Newsletter >> News Blogs: Adipex online Ladies handbag Yachts Tramadol online Chairs Valium online Sport Betting Building materials Boats Phentermine No Prescription Cheap drugs online shop Pills, Compare pills, Reviews pills Dating Fioricet online Cigarettes Get ringtones online Intimate goods ya.by Vicodin online Replica Rolex Sportswear Top casino Rolex Replica Fashions Sale Auto Medical tests Cigarette Loan Online Cheap pharmacy shop Green Card Information Ear rings Rington Free Ringtones Necklace Ćables Soma online Best Ringtones Autos furniture Balans Tunings Ambien online Boots Free Ringtones Free mp3 ringtones auto-moto Mobiles Suits Xanax online Credits Hydrocodone online mp3 music for mobile Trousers Ornaments Evening dress Blog Search the Web Phentermine online Online notebook shop Medicine news

representationalism

POETRY IS THE INVENTION OF METAPHOR. EVERY WORD IS A TRANSLATION; EVERY WORD IS A BETRAYAL. Á La Santé du Serpent, Good Health to the Snake, René Char, my translation, forgive

I

Je chante la chaleur à visage de nouveau-né, la chaleur désespérée.

I SING THE WARMTH IN THE FACE OF A NEWBORN,

THE DESPERATE WARMTH.

II

Au tour du pain de rompre l’homme, d’ĂȘtre la beautĂ© du point du jour.

THE BREAD’S TURN TO BREAK MAN,

TO BE THE DAWN’S BEAUTY.

III

Celui qui se fie au tournesol ne mĂ©ditera pas dans la maison. Toutes les pensĂ©es de l’amour deviendront ses pensĂ©es.

HE WHO BELIEVES THE SUNFLOWER WON’T BROOD IN THE HOUSE.

ALL THOUGHTS OF LOVE WILL BE HIS THOUGHTS.

IV

Dans la boucle de l’hirondelle un orage s’informe, un jardin se construit.

A STORM INQUIRES INTO THE SWALLOWS LOOP,

A GARDEN IS CONSTRUED.

V

Il y aura toujours une goutte d’eau pour durer plus que le soleil sans que l’ascendant du soleil soit Ă©branlĂ©.

THERE WILL ALWAYS BE A WATER DROP TO OUTLAST THE SUN

THAT WILL NOT SHAKE THE SUN IN ITS ASCENDANCY.

VI

Produis ce que la connaissance veut garder secret, la connaissance au cent passages.

MAKE THAT WHICH FAMILIARITY WOULD KEEP SECRET,

FAMILIARITY WITH ITS HUNDRED HALLWAYS.

VII

Ce qui vient au monde pour ne rien troubler ne mérite ni égards ni patience.

THAT WHICH COMES TO THE WORLD TO DISTURB NOTHING

MERITS NEITHER CONSIDERATION NOR TOLERANCE.

VIII

Combien durera ce manque de l’homme mourant au centre de la crĂ©ation parce que la crĂ©ation l’a congĂ©diĂ©?

HOW LONG WILL THIS LACK AT THE CENTRE OF CREATION LAST

OF THE DEATH OF MAN BECAUSE CREATION HAS REJECTED HIM?

IX

Chaque maison Ă©tait une saison. La ville ainsi se rĂ©pĂ©tait. Tous les habitants ensemble ne connaissaient que l’hiver, malgrĂ© leur chair rĂ©chauffĂ©e, malgrĂ© le jour qui ne s’en allait pas.

EVERY HOUSE WAS A SEASON. THE CITY WAS THUS REPEATED.

ALL OF ITS INHABITANTS TOGETHER KNEW ONLY WINTER,

IN SPITE OF THE WARMTH OF THEIR FLESH,

IN SPITE OF THE DAY THAT WOULDN’T LEAVE THEM.

X

Tu es dans ton essence constamment poĂšte, constamment au zĂ©nith de ton amour, constamment avide de vĂ©ritĂ© et de justice. C’est sans doute un mal nĂ©cessaire que tu ne puisses l’ĂȘtre assidĂ»ment dans ta conscience.

YOU ARE A POET IN YOUR BEING CONTINUOUSLY, AT THE ZENITH OF YOUR LOVE CONTINUOUSLY,

HUNGRY FOR TRUTH AND JUSTICE CONTINUOUSLY. NO DOUBT IT IS A NECESSARY EVIL

THAT IN YOUR CONSCIENCE YOU CAN’T BE SO ASSIDUOUSLY.

XI

Tu feras de l’Ăąme qui n’existe pas un homme meilleur qu’elle.

YOU’LL MAKE OF THE SOUL WHICH DOESN’T EXIST

A MAN BETTER THAN IT.

XII

Regarde l’image tĂ©mĂ©raire oĂč se baigne ton pays, ce plaisir qui t’a longtemps fui.

LOOK AT THE RECKLESS IMAGE

IN WHICH YOUR COUNTRY IMMERSES ITSELF,

THIS PLEASURE THAT FOR A LONG TIME ESCAPED YOU.

XIII

Nombreux sont ceux qui attendent que l’Ă©cueil les soulĂšve, que le but les franchisse, pour se dĂ©finir.

THOSE WHO WAIT TO BE LIFTED UP BY WHAT BLOCKS THEM,

TO BE PASSED THROUGH BY THEIR END,

IN ORDER TO BE DEFINED,

ARE NUMEROUS.

XIV

Remercie celui qui ne prend pas souci de ton remords. Tu es son égal.

THANK HIM WHO PAYS YOUR REMORSE NO MIND.

YOU ARE HIS EQUAL.

XV

Les larmes méprisent leur confident.

TEARS SCORN THE SYMPATHISER.

XVI

Il reste une profondeur mesurable lĂ  oĂč le sable subjugue la destinĂ©e.

