Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Oversparse

Back in 1972, right at the time when CCC was coming to life in embryonic form (Deligny's Le Moindre Geste, 1971; Kiarostami's Breaktime, 1972; and soon Akerman's Jeanne Dielman, 1975), Paul Schrader was talking about another particular transversal, transcultural, transgenerational style in world cinema : the Transcendental Style of Dreyer, Ozu and Bresson, which he defines as the only successful kind of "religious film" -- seemingly against the grain of the dominant artfilm trend, in the margin of Modern Cinema (Antonioni, Pasolini, Bergman). Tarkovsky follows right down this path, and should have been included in this interesting thesis about the formalism of film spirituality. And probably certain films of Abbas Kiarostami (whose connection to the divine is as much a stretch as for Ozu).

Inside the (broad) CCC extended family, maybe Angelopoulos (many films), Sokurov (Oriental Elegy among others), Kitano (Dolls), Kim Ki-duk (Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter... and Spring again), Groening (Into Great Silence), Reygadas (Stellet Licht), Serra (El Cant dels Ocells), Dumont (Hadewijch), Weerasethakul (Tropical Malady; Uncle Boonmee) would have some affinity with the religious or the Transcendent. But this would rather be an affinity of subject matter (i.e. religious/spiritual genre, which is also Schrader's selective process to establish his trio) than a specific film form translating a definite expression of the "The Holy". In fact the profane CCC films use the same contemplative approach to filmmaking without the elevating end in sight, whether the content is religious or not. Are they "transcendental" or "contemplative"?
There are many ways to interpretate the term "transcendental" (the theological sense doesn't really fit with CCC), but Schrader conceived it necessarily as a religious statement.


TS vs CCC

Overall, the major distinction with CCC is that the later form of ascetic cinema is not motivated by religious, mystical, spiritual or transcendental ambitions. All in all CCC does not seem to work towards an existential reflexion, let alone the formal articulation of a spiritual discourse. So it is impossible to put "The Holy" at the center of CCC's concerns and aspirations, in its content or in its form. If Schrader's criterion is transcendence, then CCC's criterion ought to rather be immanence (or Sartre's immanence-transcendance). I believe these films observe the triviality of existence, its pragmatic reality, the featured greatness of Nature is in the importance of details (instead of a hidden higher principle), in the smallest ineffable, invisible, futile, underarchieved, suspended things, the emptiness, the rituals, the banality.
This is one clear distinction that separates the "Transcendental Style" generation and the more recent generation of filmmakers following that epoch.

Back then, Schrader thought that Ozu's "pillow shots" were the closest cinema could get to Zen art, that Bresson was the most minimalist within narrative cinema...
In his concluding chapter (previously cited here), the "stasis films" represent a Transcendental Style gone wrong, a spiritual film overdone, excessive, extreme, to the point of losing any narrative drive and/or audience appeal.


On this point I would argue that "immediate understanding" or "intuitive apprehension" is only a concern in the case of commercialisation of art (commercial movies). Art critics can deal with obscur/esoteric forms (that the audience avoids) without disregarding their importance in regard to the history of arts. If nobody watches Andy Warhol's or Michael Snow's experiments, it doesn't diminish their contribution in the grand scheme of film form evolution. Granted, Schrader precises that he only meant to discriminate them in contrast with his definition of Transcendental Style (to which Structural films don't owe anything). He clearly establishes intentional variants : either the film is oversparse on purpose, or it failed to transcend its self-imposed ascetism. It's OK to blame entertainment for dragging too much or leaving us wanting more. But it would be disingenuous to blame a cinema that means to be bare and dry, for being too minimalist (like it's silly to blame a comedy for being TOO funny). Wavelength doesn't attempt to simulate the emotional content of An Autumn Afternoon, likewise, contemplative filmmaking (allegedly "oversparse") does not attempt to channel the styles and achievements of Transcendental Style films, Modern Cinema or any other more traditional, mainstream narrative forms. A distinct praxis cannot be judged honestly with inapt values.
This is a discrimination we could make just the same for CCC. Is there such a thing as an "overcontemplative" film? And maybe this is an argument the recent "slowish film" detractors could build up to consolidate their analysis. Mistaking the audience's expectation and the filmmaker's intention is what explains this general misunderstanding of slower films. Critics ask for more content to ponder, more "active forms of rebellion", more provocation, more creativity, more technology... and feel short-changed because these filmmakers had something else in mind. But this isn't a failure of CCC, it is an inadequation between global zeitgeist cravings and a marginal aesthetic developing from other concerns and objectives.

"Oversparse" is a subjective evaluation, one that has evolved since the emergence of CCC. What was considered "oversparse" before CCC, is no longer as anti-narrative or unwatchable as it used to be. CCC filmmakers pushed the limit of effective minimalism further and made (watchable) masterpieces with "oversparse" shots. Apparently, a bad Transcendental Style film would be considered today a good Contemporary Contemplative Cinema film.

CCC is the missing link in the gap left by Schrader between the purely narrative (religious stories) and the purely experimental (conceptual art). CCC is less relient on the traditional modes of theatrical narration (even less than Bresson who in this triad is probably the further away from traditional narration). However CCC is decidedly more narrative than Structural films. Contemplative films still tell a minimal "story" about humans, societies, cities, landscapes; it's never a mere plastic composition with an abstract conceptual message. Yet Schrader's insular taxonomy could sometimes consider them "oversparse" and flat out discount them.

Recent CCC filmmakers developped a type of minimalist mise en scène throughout an entire film that goes beyond what Transcendental Style achieved only in selected scenes/moments. Let's say that the so-called "Transcendental Style" films are *sometimes* transcendental within a traditional narrative model; while CCC films are *most of the time* contemplative through and through, with very little narrative support.
We find another generational step between the film style Schrader defined in 1972 and the new film form emerging thereafter in the hands of the CCC filmmakers. The most exemplary models of this radical evolution are : Omirbaev, Bartas, Tarr, Tsai, Costa, Weerasethakul, Diaz, Alonso, Serra.


Stasis shots

James Benning, Nikolaus Geyrhalter, Benedek Fliegauf make "pillow shots" that last an entire film, "extended stases", without any narrative exposition or counterpoint, like Andy Warhol : the "isolation and prolongation of an Ozu coda". They are even closer to a Zen painting, a Zen garden, a Zen haiku than Ozu ever was because his narrative imperative was inescapable at the time. Though Ozu Yasujiro is unquestionably greater, this is not a matter of qualitative hierarchy here. Only the minimalist degree is examined in this case. Ozu's minimalism level was not as low, but we could say he mastered that level for a purer, more profound result within the constraints of a family drama genre.

Contrary to what Schrader declares, a true "stasis shot" is far from solipsistic, it is the biggest sacrifice a film auteur could make by abandonning to the camera more artistic direction than they could input themselves. Such extreme form of documentary is the ultimate suppression of the artist's ego, stylistic mannerism and autobiographical exhibition. These few isolated artists mentionned could be the "new transcendental style in movies" that Schrader had predicted in Michael Snow's Wavelength. These shots are absolute icons that contain all the essence of a divine world.

Though I'd argue that this example is created around an overwhelming "concept", which is largely absent of the rest of CCC. Thus why Structural films are precursors rather than included in CCC. A strong concept at the basis of a film, generating, structuring and inducing certain images are a kind of intellectual commentary, that the audience may pick up to influence the direction of their observation, which could produce a controlled, restricted contemplation. Generally CCC films do not try to provide an intellectualised explanation for the images, scenes do not suggest psychological purposes or narrative cues which would be hinted by an overtly formal/intellectual concept. Anticipation, suspense, intentional causes, escalation, chain reaction, predetermined order, rhythmic sequence distract from the contemplative power of understated images.

Films like Ten skies, 13 Lakes, RR, Ruhr (Benning), Our Daily Bread (Geyrhalter), Milky Way (Fliegauf) -- as well as Kiarostami's Five; Pálfi's Hukkle; Groening's Into Great Silence; Michel's Les Hommes -- are effective without the viewer's "special knowledge and commitment". They may be analysed conceptually, and replaced within a certain genealogy of structural films (Benning uses a fixed shot length, but Geyrhalter gives each scene its own full extension, long or short) or Experimental cinema (Warhol, Brakhage, Gordon/Parreno...). Yes, they have more to say than their documentaristic face value. But the virgin audience wouldn't require such level of theoretical awareness to get immersed in these landscapes, inhabited or not, to make their own sense of this succession of unexplained stasis shots. Stases may contain a self-explainatory meaning, ever so basic and superficial, a minimal purpose that would validate such unusual contemplative state for the observer.

