.
Ant Farm