THE DEPTH IS STILL MEASURABLE THERE

WHERE FATE FOUNDERS IN SAND.

XVII

Mon amour, peu importe que je sois nĂ©: tu deviens visible Ă  la place oĂč je disparais.

MY LOVE, WHO CARES THAT I WAS BORN:

YOU BECOME VISIBLE AT THE PLACE WHERE I DISAPPEAR.

XVIII

Pouvoir marcher, sans tromper l’oiseau, du coeur de l’arbre Ă  l’extase du fruit.

THE POWER TO WALK,

WITHOUT FOOLING THE BIRD,

FROM THE HEART OF THE TREE

TO THE FRUIT’S ECSTASY.

XVIX

Ce qui t’accueille Ă  travers le plaisir n’est que la gratitude mercenaire du souvenir. La prĂ©sence que tu as choisie ne dĂ©livre pas d’adieu.

WHAT YOU GET FROM PLEASURE

IS ONLY THE MERCENARY CONSUMMATION

OF NOSTALGIA. THE TRACE

YOU’VE PICKED

GRANTS NO ADIEUS.

XX

Ne te courbe que pour aimer. Si tu meurs, tu aimes encore.

DON’T BOW YOUR HEAD

EXCEPT TO LOVE.

IF YOU DIE,

STILL YOU LOVE.

XXI

Les tĂ©nĂšbres que t’infuses sont rĂ©gies par la luxure de ton ascendant solaire.

THE DARKNESSES INSTILLED IN YOU

ARE SUBJECT TO THE CUPIDITY

OF YOUR SOLAR ASCENDANT.

XXII

NĂ©glige ceux aux yeux de qui l’homme passe pour n’ĂȘtre qu’une Ă©tape de la couleur sur le dos tourmentĂ© de la terre. Qu’ils dĂ©vident leur longue remonstrance. L’encre du tisonnier et la rougeur du nuage ne font qu’un.

IGNORE THEM IN WHOSE EYES MAN PASSES FOR NO MORE THAN A TONE OF COLOUR

ON THE EARTH’S TORTURED BACK. LET THEM REEL OFF THEIR LENGTHY REMONSTRANCE.

THE POKER’S INK AND THE REDNESS OF CLOUD ARE JUST ONE.

XXIII

Il n’est pas digne du poĂšte de mystifier l’agneau, d’investir sa laine.

IT’S UNWORTHY OF THE POET

TO MYSTIFY THE LAMB,

TO INVEST HIMSELF IN WOOL.

XXIV

Si nous habitons un Ă©clair, il est le coeur de l’Ă©ternel.

OUR LIFE IS IN THE LIGHTNING,

TO BE IN THE HEART OF THE ETERNAL.

XXV

Yeux qui, croyant inventer le jour, avez Ă©veillĂ© le vent, que puis-je pour vous, je suis l’oubli.

EYES WHO, THINKING TO CREATE THE DAY,

YOU’VE WOKEN UP THE WIND,

WHAT COULD I FOR YOU,

I AM OBLIVION.

XXVI

La poĂšsie est de toutes les eaux claire celle qui s’attarde le moins aux reflets de ses ponts.
PoĂšsie, la vie future Ă  l’intĂ©rieur de l’homme requalifiĂ©.

POETRY IS OF ALL CLEAR WATERS

THAT ONE WHICH SLOWS THE LEAST

TO REFLECT ITS BRIDGES.

POETRY, THE FUTURE LIFE

INSIDE OF THE MAN RETRAINED.

XXVII

Une rose pour qu’il pleuve. Au terme d’innombrables annĂ©es, c’est ton souhait.

A ROSE THAT IT RAIN.

AT THE END OF INNUMERABLE YEARS,

THAT IS YOUR WISH.

Trans-European Express
hommangerie
luz es tiempo
pique-assiettes
representationalism
textasies

Comments (0)

Permalink

no representation is true without a genesis … making a clearing (& blurred notes on Olivier Zahm)

if you find it impossible to say,
once you find it’s impossible to go on,
then it’s clear that this is the place
to start.

What were they?
We had taken many of the same drugs.
I only remember parts of the very long words for them,
ptslblnmnkrnwfrsdnx.
What they were I don’t recall.

if the artist allowed the work to survive
it is by reason of curiosity and comparison
not as potential evidence of achievement.

- James Lord, Giacometti, p. 356

FOR YOU

… nobody has come back and said,
‘I have broken the ends off my fingers’
‘I have cried …
‘I have cried …’

a desirable challenge:
TO HAVE ONE’S EYES
OPENED BY
BUT NOT TO

infinity

It is one thing to dissolve the ‘I’ in impossibility.
It is another thing to do the impossible.

there are then two kinds of death just as there are two kinds of representation: one is intense, while one is not; one is lived, while one is living. … Are reversals possible? … It is in the dimension of time that intensity becomes event and death overcomes its limit, its terminal limit, that termination, and becomes timeless. While the other kind of death ends in time or is ended and falls away, like a ruined armature, falling to dust, without any sense of loss – as if it were the twin of the other kind of representation. Jesse.

The first waterman was a Russian immigrant. He had written a novel detailing his adventures, in and out of trouble with the law. It created a myth. It was into this myth that I was invited now to step.

When I first came to this city it was full of good things that I loved: a bookshop, a cafĂ©, colourful characters. Now, moving back here …

Pinsized people seen from heights,
mountains, skyscrapers.

to be equal to one’s wound,
to be equal in shame,
to be equal in pride
.

You lose your name because it is rough.
I watch you swap body parts.

a socialisation of music … we are a carpet and a carpet of sound sound

Two white goats’ body
staggered on a boundary,
heads in a green dark hedge.