However the singular static plan sequence is a marginal "gimmick", a particular case, almost a perversion of the contemplative modality to the point of becoming a conceptual experiment rather than to develop a narrative in a minimalist manner. There is a fine line between 10 minutes of a sky and 8 hours of an Empire State building's view, but the contemplative praxis remains identical if the concept is rather discreet. These are the most extreme minimalist/formalist films of the CCC trend. And they should be studied separately, but in conjunction with non-conceptual minimalist narrative CCC.

Often they are strictly documentaries : everything in front of the lens is an unaltered slice of the world. The filmmaker is merely an observer and limits his/her "artistic control" to point, frame and define the duration of the shot. But these simple choices are no less crucial and determinant to justify the purpose of such contemplation.

Related:

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Freedom market for La Libertad

By Michael J. Anderson (Sunday, 27 June 2010):
Receiving its New York premiere this past weekend in conjunction with the just-completed 2010 Robert Flaherty Seminar, Argentine filmmaker Lisandro Alonso's La libertad (2001), the 1975-born director's first feature, provided a fit course for international modernist art cinema in the years immediately following the Abbas Kiarostami-dominated 1990s.


La Libertad :
  • World première (Cannes - Un Certain Regard) = May 2001
  • World commercial première (Argentina) = 28 June 2001
  • American première (NYFF) = 1 Oct 2001
  • French nationwide public distribution = 31 Oct 2001
  • American limited public distribution = 26 June 2010
enough said.

Sunday, June 27, 2010

Bad TS = Good CCC (Schrader)


OVERSPARSE MEANS: THE STASIS FlLM
Paul Schrader, in Transcendental Style in Film, 1972

A good work can be of "oversparse" means if it fails to sustain life until the process of spiritual purification occurs. The aescetic who starves himself to death out of repentance rather than faith, the church which folds because it won't accept contributions, these would be victims of the overly sparse means. "Oversparse" does not mean "oversacred." These means, rather, are not oversparse in principle but in particular : they are too sparse for the particular individual or organization to which they have been applied.

In cinema, therefore, oversparse means would theoretically be those which cannot sustain an audience. Oversparse means in this context should not be mistaken for lack of popularity or small box-office receipts; instead, oversparse means are those which are too sparse too quick. An oversparse film does not allow the viewer to progress from abundant to sparse means. It requires too much of him, demanding instant stasis, and drives him figuratively (and often literally) from the theater.

In Film Culture there has been a debate over a type of film which might be called "oversparse." P. Adams Sitney originally described what he called "structural film," and George Maciunas more accurately redefined it as "monomorphic structural film," film "having a single simple form, exhibiting essentially one structural pattern." Within this general category of monomorphic films there is a subcategory I would call stasis films. The films, in terms of transcendental style, are simply extended stasis; they examine a frozen view of life through a duration of time.

The most famous of these "stasis films" is Michael Snow's brilliant Wavelength, which is a 45-minute uninterrupted zoom across an apartment loft and "into" a photograph of the sea pinned to the far wall. The over-riding movement of the film is that of the constantly self-restricting camera which examines the still view closer and closer. Bruce Baillie's Still Life is a one-shot, fixed-frame, two-minute study of what the title implies, a still life consisting of a tabletop, a floral arrangement, and some table objects. Stan Brakhage's Song 27, My Mountain is a 30-minute film study of a Rocky Mountain peak from various angles. Sitney reports that Harry Smith once suggested to Warhol that he film a lengthy fixed shot of Mount Fuji, in which case one would have a concrete case of a transcendental style stasis film—the isolation and prolongation of an Ozu coda.

I don't want to condemn or belittle these films; I would simply like to suggest that, in terms of transcendental style, they employ overly sparse artistic means. Transcendental style builds a spiritual momentum, progressing from abundant to sparse artistic means. To achieve this effect it uses and progressively rejects certain abundant movie devices: character delineation and interaction, linear narrative structure. The stasis films reject even this level of abundant means; they begin at stasis. Transcendental style induces a spiritual movement from everyday to stasis; stasis films require that that movement be already completed. Earlier in this essay I referred to Warhol's static films (Sleep, Eat, Empire) as everyday films; they may also be described as stasis films. In Zen terms, both everyday and stasis are the "mountain." Warhol's static films can be thought of as either everyday or stasis films, but, importantly, I do not think they can be thought of as both, effecting movement from one to the other. And movement from abundant to sparse means is our working definition of sacred art.

In order to be effective stasis films require a special knowledge and commitment on the viewer's part. Unless the viewer has a knowledge of past achievements in film and art, and a commitment to explore the spiritual through art, he cannot appreciate the innovation or intention of these films. Stasis films, unlike films of transcendental style, cannot operate on a "cold" unprepared viewer and take him to another level. It is in this sense that the overly sparse stasis films cannot sustain an audience. (*)
(*) An important distinction must be made here : the stasis are only oversparse to the extent that they fall into the same category as films of transcendental style. If Warhol's never-filmed Fujiyama film had sought to evoke the same awareness as Late Autumn, then it would have necessarily failed from oversparseness: there simply would have been no attempt to set the spiritual process in motion. But most stasis films, rather than being an extension of transcendental style, are a different breed of film altogether. The best of the stasis films (those by Gehr, Landow, Frampton) attempt, if I understand them, to evoke a transcendental awareness in a method closer to contemporary painting than to the filmic transcendental style. I think, for example, that a fixed-tripod-zoom film like Ernie Gehr's Serene Velocity (a 30-minute shot of a corridor quickly intercut from various zoom positions), would be better served rear-projected in an art gallery or home than in a movie theater. Like Kandinsky, these film-makers accept the abundant means as a given and operate only within sparse means. This, again, is not to demean the film-painter, but to distinguish him from the film-maker of transcendental style. Of all the stasis film-makers, Michael Snow has come closest to transcendental style in Wavelength and he may in fact be evolving a new transcendental style in movies.
A FINAL DEFINITION OF TRANSCENDENTAL STYLE

There is an entire spectrum of abundant artistic means leading to sparse artistic means, just as there is a spectrum of holy feelings leading to a final transcendent attitude. If one did not make this admission he would indeed be on the high road to Beuron. Spirituality in art must have room to move, to change with the times and the arts. The best definition of spiritual art is one that is similarly in flux. It is situated on the spectrum of temporal means and may from time to time move on that spectrum.

In each art and age the transcendental finds its proper level and style. Sometimes that style uses more abundant means, sometimes more sparse means. In film, at present, that level is transcendental style. It represents that point on the spectrum at which the Transcendent is most successfully expressed. If it used more abundant means, it would be less Holy; if it used more sparse means, it would be solipsistic. [..]

  • See my commentary here

Saturday, June 26, 2010

Digital temporal magnitude (Williams)

Go read Long Shots by Blake Williams (June 19, 2010) at R and G and B.
excerpts:
"As cinema continues to finalize its transition from a medium composed of celluloid grain into one composed of digital pixels, it is important to take a closer look at some differences between these two means of producing a moving image. [..] ‘Films’ are being shot on hour-long digital tapes or with cameras rigged up to hard drives rather than 11-minute-capacity reels housing a thousand feet of celluloid. [..] Of all that is unique to this new medium of cinema, I cannot see a more significant trait than its drastically extended allowance in shot length.

[..] Given that he has taken on digital recording methods with some of his recent moving image work, there is not a more appropriate artist than Michael Snow to look at the shifts in perception that have been born from digital filmmaking’s extended long takes. [..]

If the lingering shot is the present of a particular, subjective observer, it remains a reproduction of the present until it is finished, whereby it becomes the past, allowing for interpretation. Pasolini’s theory develops to posit that a shot’s meaning can only be given value once it is finished; like with human life, the possibilities of relations and meanings and developments is endless, “chaotic,” until it is over. [..]

A sample of some of the structural filmmakers who have taken the plunge into digital capturing methods, other than Michael Snow, includes Ernie Gehr, Jonas Mekas, and, most recently, James Benning with his 2009 film Ruhr. Benning makes for an interesting model at this point, because a majority of his films are founded on durational concerns that he explores in long, static shots. Ruhr is Benning’s first ‘film’ not captured or exhibited on celluloid in thirty-two years of filmmaking, and contains the longest shot of his career, coming in at 60 minutes. [..]

