Nothing to be done

The Dancing Inaesthetes i

Edwin — Sun, 29 Nov 2009 20:42:13 +0000

∞

Voidness: Forests, Streams and Mountains i

Edwin — Thu, 26 Nov 2009 02:23:00 +0000

The Explosive Inaesthete ii

Edwin — Wed, 25 Nov 2009 04:21:20 +0000

What are inaesthetics?

One response:

making exist the inexistent;

exploding forth from voidness absolutely such that nothing itself is done.

Images: Cai Guo-Qiang’s Day and Night (2009), created for Lin Hwai-Min’s Cloud Gate Dance Theatre production of Wind Shadow (2009), photographed by Liu Chen-hsiang.

Indiscernible Sensations

Edwin — Mon, 09 Nov 2009 00:23:19 +0000

“Pity the meat!”

…

This objective zone of indiscernibility is the entire body, but the body insofar as it is flesh or meat. Of course, the body has bones as well, but bones are only its spatial structure. A distinction is often made between flesh and bone, and even between things related to them. The body is revealed only when it ceases to be supported by the bones, when the flesh ceases to cover the bones, when the two exist for each other, but each on its own terms: the bone as the material structure of the body, the flesh as the bodily material of the Figure.

[...]

Meat is the state of the body in which flesh and bone confront each other locally rather than being composed structurally. The same is true of the mouth and the teeth, which are little bones. In meat, the flesh seems to descend from the bones, while the bones rise up from the flesh.

[...]

Pity the meat! Meat is undoubtedly the chief object of Bacon’s pity, his only object of pity, his Anglo-Irish pity. [...] Meat is not dead flesh; it retains all the sufferings and assumes all the colors of living flesh. It manifests such convulsive pain and vulnerability, but also such delightful invention, color, and acrobatics. Bacon does not say, “Pity the beasts,” but rather that every man who suffers is a piece of meat. Meat is the common zone of man and the beast, their zone of indiscernibility; it is a “fact,” a state where the painter identifies with the objects of his horror and his compassion. The painter is certainly a butcher, but he goes to the butcher’s shop as if it were a church, with the meat as the crucified victim…Bacon is a religious painter only in a butcher’s shop.

– Gilles Deleuze, Logics of Sensation

…

There is a humming in my body: is that my body speaking to me? Am I of my body, or is my body of me? There is a sight of my body in the mirror: but a distance between my movement and that of the reflection. When I move, I lose sight of myself, and my reflection recedes into the distance. Merleau-Ponty would have us believe our movements “dovetail” into one another, but the movement also exposes itself to a lacuna, a black horizon. My movements are swallowed by my body. When I lie on my bed at night, my body still moves, and although I am flat on my back, I feel myself topple into the ground beneath.

– Dylan Trigg, ‘Abjection‘, Side Effects, 2009.

…

The carnivalesque body is an unruly becoming-body, mobile and hybrid, outgrowing itself and transgressing its own limits, obscene, its openings and orifices emphasised (mouth, vagina, anus, nostrils) and the lower parts of the body privileged (belly, buttocks, phallus, feet). Bataille explored orifices and limits of the body [...] such as the mouth, the anus and the pineal eye. Cavities are symbolically very charged and ambivalent: they are associated with desire, anxiety, disgust – like the phallus. The mouth in Bataille begged the question of the limits, beginnings and endings of the body: “The mouth is the beginning or, if one prefers, the prow of animals; in the most characteristic cases, it is the most living part, in other words, the most terrifying for neighbouring animals. But man does not have a simple architecture like beasts, and it is not even possible to say where he begins.” In Bataille, the mouth becomes an obscure and ambiguous cavity where all organs begin and end. It signifies hunger, desire, but also aggression.

– Olivier Chow, ‘Idols/Ordures: Inter-repulsion in Documents’ big toes,’ Drain, 2006.

…

Sensation

…

There are two ways of going beyond figuration (that is, beyond both the illustrative and the figurative): either toward abstract form or toward the Figure. Cezanne gave a simple name to this way of the Figure: sensation. The Figure is the sensible form related to a sensation; it acts immediately upon the nervous system, which is of the flesh, whereas abstract form is addressed to the head, and acts through the intermediary of the brain, which is close to the bone.

[...]