I am the girl inside her head &
I am the boy inside her head

these claims we make on images
by shooting them


the stylites:

What is writing? I fear it will behoove me to ask this question.
Nobody knows what writing is

the year is 1980. The détente between East and West has been broken with salvos of nuclear warheads travelling in both directions. Everybody knows hostilities will escalate, that neither Superpower will rest until every enemy target has been hit; everybody knows that New Zealand is on the list of targets.

I left my wife for Carax
back to hell
The world demands that we be equal to its wound
back to hell

how is it possible, unless you really hate yourself, not to conceive a love for those who do what you tell them to do?

it’s really impossible, unless you have no self-respect at all, not to love the people who do what you tell them

the people are fascists


if sex is the “theatre of the working classes,” one can very well understand the ‘pornification’ of society.

on the evidence that society doesn’t descend to – or rise to the challenge of becoming – an orgy, while, it is said, they think about sex every several seconds, we must adduce that men are capable of being gentlemen the majority of the time

cryingREAL men shouldn’t feel afraid to show their emotions. Unless those emotions involve machetes or Samurai swords.

Nava Valencia’s [sic] diamond-studded gun

sometimes unpleasantness lends to enjoyment a little extra; however, like salt, it is possible to over-season.

you left me
i hate you
you came back
i love you

technicolour

knowledge is power; information is force?

I must be at the same level
as my
belief
that is why I am a king
or a count at the very least

what becomes exotic is the rarefied context in which such exhibitionism can not only take place but become de rigueur. Aristocracy becomes a matter of self-display. This is the scene, a feature of the scene.

it shows up the hypocrisy of fashion editorial that does not go “all the way” but changes what is “all the way” into an act of honesty: the candid shot. Conventional fashion editorial starts to seem contrived, above all in the way it eroticizes or plays on the erotic fantasy of the viewer, male or female.

Zahm here celebrates and is critical. The critique lies in the candid shots interpellated into the more or less conventional spreads. That these are not primarily [illegible] sexual is attested to in the example of Lindsay Lohan’s scarred knee.

What is put on display is perversity in the sense that sex does not occur: no erect penises or shots of penetration. Here the perversity contemplates itself.

Olivier is a young-girl too. He is included … his glasses … and his stubble, resembling a pubic tonsure, particularly that of …

...
detraque
luz es tiempo
representationalism

Comments (0)

Permalink

because we know the centre cannot hold we feel the circle can … on deactivating my facebook account

I have deactivated my facebook account because it would no longer perform the operation which provided my justification for signing on in the first instance. It would longer import notes from here. It became a rather tenuous justification, however, since the majority of my engagement with the sociality advertising itself as a network devolved upon what I believe has been called ‘sharism.’

The coinage of this coinage, the attraction of ‘sharism,’ rests on the accumulation of points of satisfaction that the user is posting to facebook such items as others ‘like.’ The other aspect of satisfaction pursuant to this form of connectivity derives from the hyperbolic enlargement of the user’s circle of ‘friends,’ until it ultimately – perhaps the goal of the game – tumesces to the degree at which the site advertises would-be friends that the user already has ‘too many’ ‘friends’ and ‘doesn’t need any more.’ This limit is currently set at 5000.

According to this source, 5000 “is on the high end of the number of friends that one person could reasonable [sic] have.” The same source has it that facebook is used by approximately 70 000 000 individuals, less than 1000 of whom have reached the limit, or have won? But, allegedly, winning gives a user cause to complain:

I still haven’t gotten through and I’m still getting pushback from the lobby.

imagine that Flickr only let 5,000 people see your photos? Or that YouTube only let 5,000 watch your videos? Wouldn’t you be pissed? Wouldn’t there be massive protests?

Absolutely. Yet we accept this crappy software engineering because of the “you-don’t-need-more-friends” lobby.

The hell with the lobby.

So says Robert Scoble, where else, but on the Scobleizer, here. He points to a deficiency in the accepted definition of friends when it comes to a social network, saying, “a “friend” is someone you want in your social network. Period. Nothing more. The fact that people assume that you should only have “real friends” in your social network is just plain wrong.” [Ibid.]

The fault perhaps lies with facebook in calling ‘friends’ what are in fact contacts. A terminological shift to ‘contacts’ would, however, subtract from the Emotion of the network just as readily as if we removed the word ‘social’ from ‘social network.’ Not that there would then come some blinding insight into the truly insidious mechanism of the site: it would simply be more difficult to justify the distribution of emotionally meaningful, and sometimes personal, items, photos, propositions, to contacts in a network. ‘Sharism’ would resemble nothing more than advertising. The emotion added to it, that we are sharing with friends, would leave us, once stripped of emotional charge, perhaps wondering why we are advertising the existence of this or that site or youtube video, like an unpaid third-party, acting on-behalf-of.

It is this exchange between and amongst anonymities which suggests both promiscuity and inflation, needless to say that they are both artificial, or symbolic. That what we call our forms of communication, that what we are given to call them, acts on us so effectively is a manifestation both of a desire to believe against our better judgements and simply of the power of advertising in constructing a scenario in which we willingly suspend disbelief. facebook, I would suggest is theatre; even the elision of the initial capital is for affect: but it is theatre at the service of the symbolic economy.

I justified my involvement with facebook, assuming an identity who posted items, photos, to snare itself, myself, and others into ‘sharism,’ and who ‘had something on his mind,’ however cynically, in regard to this function I see as central to the social network: advertising. As Google knows, it doesn’t take much: a micro-justification for a macro-participation; a micro-paying ad to a macro-owning corporation. I didn’t require a great deal of incentive to become active on facebook, because ‘active’ is as ‘active’ does. The Emotion acts as the covenant under which anonymities pursue their unanimous self-interests. Therefore, once facebook could no longer post in the form of notes what I wrote and posted to my blog, re-circulating it, according to its proprietary symbolic economic logic, I could no longer pretend to myself I was doing anything more than faking it, faking ‘friends,’ fake-’sharing,’ faking interest, paid in fakes.