When a shot is captured on celluloid, the potentiality of missed moments – via reel changes – comes into play. Therefore, because there are moments in the entire duration of the captured event that are ineligible for inclusion in the final presentation, the viewer cannot be confident that the filmmaker was allowed to curate the duration down to his most desired selection."

Foster-child of silence and slow time (Keats)

41. Ode on a Grecian Urn (1819)
John Keats


1.

THOU still unravish’d bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring’d legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

2.

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

3.

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

4.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e’er return.

5.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,
“Beauty is truth, truth beauty,”—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.


Susan Sontag, The Aesthetics of Silence, 1994 :
Plenitude — experiencing all the space as filled, so that ideas cannot enter — means impenetrability, opaqueness. For a person to become silent is to become opaque for the other; somebody's silence opens up an array of possibilities for interpreting that silence, for imputing speech to it.
The ways in which this opaqueness induces anxiety, spiritual vertigo, is the theme of Bergman's Persona. The theme is reinforced by the two principal attributions one is invited to make of the actress' deliberate silence. Considered as a decision relating to herself, it is apparently the way she has chosen to give form to the wish for ethical purity; but it is also, as behavior, a means of power, a species of sadism, a virtually inviolable position of strength from which to manipulate and confound her nurse-companion, who is charged with the burden of talking.
But it's possible to conceive of the opaqueness of silence more positively, free from anxiety. For Keats, the silence of the Grecian urn is a locus for spiritual nourishment: "unheard" melodies endure, whereas those that pipe to "the sensual ear" decay. Silence is equated with arresting time ("slow time"). One can stare endlessly at the Grecian urn. Eternity, in the argument of Keats' poem, is the only interesting stimulus to thought and also presents us with the sole occasion for coming to the end of mental activity, which means endless, unanswered questions ("Thou, silent form, cost tease us out of thought/As cloth eternity"), so that one can arrive at a final equation of ideas ("Beauty is truth, truth beauty") which is both absolutely vacuous and completely full. Keats' poem quite logically ends in a statement that will seem, if one hasn't followed his argument, like empty wisdom, like banality. Time, or history, becomes the medium of definite, determinate thought. The silence of eternity prepares for a thought beyond thought, which must appear from the perspective of traditional thinking and the familiar uses of the mind as no thought at all — though it may rather be an emblem of new, "difficult" thinking.

Reprendre à zéro (Delorme)

Ne plus rien reconnaître
Stéphane Delorme (éditorial, Cahiers n°657, Juin 2010)

La victoire d'Apichatpong Weerasethakul à Cannes n'est pas que justice: c'est la reconnaissance d'un des plus grands cineastes d'aujourd'hui, et certainement le meilleur de sa génération (il a 40 ans). A l'annonce du palmarès, des grognons ont manifesté leur mécontentement, certainement plus enclins à reconnaître des cinéastes « solides » restant dans les paramètres d'un cinéma balisé. La presse internationale n'a pas toujours été tendre avec le Thailandais; et un certain poujadisme pointe chez ceux qui s'inquiètent qu'un cinéaste « inconnu » reçoive la Palme, au désarroi du grand public. Mais le grand public ne devrait pas s'inquiéter: Apichatpong Wee-ra-se-tha-kul se prononce patiemment et ses films s'eprouvent dans la plus grande simplicité. II suffit de s'asseoir dans le noir et d'aimer se laisser étonner, vertu à la portée de chacun.
Rares sont les cinéastes aujourd'hui qui avancent dans le noir en tâtonnant, créant devant eux les hommes, les situations, les bêtes, les paysages, les lumières qui s'extirpent du néant. Rares sont ceux qui reprennent à zéro, totalement à zéro, sans s'aider de cadres, de repères et de normes. La plupart des bons films sont des variations qui alimentent le plaisir du spectateur du plaisir de reconnaissance: reconnaître un type de récit, un type de mise en scène, retrouver un acteur, suivre le style d'un auteur. Cela vaut autant pour le cinéma commercial que pour le cinéma d'auteur. La politique des auteurs elle-même est fondée sur la reconnaissance puisque c'est la cohésion d'un style qui fait la grandeur d'un auteur. Aujourd'hui, plus que jamais, on reconnaît des pans de cinéma. [..]
Et puis il y a des moments où on n'arrive plus à reconnaître. On se frotte les yeux, ce que nous voyons arrive pour la première fois. Un dîner en long plan séquence, les acteurs jouent de manière erratique, un fantôme apparaît, puis un homme-singe, et nous sommes laissés dans une torpeur, d'autant plus profonde qu'elle ne cherche pas à nous saisir, puisque tout se relâche entre somnambulisme et ironie. [..]
Combien de fois avons nous eu le sentiment de ne plus rien reconnaître? Chaque fois que « l'image d'un film » (non le récit ni la mise en scène) s'est gravée dans notre mémoire. [..] La Palme a été donnée cette année à tous les réalisateurs pas raisonnables.

Thursday, June 24, 2010

The Aesthetics of Silence (Sontag)

Excerpts from "The Aesthetics of Silence", in "Styles of Radical Will", 1994 (coincidentally this year was the apex of CCC, when more films really started to take off). Read the whole text at UbuWeb. Titles added are mine.



THE PURSUIT OF SILENCE
The newer myth, derived from a post-psychological conception of consciousness, installs within the activity of art many of the paradoxes involved in attaining an absolute state of being described by the great religious mystics. As the activity of the mystic must end in a via negative, a theology of God's absence, a craving for the cloud of unknowingness beyond knowledge and for the silence beyond speech, so art must tend toward anti-art, the elimination of the "subject" (the "object," the "image"), the substitution of chance for intention, and the pursuit of silence. [..]
Practiced in a world furnished with second-hand perceptions, and specifically confounded by the treachery of words, the activity of the artist is cursed with mediacy. Art becomes the enemy of the artist, for it denies him the realization, the transcendence, he desires.

ASCETICISM
Though no longer a confession, art is more than ever a deliverance, an exercise in asceticism. Through it, the artist becomes purified — of himself and, eventually, of his art, The artist (if not art itself) is still engaged in a progress toward "the good." But formerly, the artist's good was mastery of and fulfillment in his art. Now it's suggested that the highest good for the artist is to reach that point where those goals of excellence become insignificant to him, emotionally and ethically, and he is more satisfied by being silent than by finding a voice in art. Silence in this sense, as termination, proposes a mood of ultimacy antithetical to the mood informing the self-conscious artist's traditional serious use of silence: as a zone of meditation, preparation for spiritual ripening, an ordeal which ends in gaining the right to speak. (Cf. Valery, Rilke)

POSITIVITY OF A NEGATIVE (related : Negative wording in CCC reviews)
Committed to the idea that the power of art is located in its power to negate, the ultimate weapon in the artist's inconsistent war with his audience is to verge closer and closer to silence. The sensory or conceptual gap between the artist and his audience, the space of the missing or ruptured dialogue, can also constitute the grounds for an ascetic affirmation. Samuel Beckett speaks of "my dream of an art unresentful of its insuperable indigence and too proud for the farce of giving and receiving." But there is no abolishing a minimal transaction, a minimal exchange of gifts, just as there is no talented and rigorous asceticism that doesn't produce a gain (rather than a loss) in the capacity for pleasure.
And none of the aggressions committed intentionally or inadvertently by modern artists have succeeded in either abolishing the audience or transforming it into something else. (A community engaged in a common activity?) They cannot. As long as art is understood and valued as an "absolute" activity, it will be a separate, elitist one. Elites presuppose masses. So far as the best art defines itself by essentially "priestly" aims, it presupposes and confirms the existence of a relatively passive, never fully initiated, voyeuristic laity which is regularly convoked to watch, listen, read, or hear — and then sent away.

[..]

The systematic violation of older formal conventions practiced by modern artists gives their work a certain aura of the unspeakable — for instance, as the audience uneasily senses the negative presence of what else could be, but isn't being, said; and as any "statement" made in an aggressively new or difficult form tends to seem equivocal or merely vacant. But these features of ineffability must not be acknowledged at the expense of one's awareness of the positivity of the work of art. Contemporary art, no matter how much it's defined itself by a taste for negation, can still be analyzed as a set of assertions, of a formal kind.