Sensation is the opposite of the facile and the ready-made, the cliche, but also of the “sensational,” the spontaneous, etc. Sensation has one face turned toward the subject (the nervous system, vital movement, “instinct,” “temperament” – a whole vocabulary common to both Naturalism and Cezanne) and one face turned toward the object (the “fact,” the place, the event). Or rather, it has no faces at all, it is both things indissolubly, it is Being-in-the-World, as the phenomenologists say: at one and the same I become in the sensation and something happens through the sensation, one through the other, one in the other. And at the limit, it is the same body which, being both subject and object, gives and receives the sensation.

[...]

Color is in the body, sensation is in the body, and not in the air.

– Gilles Deleuze, Logics of Sensation

…

What do we seek, since the first traces of hands impressed in rock the long, hallucinated perambulation of men across time, what do we try to reach so feverishly, with such obstinacy and suffering, through representation, through images, if not to open the body’s night, its opaque mass, the flesh with which we think – and present it to the light, to our faces, the enigma of our lives.

– Phillipe Grandrieux, ‘Sur l’horizon insensé du cinéma’, Cahiers du cinéma hors série: Le siècle du cinema (November 2000) [As quoted by Nicole Brenez in 'The Body's Night,' Rouge, 2006].

…

Grandrieux’s reflection belongs to the body’s modernity – the modernity of Sigmund Freud, Antonin Artaud, Gilles Deleuze and Michel Foucault, to name only a few – and thus returns the anthropological need for representation to a state of immanence. The image is no longer given as a reflection, discourse, or the currency of whatever absolute value; it works to invest immanence, using every type of sensation, drive and affect. To make a film means descending, via the intermittent pathways of neuronal connection, down into the most shadowy depths of our sensory experiences, to the point of confronting the sheer terror of the death drive (Sombre), or the still more immense and bottomless terror of the unconscious, of total opacity (La Vie nouvelle).

[...]

Such an exploration, however, should not be opposed either to reason or logic – that would be unreasonable and irresponsible, to neglect, forget and even foreclose what a century of Freudian analysis has taught us about the psyche, to continue to tell our little stories of action/reaction as if oblivious to the panic and the mysteries which we live.

[...]

To confront the unknowable, precisely what we don’t want to know: because cinema is based upon the linking and unlinking of images, it can risk this. Nothing is nobler than to shatter a film upon such an ambition, such belief, such confidence: the cinema can manifest everything, it can be vertiginous like a coma, pitiless like a Hobbes treatise, limpid like the spectrograph of a corpse.

– Nicole Brenez, ‘The Body’s Night,’ Rouge, 2003.

…

Danger. Grandrieux is a filmmaker of the body, but rarely the variable space or interval between bodies, as in Visconti or Murnau or Mizoguchi. There is no space between bodies in Grandrieux; they are jammed together in a difficult, fraught intimacy. All clinches, all embraces are potentially violent, charged with the alienness of the Other and the terror of negotiating his or her too-close presence. From Boyan’s cutting of Mélania’s hair—a gesture as excruciatingly extended in time as it is collapsed in space—to the terrified inside-out souls lost in subterranean darkness, from the homoerotic rituals of men greeting and drinking to heterosexual violation and a cannibalistic death: bodies meet not in ecstatic abandon but on fearful alert.

– Adrian Martin, ‘Dance Girl Dance‘, Kinoeye, 2004.

…

All paintings by Francis Bacon (t-b): Man With Dog (1953) / Study for portrait III, after the Life Mask of William Blake (1955) / [yet to be identified] / Study after Velazquez’s Portrait of Pope Innocent X (1953) / Paralytic Child Walking on All Fours (from Muybridge) (1961)

All film stills: La Vie Nouvelle (dir. Phillipe Grandrieux, cin. Stéphane Fontaine, 2002)

Annualis Legomena

Edwin — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 16:06:56 +0000

The energy-patterns we call physical laws are named after their discoverers: Avogadro, Boyle, Snell. The energy-patterns we call stories are named after their protagonists: Faust, Jesus, Philoktetes. Certain stories seem related to one another, as though the same general equation had been solved for successive roots. We might call such a general equation a myth

…

But instead, let us imagine every myth as a crystalline regular polyhedron, suspended, weightless, in a void, with each of its vertices touching, in perfect geodesic equilibrium, the surfact of an iridescent imaginary sphere. The existence of the whole body is utterly dependent upon the integrite of all facets: every facet represents a story.