Is connectivity any more real on the web outside the social networks?

...
CAPITAL CAPITAL CAPITAL
N-exile
advertisement
enomy
representationalism
resolution
theatricality

Comments (1)

Permalink

inchoate

representationalism
snap
tagged

Comments (0)

Permalink

recent entitlements: ‘danger in general‘ & ‘what generality would look like

advertisement
detraque
representationalism
snap
tagged

Comments (0)

Permalink

Giacometti: James Lord’s biography – essential reading: excerpts, aperçus & porte-paroles therefrom with added emphases, emboldenments, bignesses and an inversion, or two

We know that Denise sniffed ether, had a fierce temper, and that concurrently with Alberto she had another lover: a man called Dédé le Raisin because he sold fruit in the street from a barrow. Alberto, Dédé, and Denise apparently got along well together, and upon occasion, it is said, enjoyed together the conclusive demonstrations of intimacy.

- James Lord, Giacometti: A Biography, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, New York, 1986, p. 126

The paradox of Surrealism is that it was the group unconscious Surrealists appealed to, the unconscious of the Surrealist group itself; work was considered and duly judged by fellow Surrealists according to whether others could see in the individual’s work an expression of their own fantasy. Thus the fantasy lay in being disowned in order to be owned, or bought, first by the group, figuratively; secondly, literally, by the art-patron or buyer. Individuals within the group required and the group itself demanded the legitimation of belonging.

All of the Surrealists were dedicated to the purpose of [producing, like Giacometti, works which openly refer to private, hidden aspects of human experience], and the common cause no doubt disposed each of them more freely to realise highly individual works.

“There was clearly a Surrealist atmosphere that influenced me,” Alberto later said. “I wanted my sculptures to be interesting, mean something to other people. I had this need of other people, and was very conscious of reaching them or not.”

- Ibid., p. 127

- Alberto Giacometti, reminding me of MartĂČn

Giacometti: “I think that the best way for an artist to be a revolutionary is to his work as well as possible.”

- Ibid., p. 131

the singular style of James Lord:

If detainment by the police entails a sense of guilt, the extent of its presumption need not derive from a rational judgment of the facts. He had kept the light burning at night in his bedroom for years, but it had averted nothing.

- Ibid., p. 136

Picasso attends Giacometti’s first solo exhibition, in May 1932, at Galerie Pierre Colle, 19 Rue CambacĂ©rĂšs

On the opening day, one of the first to arrive was Pablo Picasso, alert as ever to the latest innovations and ready to turn them to advantage in his own work when possible.

- Ibid., p. 140

Giacometti: “I knew …that no matter what I did, no matter what I wanted, I would be obliged someday to sit down on a stool in front of a model and try to copy what I saw. Even if there was no hope of succeeding. I dreaded in a way being obliged to come to that, and I knew that it was inevitable … I dreaded it, but I hoped for it. Because the non-figurative works I was doing then were finished once and for all. To go on would have been to produce works of the same kind, but all adventure was finished. So that didn’t interest me a bit.”

- Ibid., pp. 153-4

the screen is consciousness, or we are the consciousness of the screen

Giacometti: “The more I looked at the model … the more the screen between his reality and mine grew thicker. One starts by seeing the person who poses, but little by little all the possible sculptures of him intervene. The more real vision of him disappears, the stranger his head becomes. One is no longer sure of his appearance, or of his size, or of anything at all. There were too many sculptures between my model and me. And when there were no more sculptures, there was such a complete stranger that I no longer knew whom I saw or what I was looking at.”

- Ibid., p. 165

On Balthus announcing himself “superbly,” if illegitimately to be a count

But snobbery is no adequate explanation for such an overt idiosyncracy on the part of a man so sensitive and subtle. The aristocratic pose did not signify vulgarity of spirit. Aristocracy seems to have represented for Balthus a rather austere distinction of personal bearing, one which he apparently felt he could not achieve solely through his art. If it was necessary to his creative fulfillment to be a count, the necessity sprang from a determination to live and work according to criteria no longer instrumental in the modern world and which, therefore, Balthus could not hope to satisfy either as a man or as an artist.

- Ibid., p. 169

Balthus’s modernity is to do with his subject matter?

Balthus was able to relate himself to a tradition through the power of an obsessive, almost perverse relation to his subject matter, the passionate detachment with which he depicted young girls, and even landscapes, as elements of a fantasy world.

- Ibid., p. 170

the truth of difference, among other Deleuzian themes, like, for instance, that of the virtual as eternally potential

Truth in art and truth in life are not the same. But the two must unite in the creative act if it is to have significant consequences, which is to say that a work of art will be “true to life” when its existence, and its very form, embodies the truths of the artist’s life. A work of art can then serve the ancillary purpose of revealing those truths. The artist himself, however, exists inside his truth: he can see what he is only by seeing what he does. What he does remains eternally potential rather than actual, so that he can truly become himself only by dying.

- Ibid., p. 227 [emphases added]

- Diego Giacometti in his studio

how beautiful stories involving animals come to accumulate around Diego Giacometti an eminently moral story

One spring morning Diego found that during the night a spider had spun its web near the door to his room, in front of the gas meter. It gleamed in the morning light. Awed by the airy perfection of form, Diego searched for the architect capable of producing in a single night this exquisite construction. He was amazed to discover a tiny yellow creature hardly larger than a grain of rice. Such industry and ingenuity seemed to deserve a recompense, and Diego determined to help the spider make the most of its web. All that spring and summer, holding up saucers of severely rationed jam, he shooed the flies attracted to it into the threads. This abundance was more than the lucky arachnid could devour all at once, and the surplus flies were bound in silk, carried up to the ceiling, and suspended there for future consumption like so many hams from the rafters of an Italian salumeria. When the inspector from the gas company came to read the meter and prepared to brush away the web, Diego persuaded him to spare it. However, the beautiful thing he had wished to preserve was eventually ruined as the outcome of his care. He could supply subsistence for the spider, but he could not ensure the perfection of the web. As its creator grew fatter and fatter, accumulating more and more “hams” in reserve, it had less incentive to maintain a facility for entrapping victims. The web grew ragged and dusty, while its obese architect dwelt complacently in the ruins. At last, the spider died of old age. Diego preserved the delicate skeleton in a little box until it crumbled to dust, but thirty years later he still recalled the spider with affection, and spoke with wonder of the gleaming structure it had woven in one night in his drab room.