SILENCE
There is no neutral surface, no neutral discourse, no neutral theme, no neutral form. Something is neutral only with respect to something else. (An intention? An expectation?) As a property of the work of art itself, silence can exist only in a cooked or nonliteral sense. (Put otherwise: if a work exists at all, its silence is only one element in it.) Instead of raw or achieved silence, one finds various moves in the direction of an ever-receding horizon of silence — moves which, by definition, can't ever be fully consummated. One result is a type of art which many people characterize pejoratively as dumb, depressed, acquiescent, cold. But these privative qualities exist in a context of the artist's objective intention, which is always discernible. To cultivate the metaphoric silence that's suggested by conventionally lifeless subjects (as in much of Pop Art) and to construct "minimal" forms which seem to lack emotional resonance are in themselves vigorous, often tonic choices.

[..] Similarly, there is no such thing as empty space. As long as a human eye is looking there is always something to see. To look at something that's "empty" is still to be looking, still to be seeing something — if only the ghosts of one's own expectations. In order to perceive fullness, one must retain an acute sense of the emptiness which marks it off; conversely, in order to perceive emptiness, one must apprehend other zones of the world as full. [..]

A genuine emptiness, a pure silence, are not feasible — either conceptually or in fact. If only because the art-work exists in a world furnished with many other things, the artist who creates silence or emptiness must produce something dialectical: a full void, an enriching emptiness, a resonating or eloquent silence. Silence remains, inescapably, a form of speech (in many instances, of complaint or indictment) and an element in a dialogue.

POSITIVE SILENCE (related : Negative wording in CCC reviews)
In my opinion, the myths of silence and emptiness are about as nourishing and viable as one could hope to see devised in an "unwholesome" time — which is, of necessity, a time in which "unwholesome" psychic states furnish the energies for most superior work in the arts today. At the same time, one can't deny the pathos of these myths.
This pathos arises from the fact that the idea of silence allows, essentially, only two types of valuable development. Either it is taken to the point of utter self-negation (as art) or else practiced in a form that is heroically, ingeniously inconsistent.

MARGIN
Since the artist can't embrace silence literally and remain an artist, what the rhetoric of silence indicates is a determination to pursue his activity more deviously than ever before. One way is indicated by Breton's notion of the "full margin." The artist is enjoined to devote himself to filling up the periphery of the art-space, leaving the central area of usage blank. Art becomes privative, anemic — as suggested by the title of Duchamp's only effort at film making, "Anemic Cinema," a work from the period 1924-26. [..] But these programs for art's impoverishment must not be understood simply as terroristic admonitions to audiences, but as strategies for improving the audience's experience. The notions of silence, emptiness, reduction, sketch out new prescriptions for looking, hearing, etc. — specifically, either for having a more immediate, sensuous experience of art or for confronting the art work in a more conscious, conceptual way.

ATTENTION
Perhaps the quality of the attention we bring to bear on something will be better (less contaminated, less distracted) the less we are offered. Furnished with impoverished art, purged by silence, one might then be able to begin to transcend the frustrating selectivity of attention, with its inevitable distortions of experience. Ideally, one should be able to pay attention to everything.

LANGUAGE
Language seems a privileged metaphor for expressing the mediated character of art-making and the art-work. On the one hand, speech is both an immaterial medium (compared with, say, images) and a human activity with an apparently essential stake in the project of transcendence, of moving beyond the singular and contingent (all words being abstractions, only roughly based on or making reference to concrete particulars). But, on the other hand, language is the most impure, the most contaminated, the most exhausted of all the materials out of which art is made.

LOOK/STARE
Consider the difference between "looking" and "staring." A look is (at least, in part) voluntary; it is also mobile, rising and falling in intensity as its foci of interest are taken up and then exhausted. A stare has, essentially, the character of a compulsion; it is steady, unmodulated, "fixed."
Traditional art invites a look. Art that's silent engenders a stare. In silent art, there is (at least in principle) no release from attention, because there has never, in principle, been any soliciting of it. A stare is perhaps as far from history, as close to eternity, as contemporary art can get.

CONTEMPLATION (related: What is Contemplating Cinema?)
Silence is a metaphor for a cleansed, noninterfering vision, in which one might envisage the making of art-works that are unresponsive before being seen, unviolable in their essential integrity by human scrutiny. The spectator would approach art as he does a landscape. A landscape doesn't demand from the spectator his "understanding," his imputations of significance, his anxieties and sympathies; it demands, rather, his absence, that he not add anything to it. Contemplation, strictly speaking, entails self-forgetfulness on the part of the spectator: an object worthy of contemplation is one which, in effect, annihilates the perceiving subject.
It is to such an ideal plenitude to which the audience can add nothing, analogous to the aesthetic relation to "nature," that a great deal of contemporary art aspires — through. various strategies of blandness, of reduction, of deindividuation, of alogicality. In principle, the audience may not even add its thought. All objects, so conceived, are truly full. [..]
Plenitude — experiencing all the space as filled, so that ideas cannot enter — means impenetrability, opaqueness. For a person to become silent is to become opaque for the other; somebody's silence opens up an array of possibilities for interpreting that silence, for imputing speech to it.

CLEAN SLATE
Behind the appeals for silence lies the wish for a perceptual and cultural clean slate. And, in its most hortatory and ambitious version, the advocacy of silence expresses a mythic project of total liberation. What's envisaged is nothing less than the liberation of the artist from himself, of art from the particular art work, of art from history, of spirit from matter, of the mind from its perceptual and intellectual limitations.

WORDS
A good deal of contemporary art is moved by this quest for a consciousness purified of contaminated language and, in some versions, of the distortions produced by conceiving the world exclusively in conventional verbal (in their debased sense, "rational" or "logical") terms. Art itself becomes a kind of counter-violence, seeking to loosen the grip upon consciousness of the habits of lifeless, static verbalization, presenting models of "sensual speech."
[..] It's not just that words, ultimately, won't do for the highest aims of consciousness; or even that they get in the way. Art expresses a double discontent. We lack words, and we have too many of them. It reflects a double complaint. Words are crude, and they're also too busy — inviting a hyperactivity of consciousness which is not only dysfunctional, in terms of human capacities of feeling and acting, but which actively deadens the mind and blunts the senses.

NONDESCRIPT EXPERIENCE
The function of art isn't to promote any specific experience, except the state of being open to the multiplicity of experience, which ends in practice by a decided stress on things usually considered trivial or unimportant.

DISTANCE
Such art could also be described as establishing great "distance" (between spectator and art object, between the spectator and his emotions). But, psychologically, distance often is involved with the most intense state of feeling, in which the distance or coolness or impersonality with which something is treated measures the insatiable interest that thing has for us. The distance that a great deal of "anti-humanist" art proposes is actually equivalent to obsession — an aspect of the involvement in "things" of which the "humanist" nominalism of Rilke has no intimation.

INEFFABLE
This tenacious concept of art as "expression" is what gives rise to one common, but dubious, version of the notion of silence, which invokes the idea of "the ineffable." The theory supposes that the province of art is "the beautiful," which implies effects of unspeakableness, indescribability, ineffability.

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

Téléréalité contemplative 2010

La vie moderne (2008/Depardon/France) DOC [PDF]



* * *


M6, chaîne de télévision française, a recréé pratiquement sur le modèle de la trilogie documentaire de Raymond Depardon, une émission de "télé réalité" sur le monde des paysans célibataires cherchant l'âme sœur. Blind date, et caméra suiveuse. Les silences de leur timidité, les truismes et les répéditions font disparaitre toute idée de scénario pré-programmé, de mise en scène, d'image-action, et ce malgré le montage recoupé (et le commentaire narratif). La paysannerie transforme l'épitome de la société de consommation télévisuelle (la télé réalité) en un moment se rapprochant du cinéma contemplatif...

L'amour est dans le pré (M6, Juin 2010) TV
Les exploitants agricoles sont travailleurs, passionnés, proches de la nature… Leur emploi du temps surchargé et leur isolement géographique ne favorisent pas les rencontres amoureuses...
extraits vidéo (7 et 21 juin 2010):

Sunday, June 13, 2010

Tacita Dean (The Guardian)

Much ado about nothing
People complain that not much ever happens in Tacita Dean's films. But that's the whole point.
By Jeanette Winterson, The Guardian, 29 September 2005
on Fernsehturm (2001); also mentionned : Girl Stowaway (1994); Disappearance at Sea (1996); Disappearance at Sea II (1997); Teignmouth Electron (1998); Pie (2003).
"This summer we had the pleasure of walking alongside the Thames between the Hayward Gallery and Tate Modern, and finding not one but two major women artists dominating both spaces. Rebecca Horn and Frida Kahlo were an exciting double first and, this autumn, women will again be major players in the art galleries, with new work by Rachel Whiteread, Sarah Lucas, Gillian Wearing and Tacita Dean coming our way.