…

Near the ecliptic of our universe we find, for example, the mythic Polyhedron of the Father and the Son: on it, the stories of Odysseus and Hamlet occupy adjacent facets, since they are really the same story, told in the former instance from the point of view of the father, and the latter, from that of the son. Nearly opposite these two, on the dark side, the stories of Oedipus and Agememnon are nearly contiguous

…

Here, you will find my round-up of the 53rd London Film Festival, which, amongst many others, mentions the magnificent film(s) depicted in these stills: Hollis Frampton: Hapax Legomena. The opportunity to see the complete cycle projected, and in intended attached order is, well, as rare as rocking horse manure these days. After this post, you may want to watch Nostalgia, or, if you have the time, listen to this too.

…

The center of the cosmos is occupied by the Polyhedron of the Story-Teller. Here we find, imaged upon various facets, the stories of Malone, waiting to die; of Scheherezade, waiting to be killed; of the Decameron, whose narrators wait for others to die; of the Canterbury Tales, told to ease a passage through space as well as time

…

The universe is but sparsely populated by these Polyhedra, enormous though they are. Here and there, a feint nebula marks, perhaps, the region where a new myth struggles to cohere; elsewhere, dark cinders barely glow, remnant of experience lost forever to consciousness. A hole torn in the very fabric of space, whence no energy escapes, is rumoured to mark the place where AGNOTON, the black Polyhedron of the Unknowable, vanished

…

Nor do all the facets bear images. Some are dusty, some cracked; some are filled with senseless images of insects, or else with a vague, churning scarlet, shot with sparks. Some are as transparent as gin. Some are bright as mirrors and reflect our own faces … and then our eyes … and behind our eyes, distantly, our polyhedral thoughts, glinting, wheeling like galaxies.

Images: Hollis Frampton: Hapax Legomena (1971-2) in the following order: 1. (nostalgia) (1971) 2. Poetic Justice (1972) 3. Critical Mass (1971) 4. Travelling Matte (1971) 5. Ordinary Matter (1972) 6. Remote Control (1972) 7. Special Effects (1972)

Text: Hollis Frampton, A Pentagram for Conjuring the Narrative

Unexpected Sign

Edwin — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 02:39:57 +0000

Virgin Stripped Bare By Her Batchelors (Hong Sang-Soo, 2000)

(Biographical) Note:

I couldn’t help but notice this whilst watching Hong’s Virgin Stripped Bare By Her Batchelors, tonight. The Chinese calligraphy in the background of this scene bears my Chinese forename: “麥浩然” (“Mak Ho-Yin” in Cantonese, or “Mai Haoran” in Mandarin Pinyin). It appears in a phrase that I’m unfamiliar with so can’t confirm the context: “浩然之氣” (“Haoren’s Energy” or “Energy of Haoran”). Although, I’d bet that it refers to the early Tang Dynasty landscape poet that my parents named me after: 孟浩然 (Meng Haoran). I dig this anyhow – and will be taking it as a sign to get on with posts and other work relating to calligraphy, Wenren Hua, San-Shui Shi, and inaesthetic landscape poetics, here and elsewhere, eventually…

[update]

It transpires that I’ve been mistaken; a reliable source has since informed me of the sign and phrase’s correct meaning, and actual origin. The phrase “浩然之氣” (Hao Ran Zi Qi) derives from an utterance by Mencius (the famous third generation disciple of Confucius). And Mencius meant by this phrase: “Righteousness” – since the character 浩 individually connotes vastness, or grandness, and 之氣 spirit/energy of. So…not much to live up to then!

In a landscape

Edwin — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 12:56:15 +0000

Music: John Cage’s In A Landscape. Video: Keith Troester.

“Our purpose is to be like the shadows”

Edwin — Mon, 12 Oct 2009 02:02:33 +0000

1-16 Crossroads (dir. Shen Xiling, cin. Wang Yuru, 1937)

17-22 The Struggle (dir. D.W. Griffith, cin. Joseph Ruttenberg & Nick Rogalli, 1931)

23-29 Thirdworld (dir/cin. Apichatpong Weerasethakul, 1998)

30-37 Melancholia (dir/cin. Lav Diaz, 2008)

38-43 Mouchette (dir. Robert Bresson, cin. Ghislain Cloquet, 1967)

44-47 The Trial (dir. Orson Welles, cin. Edmond Richard, 1962)

aesthetic. inaesthetic.