- Ibid., pp. 232-3

- Annette & Alberto in the studio at 46 Rue Hippolyte-Maindron, 1951

pauvre Annette née Arm and the inimitable style of James Lord

The passion, and rashness, of her anxiety may be measured by the fact that while making the break she more than once attempted to commit suicide; this unhappy information was later confided to a Japanese professor of philosophy with whom she fell in live and he pensively recorded it in his diary.

- Ibid., p. 234

- Diego Giacometti

how beautiful stories involving animals come to accumulate around Diego Giacometti pt. II, a fox from Auschwitz, another eminently moral story

as if in symbolic acknowledgement of his self-reliance, the war had brought him from its worst hell a little playmate: a fox from Auschwitz.

One of Diego’s neighbours had been a member of the Resistance, arrested by the Gestapo, tortured, and deported to the infamous concentration camp. Contrary to reasonable expectation, he not only survived but somehow in that pit of inhumanity managed to catch, tame, and feed a baby vixen. Repatriated after the liberation of the camp, he brought back his pet to Paris, where he kept her on a chain in his apartment. It was there that Diego first saw her. Outraged, he angrily demanded how a man who had endured – and survived! – the horrors of a concentration camp could bring a wild animal eight hundred miles from home only to keep it chained in a dark apartment? Chagrined, the former prisoner offered his pet to Diego, who gladly took her back to the rue Hippolyte-Maindron. He named her Miss Rose for the colour of her fur. … [Diego] delighted in her slyness and intelligence. sometimes she would play dead, lying on her back on the floor, eyes closed and jaws slack. He could roll her over or pick her up by the tail and shake her without a sign of life. If he turned away, feigning indifference, she would spring onto his shoulders and nip the nape of his neck. … The vulpine odour was intense, permeating everything … The war, it is true, had uprooted many millions from their homes and swept them to terrible destinations. Of these millions, Miss Rose was but one, and one of the least, yet for those sensitive to the animal spirit perhaps her very insignificance gave her singular meaning, while a sense of animal virtue as contrasted with human bestiality was fostered by knowledge of the place from which she had come. Diego was by nature unworldly and self-effacing, aloof, reticent, secretive, not one to commit himself impulsively to any attachment, but during the months of waiting for his brother’s return he became very attached to Miss Rose.

- Ibid., pp. 242-3

- Giacometti, Walking Man

the vision

When Giacometti entered the theatre, he was committing himself to a situation set apart from direct experience of reality but devised for the credibility of the visual. This comes easily to most people in the blind belief that things are not only as they appear but can remain stable in an uncertain world. Giacometti had long been peering beyond stable appearances in order to analyse, if possible, the sensory process itself, and adapt its means to the end of his creative purpose. This effort, of course, would never be done, and had to be sustained by conceptual confrontations with the unknown. These could not be commanded by the artist but came in their own good time, turning to account his visual vicissitudes with a will of their own. The movie theatre was the perfect place for an encounter of this kind, because the seeming
credibility of the visual challenges the power of vision to make use of illusion not only as an aspect of reality but as an access to further perception. There is a lovely logic in the fact that the images which suddenly appeared unintelligible to Giacometti remained perfectly intelligible to his neighbours, who were by the same token so transformed in the sight of the artist that only the full resources of illusion could hope to register his vision of their reality. For years he had been making and remaking miniscule sculptures which to most people looked like meaningless specks. Now a convulsion within the matrix of appearances would compel him to make his sculptures lifelike by making them look only like themselves.

- Ibid., p. 259-60 [emphasis added]

more on the miniscule figures

he kept after the figures which brought him repeatedly to the frontier between being and nothingness. It was there that vision compelled him to situate the proof that sculpture was a continuing possibility.

- Ibid., p. 201 [bigness added]

- Giacometti, Walking Man [my inversion]

revelatory vision revisited

The former experience had been the instant of revelation in the theatre. It was not the opposite, however, so much as affirmation of the same awareness, induced by an inversion of the same experience. He had seen death in the faces of the living; now he had seen once more that the dead reveal the truth about life. Sight begot terror in both cases. The man schooled in terror is a man prepared for possibility, because he will expect nothing and therefore be ready for everything. A man familiar with anxiety will look at the world with awe, because each day duplicates the miracle of birth. Inured to absurdity, he will become more and more free to assert the significance of life.

- Ibid., p. 269

for passion and class

If he had been indifferent, he would have been polite.

- Ibid., p. 271

heads

Alberto and Montandon also talked about the dimensions of heads, the dimensions of objects, the relationships and differences between objects and human beings, which led back – as though by an itinerary which compels every man to rediscover incessantly the landscape of his lifetime – to the dream.

- Ibid., p. 274

… a large exhibition in a great world centre …

- Ibid., p. 282

discontinuity of consciousness likened to a discontinuous regeneration of creative potential, virtuality

To him, nothing was ever final. The act of creation was endless and unpredictable, starting anew each day, if not each hour.

- Ibid., p. 283

on the existential interpretation of Giacometti by Sartre

Alberto was never motivated by anything so obvious as a desire to represent the contemporary psyche.