Four women, and four British women, is good news. British art right now is robust, world-class and ground-breaking. We can be especially pleased that so much of the new energy and direction is coming from women. Anyone who doubts that the girls have got what it takes should go and see for themselves - beginning at Tate St Ives with the strange and haunting filmscapes of Tacita Dean. "Everything that excites me no longer functions in its own time. I court anachronism - things that were once futuristic but are now out of date," she says.

Dean was born in 1965, the "new" decade of free love, space travel, rock and pop, fitted kitchens, ITV, adverts, drugs, vitamin pills, nuclear bombs and the cold war. In the communist part of Berlin, a revolving cafeteria allowed diners exactly an hour to eat cream buns and drink tea while watching a 360-degree panorama of their city, looking out towards the forbidden Berlin of the West. The Fernsehturm resembles a lighthouse or the prow of a ship. It is a relic of a particular regime, a particular time. It is marooned in its own past, and it beams out futuristically across the skyline. Like so much else, what was once a symbol has become a tourist attraction, and, significantly, a full rotation has been sped up from one hour to just 30 minutes.

Life has moved on. There is no wall, no GDR, but though the Fernsehturm can turn faster, it can only be caught at its own pace. In 2001, a year after she went to live in Berlin, Tacita Dean made the interior of the Fernsehturm into a 44-minute film - in which nothing happens. Unlike other film artists, such as Bill Viola or Billy Innocent, Dean is the genius of Nothing. Nothing needs a capital letter, because it is a Sartre Nothing, or a Beckett Nothing.

Her genius, with her slow, steady, held frames, is to allow the viewer to dream the Fernsehturm; to enter it without hurry, without expectation, and to accept, as we do in a dream, a different experience of time, and a different relationship to everyday objects. The glasses, the cutlery, the windows, the light, the shapes of people, the geometry of the tables ask, through the medium of the film, to be noticed, and to be understood. Time slows, then slips its loop altogether. The restaurant revolves, but we are outside of time - observers in space, with a weightlessness that contrasts to the solidity of what we are asked to observe.

I have watched people watching this film - one of her longest - and some walk away quickly, some lie down and have a snooze, some surrender themselves to the intensity of the experience. Others watch half of it, then complain bitterly in the cafe, because they waited and waited, and nothing happened. But climbing out of the nothing, like shy creatures, trodden-on and overlooked, is the curious life of objects freed from their everyday imprisonment. We understand that when Cézanne paints an apple, or Vermeer a milk jug, it is as though we had never seen these objects before.

On film, which has become the medium of action, contemplation is anathema. Yet when film allows a moment to unfold in real time, we realise that a moment is agonisingly long and that our perception of time is both subjective and approximate.

Dean can draw beautifully, and some of her drawings will be on show at the Tate, but 16mm film is her preferred medium because she is attracted to its relationship with time. She likes the beginning, middle and end that film allows, but far from reaching for a conventional narrative, she uses the time-line of the film to release her subject into its timeless state.

One of her new short films, PIE, is eight minutes of magpies in the trees outside her window in Berlin. Their restless squawking and hopping gives no sense of time passing, or of any purpose but their unplanned choreography becomes a dance of life - life that can only be found in the moment, but which depends on the illusion that the moment will last forever.

"I do not think I am slowing down time, but I am demanding people's time," she says. In a busy world, that is a big demand, but one of the many reasons why art matters is its ability to stop the rush. Art on film makes us conscious of the time and space we occupy, and give us an insight into the nature of time itself.

Many people will be familiar with Dean's work from her Friday/ Saturday project for the ill-fated Millennium Dome. She recorded sound over 24-hour periods, Friday through Saturday, at locations round the world determined in relation to the Greenwich Meridian. The Dome, anachronistic before it had begun, worked well with her preoccupations. She located her installation in a ventilation hut but there was so much noise from the Dome itself that she reinvented the soundscape in a jukebox, a construction halfway between the deck of the Starship Enterprise and an old-fashioned radiogram, with light-up dials and knobs to select your latitude: Alaska, Bangladesh, Yemen. Once selected, the jukebox will play one of its 192 CDs.

Dean takes great care with her film soundtracks, but her sound-alone installations open a world where hearing becomes our only radar. She turns us into bats or moles, dependent on just one of our senses, and that sense heightened to a painful acuteness.

There is discomfort in Dean's work - and no getting away from it, except by refusing it the time or the concentration. If you want a quick fix, she will seem superficial; you can't just pop in and have a look, as you can, say, with Damien's shark or Tracey's bed, or the Mona Lisa. The films and the sound installations need something of surrender to get the best out of them, and the gallery space is ideal for this. Although when she projected her Sound Mirrors on the wall of the National Theatre in 1999, it was a spectacular success, perhaps because the theatre is a dedicated building and her work has a sense of the sacred, and the dedictated.

She is a global traveller, and part of her work follows the peregrinations of others who, like her, who have been on a pilgrimage of sorts. Girl Stowaway (1994) charted the journey of an Australian girl dressed as a boy, who survived 96 days at sea to get from Port Victoria to Falmouth in 1928. Teignmouth Electron (1998) took Dean to the Cayman Islands to find the abandoned catamaran of Donald Crowhurst, the round-the-world yachtsman who went mad on his 1968-69 voyage, and drowned himself in the Sargasso Sea.

Disappearance at Sea is a film of unbelievable beauty set around Crowhurst and the Berwick lighthouse, and Disappearance at Sea II is the mythic story of Tristan, floating alone in a coracle for seven days and seven nights until, wounded and weary, he finds the healing of Isolde.

I first discovered Dean through her sea and lighthouse films, and they are some of the most moving images I have stored in my memory. I think of them often, and that must be a test of their power. The sea, time, timelessness, the unregarded, the discarded, are all themes of Dean's work. But what makes these themes into a continuing narrative is her gaze, which turns obsession into engagement, and offers us a chance to see what she sees, heightened and fully aware.

The vividness of her images and the vibrancy of her soundscapes are a challenge to the desensitised, coarse world of normal experience, where bright lights, movement and noise cheat us into believing that something is happening. Tacita Dean's slow nothingness is far more rich and strange."
Related:
Filmography:
  1. The Story of Beard, 1992
  2. The Martyrdom of St Agatha (in several parts), 1994
  3. Girl Stowaway, 1994
  4. How to Put a Boat in a Bottle, 1995
  5. A Bag of Air, 1995
  6. Disappearance at Sea, 1996
  7. Delft Hydraulics, 1996
  8. Foley Artist, 1996
  9. Disappearance at Sea II, 1997
  10. The Structure of Ice, 1997
  11. Gellért, 1998
  12. Teignmouth Electron, 1998
  13. Bubble House, 1999
  14. Sound Mirrors, 1999
  15. From Columbus, Ohio, to the Partially Buried Woodshed, 1999
  16. Banewl, 1999
  17. Totality, 2000
  18. Fernsehturm, 2001
  19. The Green Ray, 2001
  20. Baobab, 2002
  21. Ztrata, 2002
  22. Section Cinema (Homage to Marcel Broodthaers), 2002
  23. Diamond Ring, 2002
  24. Mario Merz, 2002
  25. Boots, 2003
  26. Pie, 2003
  27. Palast, 2004
  28. The Uncles, 2004
  29. Presentation Sisters, 2005
  30. Kodak, 2006
  31. Noir et Blanc, 2006
  32. Human Treasure, 2006
  33. Michael Hamburger, 2007
  34. Darmstädter Werkblock, 2007
  35. Amadeus, 2008
  36. Merce Cunningham performs STILLNESS (in three movements) to John Cage's composition 4'33" with Trevor Carlson, New York City, 28 April 2007 (six performances; six films), 2008
  37. Prisoner Pair, 2008
  38. Still Life, 2009
  39. Day for Night, 2009
  40. Craneway Event, 2009
Watch Now:

Thursday, June 10, 2010

The virtue of contemplation (Aristotle)

"[..] Since every sense is active in relation to its object, and a sense which is in good condition acts perfectly in relation to the most beautiful of its objects (for perfect activity seems to be ideally of this nature; whether we say that it is active, or the organ in which it resides, may be assumed to be immaterial), it follows that in the case of each sense the best activity is that of the best-conditioned organ in relation to the finest of its objects. And this activity will be the most complete and pleasant. For, while there is pleasure in respect of any sense, and in respect of thought and contemplation no less, the most complete is pleasantest, and that of a well-conditioned organ in relation to the worthiest of its objects is the most complete; and the pleasure completes the activity. But the pleasure does not complete it in the same way as the combination of object and sense, both good, just as health and the doctor are not in the same way the cause of a man’s being healthy. (That pleasure is produced in respect to each sense is plain; for we speak of sights and sounds as pleasant. It is also plain that it arises most of all when both the sense is at its best and it is active in reference to an object which corresponds; when both object and perceiver are of the best there will always be pleasure, since the requisite agent and patient are both present.) Pleasure completes the activity not as the corresponding permanent state does, by its immanence, but as an end which supervenes as the bloom of youth does on those in the flower of their age. So long, then, as both the intelligible or sensible object and the discriminating or contemplative faculty are as they should be, the pleasure will be involved in the activity; for when both the passive and the active factor are unchanged and are related to each other in the same way, the same result naturally follows.
How, then, is it that no one is continuously pleased? Is it that we grow weary? Certainly all human beings are incapable of continuous activity. Therefore pleasure also is not continuous; for it accompanies activity. Some things delight us when they are new, but later do so less, for the same reason; for at first the mind is in a state of stimulation and intensely active about them, as people are with respect to their vision when they look hard at a thing, but afterwards our activity is not of this kind, but has grown relaxed; for which reason the pleasure also is dulled. [..]"