Edwin — Sun, 04 Oct 2009 02:30:39 +0000

LII To Domitus Apollinaris [Description of his Tuscan villa]

The kind concern you expressed on hearing of my design to pass the summer at my villa in Tuscany, and your obliging endeavours to dissuade me from going to a place which you think unhealthy, are extremely pleasing to me. It is quite true indeed that the air of that part of Tuscany which lies towards the coast is thick and unwholesome: but my house stands at a good distance from the sea, under one of the Apennines which are singularly healthy. But, to relieve you from all anxiety on my account, I will give you a description of the temperature of the climate, the situation of the country, and the beauty of my villa, which, I am persuaded, you will hear with as much pleasure as I shall take in giving it. The air in winter is sharp and frosty, so that myrtles, olives, and trees of that kind which delight in constant warmth, will not flourish here: but the laurel thrives, and is remarkably beautiful, though now and then the cold kills it—though not oftener than it does in the neighbourhood of Rome. The summers are extraordinarily mild, and there is always a retreshing breeze, seldom high winds. This accounts for the number of old men we have about, you would see grandfathers and great-grandfathers of those now grown up to be young men, hear old stories and the dialect of our ancestors, and fancy yourself born in some former age were you to come here. The character of the country is exceedingly beautiful. Picture to yourself an immense amphitheatre, such as nature only could create. Before you lies a broad, extended plain bounded by a range of mountains, whose summits are covered with tall and ancient woods, which are stocked with all kinds of game.