- Ibid., p. 288 [bigness added]

a perfectly beautiful paragraph

Annette wanted to get married. That should have been unthinkable. But she didn’t think. Having become important to her lover in his work as well as in his life, she must have assumed that she could risk putting her importance to the test. It was too bad, because that test in the long run could only have one result, and the risk for her was final. She appreciated his importance greatly, since she loved him, and her appreciation seemed to be the logic of her claim, but she understood very little about his significance, since it had nothing to do with love. The grounds for union were, consequently, shaky. And yet she was tenacious in pursuit of matrimony. Her lover turned evasive. The thing was difficult for both.

- Ibid., pp. 299-300 [with added boldness]

Art uses life, and the extent of the use gives the moral of the work.

- Ibid., p. 307

eternal feminine or cherchez la femme

women standing alone or in groups on massive pedestals, the latter identified by the artist as prostitutes he had seen either at the Sphinx or in a small hotel room, where in the first case he perceived them to unapproachably remote, though desirable, and in the second, very close, hence threatening.

- – Ibid., pp. 308-9

the theory bizo, the art racket

Intellectual testimonials were all to the good, providing a creditable basis upon which values less intrinsic to civilization could skillfully be settled. With these in place, there would be no limit to the heights profitably scaled by down-to-earth entrepreneurs. That was where the expertise of art dealers came in. There could be no doing without them, nor did Giacometti try.

- Ibid., p. 339

a deformed man suddenly stripped naked, who would see revealed a deformity which at the same time he would offer to the world as evidence of his solitude and his glory.

- Genet, quoted in ibid., p. 350

- Jean Genet

on Genet

He believed that betrayal was akin to death in the absolutism of its beauty

- Ibid., p. 351

Genet on the feet

By the head, the shoulders, the arms, the pelvis he enlightens us. By the feet he enchants us.

- Genet, quoted in ibid., p. 357

Giacometti and other people

… no, longing to work immediately, be calm content soon, but everything’s complicated and other people.

- Giacometti quoted in ibid., p. 396

Alberto & Caroline, in the underworld

Before that night in May, it had been potential but not essential. By vanished from his sight, Caroline gave the artist the opportunity to prove his powers by restoring her to it. It was the chance of a lifetime. For them both. If he could bring her back from oblivion, he could take her with him into eternity. As for her, she had proved to him that she was a figure of the underworld by enabling him to resurrect her from it.

- – Ibid., p. 415

- Giacometti, Caroline, 1965


ChĂšre Caroline

Her understanding … was not required. What was wanted was her identity.

- Ibid., p. 421

TREE FOR GODOT

With Diego’s assistance, of course, Alberto made a marvelously curvaceous, dendriform creation in plaster. Then he and Beckett, both of them eternally unsatisfied, fiddled and fiddled with it. “All one night,” Alberto said, “we tried to make that plaster tree larger or smaller, its branches more slender. It never seemed right, and each of said to the other: maybe.”

- Ibid., p. 429

Giacometti on the machinic nature of abstract art, its ramifications, over time

Speaking of abstract art, he said: “It creates and seeks to create a self-contained object, as self-contained and as finished as a machine, without reference to anything beyond itself. Now the question arises how to define this new kind of creation. One wonders what might become of abstract sculpture and abstract painting. How would a Brancusi statue look if it were chipped and broken, or a Mondrian painting if were torn or turned dark with age? One wonders whether they belong to the same world as Chaldean sculptures, as Rembrandt and Rodin, or whether they form a world apart, closer to that of machines. I would go further and ask to what extent they may still be defined as sculpture, as painting. How much have they lost of the meaning in these words?”

- Ibid., p. 447

On Francis Bacon

It was not until the war years, when he was found unfit for service because he suffered from asthma, that he began to paint in earnest. [sic] He proved his aptitude with appalling authority.

- Ibid., p. 453 [bold added]

- Giacometti, Lotar III, 1965

unordered affairs and the obligations of the past

Alberto did not lack for people who told him that the time had come to put his affairs in order. Nor can he have doubted that he was in a position to appraise the deserts, whether just or unjust, of all those to whose future the past placed him under obligation. But he would not make a will.

- Ibid., p. 491

touch

Nothing is more easeful to the dying than the touch of a beloved, bringing with it till the end the feel of life.

- Ibid., p. 514 [emphasis added]

- Alberto Giacometti, Lotar III, 1965 [my inversion]

“Till tomorrow.” Those were his last words.

- Ibid., p. 515

the most extraordinary of the Giacometti effects:

… he would have no “influence,” no followers, only a few imitators.

- Ibid., p. 518

(&&&[Deleuze])=-1...
...
hommangerie
luz es tiempo
pique-assiettes
porte-parole
representationalism
theatricality

Comments (0)

Permalink

I hernia in public convenience

Strange.

- Am I living or am I buried here?

- under the weight of work and pieces that have been consigned here for failing to come to life, have or get or find a life in life, in mine, where anything might have happened, which, anyway, would have been better than this predictable oblivion. I’m thinking particularly about the scripts, the projects meant for multiple voices, not simply yours, not simply mine, to be felt by bodies, in bodies and shared among them, like sex.

This appears in Olivier Zahm’s purple DIARY (here), a quote from Philip Roth’s The Dying Animal, Zahm, who has prompted this reverie, one as indulgent as my activity here, eating of the dark fruit underground, empurpling my mouth and words:

Sex isn’t just friction and shallow fun. Sex is also the revenge on death. Don’t forget death. Don’t ever forget it. Yes, sex too is limited in its power. I know very well how limited. But tell me, what power is greater?

Olivier Zahm is in possession of the singular knowledge that in order to be quite candid he must create for himself a character: to show his life, especially his sex-life, honestly is to have recourse to a fiction, the fiction of who he is. So he lives that life in full view which is at once theatre, and illusion, and only therefore alive.

What makes it live for us? His conviction that, for example, the women we make love to bestow on us a precious gift: they give us “the most beautiful side of themselves.” For his blog, he photographs them “in these private moments.” They give rise to an ideal, the ideal lifestyle. These quotes are from his interview with Dirk Standen (yes, actually) for the Style File blog, here, entitled The Future Of Fashion.