"If happiness is activity in accordance with virtue, it is reasonable that it should be in accordance with the highest virtue; and this will be that of the best thing in us. Whether it be reason or something else that is this element which is thought to be our natural ruler and guide and to take thought of things noble and divine, whether it be itself also divine or only the most divine element in us, the activity of this in accordance with its proper virtue will be perfect happiness. That this activity is contemplative we have already said.
Now this would seem to be in agreement both with what we said before and with the truth. For, firstly, this activity is the best (since not only is reason the best thing in us, but the objects of reason are the best of knowable objects); and secondly, it is the most continuous, since we can contemplate truth more continuously than we can do anything. And we think happiness has pleasure mingled with it, but the activity of philosophic wisdom is admittedly the pleasantest of virtuous activities; at all events the pursuit of it is thought to offer pleasures marvellous for their purity and their enduringness, and it is to be expected that those who know will pass their time more pleasantly than those who inquire. And the self-sufficiency that is spoken of must belong most to the contemplative activity. For while a philosopher, as well as a just man or one possessing any other virtue, needs the necessaries of life, when they are sufficiently equipped with things of that sort the just man needs people towards whom and with whom he shall act justly, and the temperate man, the brave man, and each of the others is in the same case, but the philosopher, even when by himself, can contemplate truth, and the better the wiser he is; he can perhaps do so better if he has fellow-workers, but still he is the most self-sufficient. And this activity alone would seem to be loved for its own sake; for nothing arises from it apart from the contemplating, while from practical activities we gain more or less apart from the action. And happiness is thought to depend on leisure; for we are busy that we may have leisure, and make war that we may live in peace. [..] So if among virtuous actions political and military actions are distinguished by nobility and greatness, and these are unleisurely and aim at an end and are not desirable for their own sake, but the activity of reason, which is contemplative, seems both to be superior in serious worth and to aim at no end beyond itself, and to have its pleasure proper to itself (and this augments the activity), and the self-sufficiency, leisureliness, unweariedness (so far as this is possible for man), and all the other attributes ascribed to the supremely happy man are evidently those connected with this activity, it follows that this will be the complete happiness of man, if it be allowed a complete term of life (for none of the attributes of happiness is incomplete). [..]"

" The liberal man will need money for the doing of his liberal deeds, and the just man too will need it for the returning of services (for wishes are hard to discern, and even people who are not just pretend to wish to act justly); and the brave man will need power if he is to accomplish any of the acts that correspond to his virtue, and the temperate man will need opportunity; for how else is either he or any of the others to be recognized? It is debated, too, whether the will or the deed is more essential to virtue, which is assumed to involve both; it is surely clear that its perfection involves both; but for deeds many things are needed, and more, the greater and nobler the deeds are. But the man who is contemplating the truth needs no such thing, at least with a view to the exercise of his activity; indeed they are, one may say, even hindrances, at all events to his contemplation; but in so far as he is a man and lives with a number of people, he chooses to do virtuous acts; he will therefore need such aids to living a human life.
But that perfect happiness is a contemplative activity will appear from the following consideration as well. We assume the gods to be above all other beings blessed and happy; but what sort of actions must we assign to them? Acts of justice? Will not the gods seem absurd if they make contracts and return deposits, and so on? Acts of a brave man, then, confronting dangers and running risks because it is noble to do so? Or liberal acts? To whom will they give? It will be strange if they are really to have money or anything of the kind. And what would their temperate acts be? Is not such praise tasteless, since they have no bad appetites? If we were to run through them all, the circumstances of action would be found trivial and unworthy of gods. Still, every one supposes that they live and therefore that they are active; we cannot suppose them to sleep like Endymion. Now if you take away from a living being action, and still more production, what is left but contemplation? Therefore the activity of God, which surpasses all others in blessedness, must be contemplative; and of human activities, therefore, that which is most akin to this must be most of the nature of happiness.
This is indicated, too, by the fact that the other animals have no share in happiness, being completely deprived of such activity. For while the whole life of the gods is blessed, and that of men too in so far as some likeness of such activity belongs to them, none of the other animals is happy, since they in no way share in contemplation. Happiness extends, then, just so far as contemplation does, and those to whom contemplation more fully belongs are more truly happy, not as a mere concomitant but in virtue of the contemplation; for this is in itself precious. Happiness, therefore, must be some form of contemplation.
But, being a man, one will also need external prosperity; for our nature is not self-sufficient for the purpose of contemplation, but our body also must be healthy and must have food and other attention. Still, we must not think that the man who is to be happy will need many things or great things, merely because he cannot be supremely happy without external goods; for self-sufficiency and action do not involve excess, and we can do noble acts without ruling earth and sea; for even with moderate advantages one can act virtuously (this is manifest enough; for private persons are thought to do worthy acts no less than despots-indeed even more); and it is enough that we should have so much as that; for the life of the man who is active in accordance with virtue will be happy. [..] Now he who exercises his reason and cultivates it seems to be both in the best state of mind and most dear to the gods. For if the gods have any care for human affairs, as they are thought to have, it would be reasonable both that they should delight in that which was best and most akin to them (i.e. reason) and that they should reward those who love and honour this most, as caring for the things that are dear to them and acting both rightly and nobly. And that all these attributes belong most of all to the philosopher is manifest. He, therefore, is the dearest to the gods. And he who is that will presumably be also the happiest; so that in this way too the philosopher will more than any other be happy."

Aristotle, Nicomachean Ethics; book X, chapter 4, 7, 8; ~322 BC

Personnage paysage (Bernardi)

"[..] Vu par Sandro Bernardi, Antonioni refuse les premiers plans de visages au profit d'espaces illimités d'où seuls peuvent émerger les forces mythiques. En lui retirant sa fonction de pur décor le décentrement transforme le paysage qui devient à la fois horizon et incertitude. Placés devant une nature qui leur échappe, ne leur est pas soumise et les dépasse, les personnages détournent le regard, ou au contraire acceptent d'ouvrir les yeux, sans être jamais assurés de voir. La nature ne s'impose pas, au long des routes boueuses, sur les plages indifférentes, dans les déserts, elle peut sembler endormie ou grouillante. Une partie se joue entre elle et les silhouettes qui s'agitent au premier plan, s'absorbent en elle ou, parfois, savent faire halte et prendre garde à ce qui se dévoile obliquement. Ainsi les films laissent-ils sourdre un paysage-personnage, ou mieux, un personnage paysage, qui n'est ni cadre ni protagoniste mais à la fois révélateur et dévorateur. Remise en cause du sujet humain comme centre du monde?
Ainsi revisitée, l'analyse antonionienne modifie les stéréotypes paysagers. Cadres et décentrages, mobilités multiples et disjointes, enrôlement simultané, mais décalé, de l'homme et du lieu, palimpsestes glissants... Remises en jeu dans une réflexion transversale, ces variantes deviennent autant de composantes inédites pour interroger, à travers la formation de paysages à vocation symbolique obscure, notre rapport actuel au mythe et à la pensée du monde qu'il recouvre. En remodelage permanent, aussi insaisissable que les monstres qu'il fait renaître fugitivement, le paysage de cinéma confère au retour du mythique la force d'une énigme, d'autant plus insistante qu'elle se trouve privée, par la forme même, de toute substance propre : image sans visage, où le film invite à reconnaître un savoir venu du vide."