The descending slopes of the mountains are planted with underwood, among which are a number of little risings with a rich soil, on which hardly a stone is to be found. In fruitfulness they are quite equal to a valley, and though their harvest is rather later, their crops are just as good. At the foot of these, on the mountain-side, the eye, wherever it turns, runs along one unbroken stretch of vineyards terminated by a belt of shrubs. Next you have meadows and the open plain. The arable land is so stiff that it is necessary to go over it nine times with the biggest oxen and the strongest ploughs. The meadows are bright with flowers, and produce trefoil and other kinds of herbage as fine and tender as if it were but just sprung up, for all the soil is refreshed by never failing streams. But though there is plenty of water, there are no marshes; for the ground being on a slope, whatever water it receives without absorbing runs off into the Tiber. This river, which winds through the middle of the meadows, is navigable only in the winter and spring, at which seasons it transports the produce of the lands to Rome: but in summer it sinks below its banks, leaving the name of a great river to an almost empty channel: towards the autumn, however, it begins again to renew its claim to that title. You would be charmed by taking a view of this country from the top of one of our neighbouring mountains, and would fancy that not a real, but some imaginary landscape, painted by the most exquisite pencil, lay before you, such an harmonious variety of beautiful objects meets the eye, whichever way it turns. My house, although at the foot of a hill, commands as good a view as if it stood on its brow, yet you approach by so gentle and gradual a rise that you find yourself on high ground without perceiving you have been making an ascent. Behind, but at a great distance, is the Apennine range. In the calmest days we get cool breezes from that quarter, not sharp and cutting at all, being spent and broken by the long distance they have travelled. The greater part of the house has a southern aspect, and seems to invite the afternoon sun in summer (but rather earlier in the winter) into a broad and proportionately long portico, consisting of several rooms, particularly a court of antique fashion. In front of the portico is a sort of terrace, edged with box and shrubs cut into different shapes. You descend, from the terrace, by an easy slope adorned with the figures of animals in box, facing each other, to a lawn overspread with the soft, I had almost said the liquid, Acanthus: this is surrounded by a walk enclosed with evergreens, shaped into a variety of forms. Beyond it is the gestatio laid out in the form of a circus running round the multiform box-hedge and the dwarf-trees, which are cut quite close. The whole is fenced in with a wall completely covered by box cut into steps all the way up to the top. On the outside of the wall lies a meadow that owes as many beauties to nature as all I have been describing within does to art; at the end of which are open plain and numerous other meadows and copses. From the extremity of the portico a large dining-room runs out, opening upon one end of the terrace, while from the windows there is a very extensive view over the meadows up into the country, and from these you also see the terrace and the projecting wing of the house together with the woods enclosing the adjacent hippodrome. Almost opposite the centre of the portico, and rather to the back, stands a summer-house, enclosing a small area shaded by four plane-trees, in the midst of which rises a marble fountain which gently plays upon the roots of the plane-trees and upon the grass-plots underneath them. This summer-house has a bed-room in it free from every sort of noise, and which the light itself cannot penetrate, together with a common dining-room I use when I have none but intimate friends with me. A second portico looks upon this little area, and has the same view as the other I have just been describing. There is, besides, another room, which, being situate close to the nearest plane-tree, enjoys a constant shade and green. Its sides are encrusted with carved marble up to the ceiling, while above the marble a foliage is painted with birds among the branches, which has an effect altogether as agreeable as that of the carving, at the foot of which a little fountain, playing through several small pipes into a vase it encloses, produces a most pleasing murmur. From a corner of the portico you enter a very large bed-chamber opposite the large dining-room, which from some of its windows has a view of the terrace, and from others, of the meadow, as those in the front look upon a cascade, which entertains at once both the eye and the ear; for the water, dashing from a great height, foams over the marble basin which receives it below. This room is extremely warm in winter, lying much exposed to the sun, and on a cloudy day the heat of an adjoining stove very well supplies his absence. Leaving this room, you pass through a good-sized, pleasant, undressing-room into the cold-bath-room, in which is a large gloomy bath: but if you are inclined to swim more at large, or in warmer water, in the middle of the area stands a wide basin for that purpose, and near it a reservoir from which you may be supplied with cold water to brace yourself again, if you should find you are too much relaxed by the warm. Adjoining the cold bath is one of a medium degree of heat, which enjoys the kindly warmth of the sun, but not so intensely as the hot bath, which projects farther. This last consists of three several compartments, each of different degrees of heat; the two former lie open to the full sun, the latter, though not much exposed to its heat, receives an equal share of its light. Over the undressing-room is built the tennis-court, which admits of different kinds of games and different sets of players. Not far from the baths is the staircase leading to the enclosed portico, three rooms intervening. One of these looks out upon the little area with the four plane-trees round it, the other upon the meadows, and from the third you have a view of several vineyards, so that each has a different one, and looks towards a different point of the heavens. At the upper end of the enclosed portico, and indeed taken off from it, is a room that looks out upon the hippodrome, the vineyards, and the mountains; adjoining is a room which has a full expostire to the sun, especially in winter, and out of which runs another connecting the hippodrome with the house. This forms the front. On the side rises an enclosed portico, which not only looks out upon the vineyards, but seems almost to touch them. From the middle of this portico you enter a dining-room cooled by the wholesome breezes from the Apennine valleys: from the windows behind, which are extremely large, there is a close view of the vineyards, and from the folding doors through the summer portico. Along that side of the dining-room where there are no windows runs a private staircase for greater convenience in serving up when I give an entertainment; at the farther end is a sleeping-room with a look-out upon the vineyards, and (what is equally agreeable) the portico. Underneath this room is an enclosed