Olivier’s conviction that sex gives life to what he does, writes, shows, however dissembling, is it the ground on which sex sells? Does sex represent life in terms of the ‘beauty’ of its ‘gift’ – which implies honesty – which, additionally, has to be presented by the illusion of Olivier Zahm?

I’m not so much interested in the logic here, or the psychology, as in admiration of a technique of the self, involving both a theatre of promiscuity and a chastity to reality, to truth (to the truth of truth (or truth as a (stage) property)). Of course there is something Sadean about it. The honesty that disturbs the status quo of political representation is that which is mediated by illusion: it can be called the ideal lifestyle – fashion and art, gloves in hand.

I asked some time ago whether art can provide a critique of democracy as we expect it to do of capitalism. I think the future of fashion, which has been the same since Pop, as in the rapprochement of fashion and art, is where it can be seen to be in process.

Sex is the killer application of such a critique, for, exactly, not being dead.

...
CAPITAL CAPITAL CAPITAL
advertisement
enomy
hommangerie
infemmarie
representationalism
theatricality

Comments (1)

Permalink

judge for yourself, lest I be judged in your stead… from the series Profane Icons

… on the subject of proxy – or representation: to wit, the latest by Smythe & co. here?

or: bow wow – or: This is not a metaphor (except, of course, if, as the comments suggest, we consider that the NZ cultural polity is suffering a seizure)

N-exile
National Scandal
croydon
enomy
inanimadvertisement
porte-parole
representationalism
snap
sweeseed
theatricality

Comments (0)

Permalink

style is a personal form of originality‘ – Baudelaire; to the limit of all faculties – Deleuze’s Kant; truth is more important than art – Lord’s Giacometti

The problem of vision for Giacometti was to find the style which would most amply and truly embody it. That is the problem, of course, of all art, and it is the cruelest problem of all, for it tests the personal resources of the artist beyond the limit of his capacity. The expression of truth is an effect of style, and that pitiless fact only increases the difficulty of the search for a true style.

- photograph by Dong Wensheng, Meditating Head Sculpture from the Tranquilizing Room series

Alberto knew this. He once observed: “The truer a work of art is, the more it has style. Which is strange, because style is not the truth of appearances, and yet the heads which I find most like those of the people one sees in the street are the least realistic heads, the heads of Egyptian, Chinese, or archaic Greek sculpture. For me, the greatest inventiveness leads to the greatest likeness.”

- James Lord, Giacometti: A Biography, Farrar, Straus and Giroux, New York, 1997, p. 166

(&&&[Deleuze])=-1...
hommangerie
pique-assiettes
representationalism

Comments (0)

Permalink

“Why’d I do it?” A dialogue in broken English on the state of critical discourse in New Zealand as it appeared before the Smythe coterie at Theatreview, or, critical organ flaccid for fluffers in front of cultural grand canyon: “It started with a trickle” and sank without a ripple

Below, to grow your viewing pleasure and to view my growing displeasure, please find a minimally edited copy of the exchange of comments ensuing from that already posted here in the preceding post. [link] Theatreview provided the venue for this unhappy episode, on the occasion of John Smythe’s review for Mary Stuart at Circa Theatre, entitled “WHY DO IT?.” [link] Indeed.

John Smythe:

Thank you Simon. I shall attempt to address the points I think you want answered.

“England-cum-Great Britain”: As I understand it, King James was the first monarch to declare himself “King of Great Brittaine” (as well as France and Ireland) in 1604, although England and Scotland remained separate countries with their own parliaments until 1707.

I have never said the only thing NZ theatre companies should produce is NZ work, just that is their core responsibility. Who else in the world should do it? And where in the world do those other plays come from if not from cultures (that word again) that create their own theatre as well as recreate that of others? In contributing to an international arts festival it seems especially appropriate to stage something homegrown – doesn’t it?

If that is “a facile agenda” then we might as well renounce any claim to distinction in either sense of the word, and resign ourselves to the ‘culture’ of a refugee camp or transit lounge. Do we really lack the root systems to contribute positively to the global ecology of theatre.

It is to our benefit that we are more aware of other cultures – English-speaking ones especially – than they are of us. No day passes without our hearing their voices though one medium or another. But we’re not prisoners in our own land. We have a voice too, the right and a responsibility to use it, and the failure to do so is wimpish and pathetic.

The live theatres that do ‘originals’ are a great deal more vital – in all senses of that word – than those which specialise in ‘covers’. My argument is that our better resourced companies (thanks to tax-payer funding) should either be leading the way, or building on the groundswell created by the creative co-ops whose often extraordinary works are celebrated on this website, or both. And I am claiming that Circa is especially lax in this regard. They don’t have a literary unit, or similar, and I would be interested to know how they go about keeping up with the new material coming through and factoring it into their considerations when developing their programme of productions.

Simon Taylor:

Thanks, John. That firms up your critique of Circa. I don’t think it does theatre any good to put the playwright at the centre of the debate regarding theatre’s cultural role. The play’s not the thing, certainly not a cultural thing, until it’s performed; as for a New Zealand play, what’s that?

Theatre companies should be asking this question as well as attempting to find answers to it. It appears to me that there is still insufficient critical input into this question, that it usually devolves to the level of sheer expediency, on the part of funding bodies, and the good intentions of strangers, and that your review adds nothing to this debate. That there are more NZ plays performed than ever before does not contribute a cultural value in itself; after all, there’s Thomas Sainsbury.

A literary or academic assumption underlies your view that NZ theatre companies ought to be obliged to produce NZ plays, what one might call the authorial preference, as much as something else far less appetising. A hint as to what this something else might be is given by Maryanne Cathro in a review also available on this site (here), thus:

There are two adjectives describing shows I am beginning to dread as an audience goer: “devised” and “experimental”.