Christian Doumet, Michèle Lagny, Marie-Claire Ropars, Pierre Sorlin, "Antonioni. Personnage paysage", 2006. (Avant propos)


"[..] Certes, le paysage est considéré traditionellement comme le triomphe de la culture, du regard souverain qui a donné forme au chaos, qui a transformé le monde confus en espace ordonné, lieu de plaisir et de contemplation visuelle. Dans le paysage, l'homme tient un rôle central ou, mieux, dominant. Mais est-ce vraiment ainsi que les choses se passent? Que nous disent tous ceux qu'on vient de nommer et dont le regard ou l'esprit se perd au loin ? Qu'est-ce qui les attire dans cette vision sans fin, ensorcelée, au-delà de l'ordre apparent? Dans ces images, le regard est un mouvement qui emporte l'homme au-delà de lui-même, dans la direction de sa transcendance ou vers sa propre origine, au-delà du savoir commun, vers quelque chose de mystérieux qui apparaît et disparaît dans le même temps. On trouve dans ces images l'idée que le paysage est certainement le sommet de la culture, mais aussi juste le contraire, sa frontière, une limite, une sorte de fresque ou de rideau fragile, derrière lequel on sent encore le souffle froid d'un monde inconnu.
Cela suffirait à justifier une étude du paysage au cinéma. Si ce topos est récurrent dans la littératue ou la peinture, il devient essentiel dans le cinéma moderne ou contemporain. Il s'agit d'un dispositif dans lequel la présence d'un observateur, faisant partie intégrante du paysage, implique une référence à l'acte de voir et à la position de celui qui regarde.
Le paysage est donc une interrogation sur la culture, il n'est pas un objet autonome; étudier le paysage, c'est étudier une culture, sa façon de construire l'espace et de se comprendre, dans ce rapport entre le connu et l'inconnu que nous appelons habituellement le monde. Etudier le paysage au cinéma signifie aussi réfléchir sur l'acte de voir qui est l'acte constitutif du cinéma même."

Sandro Bernardi, "Antonioni. Personnage paysage", 2006.

Wednesday, June 09, 2010

Sea, shore, land, collage (Transit)


Entre dos mundos from Banda TRANSIT on Vimeo.
This video contains footage from At Land (Maya Deren, 1944), At Sea (Peter Hutton, 2007) and Between Two Worlds (Vimukthi Jayasundara, 2009). They try to illustrate a divulgative and creative text about Deren's, Hutton's and Jayasundara's productions. It doesn't exist any profit motive in mind. (Covadonga G. Lahera for cinentransit.com)
Read also at Transit :

Figures de l'absence (Vernet)

"D'abord il y a l'absence.

Il est coutumier de penser le cinéma en termes d'effet de présence, d'impression de réalité devant le spectacle offert. Le cinéma trouverait là sa marque distinctive, l'opposant à tous les autres arts. Dans cette coutume, il faut inclure aussi que le cinéma narratif serait celui de la transparence, celui qui bien sûr se fait oublier en tant que langage et discours pour procurer le sentiment rassasiant d'un accès direct à l'histoire, aux événements, aux objets et aux personnages, mais aussi celui qui serait réalistes et présenterait l'espace dans sa consistance, comme nous le percevons, à très peu près, dans la vie quotidienne. Dans ces conditions, le rôle du cinéma narratif classique serait de leurrer son spectateur en lui faisant prendre l'image pour le réel, le fictif pour le possible. Nombre de réflexions sur le cinéma, y compris actuelles, se sont fondées là-dessus.

Je suis, pour ma part, frappé du contraire. Et dans ce qu'on va lire j'ai voulu prendre le contrepied de ce qu'on vient de voir. Au cinéma, du côté de l'histoire racontée, je suis frappé par l'importance des disparitions, des évanouissements, des apparitions, et des distances instaurées. Du côté du dispositif, du peu de réalité de l'image cinématographique et de ses 'incohérence', comme du plaisir que prend, justement à cela, un spectateur désirant, tendu vers quelque chose qui n'est pas là, fuit, se dérobe ou est escamoté, un spectateur conscient de l'infranchissable écart entre la salle où il est et la scène où se déroule l'histoire. Mitry : 'L'image n'apparaît pas comme "objet", mais comme "absence de réalité"'. Bazin : la présence-absence du représenté. Metz : le signifiant imaginaire.

Du coup, m'intéresse dans le cinéma narratif ce qui n'est pas, à l'intérieur des images représentatives et en mouvement, assignable, localisable, découpable, objet en mouvement, mais ce qui est vide, passage immatériel, mouvement pur ou immobilité totale, figement. Dans les textes qui suivent, on s'en tiendra à la représentation, dans l'image, de l'invisible, lorsque le cinéma cherche à rendre sensible par ses propres moyens une existence qui ne peut se matérialiser sous forme réaliste, par une étendue. [..]

D'abord, le souci de maintenir en contact organisation de la figure dans le film et position du spectateur dans la salle, de façon à faire apparaitre, par exemple, le rôle et le fonctionnement de la nostalgie non seulement dans les histoires, mais aussi dans l'institution cinématographique. Celle-ci ne peut pas être uniquement considérée comme une usine à rêves : c'est également une machine à éteindre les rêves. Ensuite, un examen critique des notions de réalisme et de transparence. [..] Car nous avons affaire à des espaces complexes, morcelés, non-perceptifs et même réversibles comme dans l'en-deçà ou la surimpression. Par ailleurs, on trouvera au fil des textes des éléments de réflexion sur la notion de personnage, bien sûr à partir du personnage peint ou absent, mais aussi à partir de cette dialectique entre espace et fiction pour montrer comment, au-delà de l'image conçue à la manière d'un bloc de réalité, le personnage se présente également pour le spectateur comme une intention qui peut informer les images afin de se faire saisir à travers elles. Enfin, j'ai essayé d'approcher, à travers ces cinq essais, ce qu'on pourrait appeler une idéologie de l'invisible dans le cinéma narratif, non seulement par les croyances et les affects qui y sont attachés (fantômes et dénégation de la mort, regard divin et sentiment de culpabilité...) modelant mise en scène et mise en intrigue, mais aussi par ce discours moral, courant parallèlement à la fiction, lui servant de contrepoint pour en être souvent le guide et l'aboutissement. Discours moral non attesté, éparpillé, muet, mais auquel notre attachement au cinéma classique doit beaucoup en frôlant parfois la simple bêtise tant il s'agit d'une sorte de confort intellectuel archaïque, qui trouve à se dissimuler derrière la multitude des histoires et de leurs péripéties où simultanément il se réalimente."

Marc Vernet, Figures de l'absence, 1988 (avant propos)
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Monday, June 07, 2010

Signatura rerum (Schopenhauer)

"La connaissance des Idées, au degré supérieur, nous vient par la peinture, d'un intermédiaire étranger; mais nous pouvons aussi la recevoir directement, si nous contemplons les plantes d'une manière purement intuitive, si nous observons les animaux; il faut étudier ces derniers dans leur état naturel de liberté entière. La contemplation objective de leur formes diverses et merveilleuses, de leurs actes et des leurs attitudes, est une leçon riche d'enseignement, prise au grand livre de la nature; c'est un déchiffrement de la véritable signatura rerum; nous y reconnaissons les degrés et les modalités sans nombre de la manifestation de la volonté; cette volonté, une identique dans tous les êtres, ne tend partout qu'à une seule fin qui est de s'objectiver dans la vie et dans l'existence, sous des formes infiniment variées et différentes, résultant de son adaptation aux circonstances extérieures; ce sont comme les variations nombreuses d'un même thème musical. Si je devais donner au contemplateur une explication concise et suggestive de l'essence intime de tous les êtres, je ne pourrais mieux faire que de choisir une formule sanscrite qui revient fort souvent dans les livres saints des Hindous et qu'on appelle Mahavakya, la grande parole: tat tvam asi, c'est-à-dire "tu es ceci"».