portico resembling a grotto, which, enjoying in the midst of summer heats its own natural coolness, neither admits nor wants external air. After you have passed both these porticoes, at the end of the dining-room stands a third, which according as the day is more or less advanced, serves either for Winter or summer use. It leads to two different apartments, one containing four chambers, the other, three, which enjoy by turns both sun and shade. This arrangement of the different parts of my house is exceedingly pleasant, though it is not to be compared with the beauty of the hippodrome, lying entirely open in the middle of the grounds, so that the eye, upon your first entrance, takes it in entire in one view. It is set round with plane-trees covered with ivy, so that, while their tops flourish with their own green, towards the roots their verdure is borrowed from the ivy that twines round the trunk and branches, spreads from tree to tree, and connects them together. Between each plane-tree are planted box-trees, and behind these stands a grove of laurels which blend their shade with that of the planes. This straight boundary to the hippodrome alters its shape at the farther end, bending into a semicircle, which is planted round, shut in with cypresses, and casts a deeper and gloomier shade, while the inner circular walks (for there are several), enjoying an open exposure, are filled with plenty of roses, and correct, by a very pleasant contrast, the coolness of the shade with the warmth of the sun. Having passed through these several winding alleys, you enter a straight walk, which breaks out into a variety of others, partitioned off by box-row hedges. In one place you have a little meadow, in another the box is cut in a thousand different forms, sometimes into letters, expressing the master’s name, sometimes the artificer’s, whilst here and there rise little obelisks with fruit-trees alternately intermixed, and then on a sudden, in the midst of this elegant regularity, you are surprised with an imitation of the negligent beauties of rural nature. In the centre of this lies a spot adorned with a knot of dwarf plane-trees. Beyond these stands an acacia, smooth and bending in places, then again various other shapes and names. At the upper end is an alcove of white marble, shaded with vines and supported by four small Carystian columns. From this semicircular couch, the water, gushing up through several little pipes, as though pressed out by the weight of the persons who recline themselves upon it, falls into a stone cistern underneath, from whence it is received into a fine polished marble basin, so skilfully contrived that it is always full without ever overflowing. When I sup here, this basin serves as a table, the larger sort of dishes being placed round the margin, while the smaller ones swim about in the form of vessels and water-fowl. Opposite this is a fountain which is incessantly emptying and filling, for the water which it throws up to a great height, falling back again into it, is by means of consecutive apertures returned as fast as it is received. Facing the alcove (and reflecting upon it as great an ornament as it borrows from it) stands a summer-house of exquisite marble, the doors of which project and open into a green enclosure, while from its upper and lower windows the eye falls upon a variety of different greens. Next to this is a little private closet (which, though it seems distinct, may form part of the same room), furnished with a couch, and notwithstanding it has windows on every side, yet it enjoys a very agreeable gloom, by means of a spreading vine which climbs to the top, and entirely overshadows it. Here you may lie and fancy yourself in a wood, with this only difference, that you are not exposed to the weather as you would be there. Here too a fountain rises and instantly disappears–several marble seats are set in different places, which are as pleasant as the summer-house itself after one is tired out with walking. Near each is a little fountain, and throughout the whole hippodrome several small rills run murmuring along through pipes, wherever the hand of art has thought proper to conduct them, watering here and there different plots of green, and sometimes all parts at once. I should have ended before now, for fear of being too chatty, had I not proposed in this letter to lead you into every corner of my house and gardens. Nor did I apprehend your thinking it a trouble to read the description of a place which I feel sure would please you were you to see it; especially as you can stop just when you please, and by throwing aside my letter, sit down as it were, and give yourself a rest as often as you think proper. Besides, I gave my little passion indulgence, for I have a passion for what I have built, or finished, myself. In a word, (for why should I conceal from my friend either my deliberate opinion or my prejudice?) I look upon it as the first duty of every writer to frequently glance over his title-page and consider well the subject he has proposed to himself; and he may be sure, if he dwells on his subject, he cannot justly be thought tedious, whereas if, on the contrary, he introduces and drags in anything irrelevant, he will be thought exceedingly so. Homer, you know, has employed many verses in the description of the arms of Achilles, as Virgil has also in those of Aeneas, yet neither of them is prolix, because they each keep within the limits of their original design. Aratus, you observe, is not considered too circumstantial, though he traces and enumerates the minutest stars, for he does not go out of his way for that purpose, but only follows where his subject leads him. In the same way (to compare small things with great), so long as, in endeavouring to give you an idea of my house, I have not introduced anything irtelevant or superfluous, it is not my letter which describes, but my villa which is described, that is to be considered large. But to return to where I began, lest I should justly be condemned by my own law, if I continue longer in this digression, you see now the reasons why I prefer my Tuscan villa to those which I possess at Tusculum, Tiber, and Praeneste. Besides the advantages already mentioned, I enjoy here a cozier, more profound and undisturbed retirement than anywhere else, as I am at a greater distance from the business of the town and the interruption of troublesome clients. All is calm and composed; which circumstances contribute no less than its clear air and unclouded sky to that health of body and mind I particularly enjoy in this place, both of which I keep in full swing by study and hunting. And indeed there is no place which agrees better with my family, at least I am sure I have not yet lost one (may the expression be allowed!) of all those I brought here with me. And may the gods continue that happiness to me, and that honour to my villa. Farewell.

– Pliny, Letters on the Tuscan Villa (1st Century) [via Some Landscapes]

A Country Road. A Tree.

Evening.

– Beckett, Waiting for Godot

a fleeting encounter

Edwin — Sun, 04 Oct 2009 02:07:03 +0000

field stills of Itinéraire de Jean Bricard

‘…makes Bresson look like Bubsy Berkeley’

– Jean-Pierre Gorin on the closing takes of Itinéraire de Jean Bricard.

For MA, MF, DM & AR