Arthur Schopenhauer, Le Monde comme Volonté de Représentation, 1819

La barrière du verbe (Bergson)

"Quel est l'objet de l'art ? Si la réalité venait frapper directement nos sens et notre conscience, si nous pouvions entrer en communication immédiate avec les choses et avec nous-mêmes, je crois bien que l'art serait inutile, ou plutôt que nous serions tous artistes, car notre âme vibrerait alors continuellement à l'unisson de la nature. Nos yeux, aidés de notre mémoire, découperaient dans l'espace et fixeraient dans le temps des tableaux inimitables. Notre regard saisirait au passage, sculptés dans le marbre vivant du corps humain, des fragments de statue aussi beaux que ceux de la statuaire antique. Nous entendrions chanter au fond de nos âmes, comme une musique quelquefois gaie, plus souvent plaintive, toujours originale, la mélodie ininterrompue de notre vie intérieure. Tout cela est autour de nous, tout cela est en nous, et pourtant rien de tout cela n'est perçu par nous distinctement. Entre la nature et nous, que dis-je ? entre nous et notre propre conscience, un voile s'interpose, voile épais pour le commun des hommes, voile léger, presque transparent, pour l'artiste et le poète. Quelle fée a tissé ce voile ? Fût-ce par malice ou par amitié ? Il fallait vivre, et la vie exige que nous appréhendions les choses dans le rapport qu'elles ont à nos besoins. Vivre consiste à agir. Vivre, c'est n'accepter des objets que l'impression utile pour y répondre par des réactions appropriées : les autres impressions doivent s'obscurcir ou ne nous arriver que confusément. Je regarde et je crois voir, j'écoute et je crois entendre, je m'étudie et je crois lire dans le fond de mon coeur. Mais ce que je vois et ce que j'entends du monde extérieur, c'est simplement ce que mes sens en extraient pour éclairer ma conduite ; ce que je connais de moi-même, c'est ce qui affleure à la surface, ce qui prend part à l'action. Mes sens et ma conscience ne me livrent donc de la réalité qu'une simplification pratique. Dans la vision qu'ils me donnent des choses et de moi-même, les différences inutiles à l'homme sont effacées, les ressemblances utiles à l'homme sont accentuées, des routes me sont tracées à l'avance où mon action s'engagera. Ces routes sont celles où l'humanité entière a passé avant moi. Les choses ont été classées en vue du parti que j'en pourrai tirer. Et c'est cette classification que j'aperçois, beaucoup plus que la couleur et la forme des choses...

L'individualité des choses et des êtres nous échappe toutes les fois qu'il ne nous est pas matériellement utile de l'apercevoir. Et là même où nous la remarquons (comme lorsque nous distinguons un homme d'un autre homme), ce n'est pas l'individualité même que notre œil saisit, c'est-à-dire une certaine harmonie tout à fait originale de formes et de couleurs, mais seulement un ou deux traits qui faciliterons la reconnaissance".

Henri Bergson, Le rire, 1899
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Rêveries du spectateur solitaire (Rousseau)

[..] Quand le soir approchait je descendais des cimes de l'île et j'allais volontiers m'asseoir au bord du lac sur la grève dans quelque asile caché ; là le bruit des vagues et l'agitation de l'eau fixant mes sens et chassant de mon âme toute autre agitation la plongeaient dans une rêverie délicieuse où la nuit me surprenait souvent sans que je m'en fusse aperçu. Le flux et reflux de cette eau, son bruit continu mais renflé par intervalles frappant sans relâche mon oreille et mes yeux, suppléaient aux mouvements internes que la rêverie éteignait en moi et suffisaient pour me faire sentir avec plaisir mon existence sans prendre la peine de penser. De temps à autre naissait quelque faible et courte réflexion sur l'instabilité des choses de ce monde dont la surface des eaux m'offrait l'image : mais bientôt ces impressions légères s'effaçaient dans l'uniformité du mouvement continu qui me berçait, et qui sans aucun concours actif de mon âme ne laissait pas de m'attacher au point qu'appelé par l'heure et par le signal convenu je ne pouvais m'arracher de là sans effort.
[..] J'ai remarqué dans les vicissitudes d'une longue vie que les époques des plus douces jouissances et des plaisirs les plus vifs ne sont pourtant pas celles dont le souvenir m'attire et me touche le plus. Ces courts moments de délire et de passion, quelque vifs qu'ils puissent être, ne sont cependant, et par leur vivacité même, que des points bien clairsemés dans la ligne de la vie. Ils sont trop rares et trop rapides pour constituer un état, et le bonheur que mon cœur regrette n'est point composé d'instants fugitifs mais un état simple et permanent, qui n'a rien de vif en lui-même, mais dont la durée accroît le charme au point d'y trouver enfin la suprême félicité. Tout est dans un flux continuel sur la terre : rien n'y garde une forme constante et arrêtée, et nos affections qui s'attachent aux choses extérieures passent et changent nécessairement comme elles. Toujours en avant ou en arrière de nous, elles rappellent le passé qui n'est plus ou préviennent l'avenir qui souvent ne doit point être : il n'y a rien là de solide à quoi le cœur se puisse attacher. [..] Mais s'il est un état où l'âme trouve une assiette assez solide pour s'y reposer tout entière et rassembler là tout son être, sans avoir besoin de rappeler le passé ni d'enjamber sur l'avenir ; où le temps ne soit rien pour elle, où le présent dure toujours sans néanmoins marquer sa durée et sans aucune trace de succession, sans aucun autre sentiment de privation ni de jouissance, de plaisir ni de peine, de désir ni de crainte que celui seul de notre existence, et que ce sentiment seul puisse la remplir tout entière ; tant que cet état dure celui qui s'y trouve peut s'appeler heureux, non d'un bonheur imparfait, pauvre et relatif tel que celui qu'on trouve dans les plaisirs de la vie, mais d'un bonheur suffisant, parfait et plein, qui ne laisse dans l'âme aucun vide qu'elle sente le besoin de remplir. [..]
De quoi jouit-on dans une pareille situation ? De rien d'extérieur à soi, de rien sinon de soi-même et de sa propre existence, tant que cet état dure on se suffit à soi-même comme Dieu. Le sentiment de l'existence dépouillé de toute autre affection est par lui-même un sentiment précieux de contentement et de paix, qui suffirait seul pour rendre cette existence chère et douce à qui saurait écarter de soi toutes les impressions sensuelles et terrestres qui viennent sans cesse nous en distraire et en troubler ici-bas la douceur. Mais la plupart des hommes, agités de passions continuelles, connaissent peu cet état, et ne l'ayant goûté qu'imparfaitement durant peu d'instants n'en conservent qu'une idée obscure et confuse qui ne leur en fait pas sentir le charme. Il ne serait pas même bon, dans la présente constitution des choses, qu'avides de ces douces extases ils s'y dégoûtassent de la vie active dont leurs besoins toujours renaissants leur prescrivent le devoir. Mais un infortuné qu'on a retranché de la société humaine et qui ne peut plus rien faire ici-bas d'utile et de bon pour autrui ni pour soi, peut trouver dans cet état à toutes les félicités humaines des dédommagements que la fortune et les hommes ne lui sauraient ôter. Il est vrai que ces dédommagements ne peuvent être sentis par toutes les âmes ni dans toutes les situations. Il faut que le coeur soit en paix et qu'aucune passion n'en vienne troubler le calme. Il y faut des dispositions de la part de celui qui les éprouve, il en faut dans le concours des objets environnants. Il n'y faut ni un repos absolu ni trop d'agitation, mais un mouvement uniforme et modéré qui n'ait ni secousses ni intervalles. Sans mouvement la vie n'est qu'une léthargie. Si le mouvement est inégal ou trop fort, il réveille ; en nous rappelant aux objets environnants, il détruit le charme de la rêverie, et nous arrache d'au-dedans de nous pour nous remettre à l'instant sous le joug de la fortune et des hommes et nous rendre au sentiment de nos malheurs. Un silence absolu porte à la tristesse. Il offre une image de la mort. [..]
Cette espèce de rêverie peut se goûter partout où l'on peut être tranquille, et j'ai souvent pensé qu'à la Bastille, et même dans un cachot où nul objet n'eût frappé ma vue, j'aurais encore pu rêver agréablement. Mais il faut avouer que cela se faisait bien mieux et plus agréablement dans une île fertile et solitaire, naturellement circonscrite et séparée du reste du monde, où rien ne m'offrait que des images riantes, où rien ne me rappelait des souvenirs attristants où la société du petit nombre d'habitants était liante et douce sans être intéressante au point de m'occuper incessamment, où je pouvais enfin me livrer tout le jour sans obstacle et sans soins aux occupations de mon goût ou à la plus molle oisiveté. L'occasion sans doute était belle pour un rêveur qui, sachant se nourrir d'agréables chimères au milieu des objets les plus déplaisants, pouvait s'en rassasier à son aise en y faisant concourir tout ce qui frappait réellement ses sens. [..]"

Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Les Rêveries du promeneur solitaire, 1778, cinquième promenade (extraits)