To which the only answer is the question: Where were you for the twentieth century? (Living in dread, as we all were, that the century would have to begin again, and again, and again.)

… then we might as well renounce any claim to distinction in either sense of the word, and resign ourselves to the ‘culture’ of a refugee camp or transit lounge. Do we really lack the root systems to contribute positively to the global ecology of theatre.

In a second we will grow the topic to include the sustainability of theatre, the luminous word-spores that pass from the playwright’s over- rather than inter-active screen too quickly to critique before they fill the stages with the vitality of homespun pastiches. Does every culture really need its great social-realist work? … again and again and again. Again and again, for each generation, for each immediate cultural context. Because? No history.

And yes, therefore renounce. To clarify: where can we look to find the history that we’ve lost by waging a cultural war on the institution of theatre in New Zealand? Because we won’t find it among the ‘many superb but neglected plays’ languishing on the shelves of Playmarket. Although, I concede that that would be a start.

To further clarify: the ‘transit lounge’ or ‘refugee camp’ culture to which we resign ourselves having renounced our deference to the bloodlines of the author refers to a sense of time rather than a sense of place.

But even repeating the sense of your sentence I find that same unappetising taste in my mouth: refugee camp? transit lounge? don’t they in turn refer to the catastrophe of history we are at present witnessing globally? the numbers forced into involuntary exile, dispossessed, refused entry…?

Where are the NZ plays bearing witness to what is happening on a world stage? or are those playwrights in turn forced into internal exile, dispossessed and refused entry, in a way which although kinder is no less decisive?

Corus:

Is SImon Taylor drunk?

Simon Taylor:

Not so as he cannot refrain from hitting the upper-case button. Nice of you to ask. Cheers.

David Murray:

The role of Theatre – including local theatre companies such as Circa Theatre is to entertain, to enlighten, and to educate.

[link]
[link]

How any particular troupe decides to do that – either by choosing to perform plays written by New Zealanders or plays written by persons of any other nationality – is their prerogative. Surely this play – an international story written in German and translated into English – is a perfect choice for the International Festival due to its multi-faceted international character and, not least, because it entertains.

John Smythe:

I do not ask for “the great social-realist work” Simon. Just one example of a long neglected work penned with ebullient creative skill is Bruce Masons Hongi (first written for radio in 1968, revised for stage by 1974). His view of the role of British royalty in facilitating the musket wars is something we should all be familiar with. Is anyone?

Nor have I specified the “bloodlines of playwrights”. Roger Hall, who has done more than anyone to hold the mirror up to NZ society, is English born. Leo Gen Peters, who led and directed the devising of last year’s excellent Death and the Dreamlife of Elephants – set in central Wellington – is American.

There have been many NZ plays involving immigrants (Pacific Island, Indian, Chinese, Arabic 
) and of course that is a distinctive and important part of the NZ experience. And when they distill the particular well, they are universal.

NZ playwrights have also addressed global themes. Dean Parker’s Baghdad, Baby! springs to mind. I venture to suggest that what is simultaneously homegrown yet exotic to white middle-class theatre audiences and international festivals (e.g. Maori and Pacific Island theatre especially) gets more of a chance in better funded productions than Pakeha stories, which are easily supplanted by British, American and Australian ones.

David, your argument is more valid for totally commercial privately owned theatre companies. I think there is more responsibility with public funding. And all theatre companies will tell you their biggest commercial successes have been with NZ plays. It is a sad day if we see the performing arts as no different than any other item of trade.

Simon Taylor:

John, a touch of lĂšse majestĂ© to say “I do not ask for the great social-realist work”! Well, I certainly don’t. But perhaps if you’re in a position to say “I do not ask” & so on, you’re in a position to ask Circa why it chose this play. And not Hongi, which surely ought to have sprung to mind directly. Had you suggested it.

I don’t essentially agree with you. Because if state funded theatres are obliged to produce NZ plays – and I still think the question needs to be considered, What is a NZ play? – then New Zealanders are obliged to ensure that state funded theatres not only survive but flourish.

The issue is equally political and economic. While the funder, or patron, does not oblige the theatres it funds to produce NZ plays… then… and while the funder, or patron, does not provide for a dramaturg or give the director(s) enough time to engage in dramaturgy, then, it is hardly surprising nobody’s dusting off Bruce Mason or The Wind and the Rain, or what have you.

We have, in other words, to ask for policy, which while not restrictive is realistic in generating a vital theatre that includes the NZ playwright’s contribution as much as anyone’s, without giving it precedence. I object to the precedence you give the playwright. It smacks of the easy answer with an aftertaste of the ideological: since he is an Englishman! Scrub that, A NZ playwright, then it is a NZ play! As I said, the authorial preference.

The Circa production is a NZ work of a German play. You say you’re not concerned with bloodlines?

The state funds on the bases of cultural identity and proximity – to what is readily understood because it has been done before. More should be asked of the funder.

And, John, I refuse to be drawn into the argument over whether Roger Hall has done more than anyone to hold the mirror up to NZ society, presented here with inimitable flippancy. He has of course done nothing more (nor less) than hold the mirror up to himself.

And, John, Roger entered the profession when there was one, not the “items of trade” you so rightly decry. As a playwright he benefitted from his engagement with professional community theatres inestimably, when there were such things. He was fostered by and in a milieu that simply does not exist, that has in fact been undone.

Knowing how it was undone might help us put it back together, so long as we don’t stitch ourselves up with the exercise of false conscience, pursuing shibboleths like ‘the obligation to produce New Zealand plays.’ RNZ’s state is about to get a lot sorrier and there was a time it was the nursery and provided the necessaries for NZ writers, many playwrights among them, of criticism and encouragement. We ought not to let what’s left pass without a fight. [link]

Corus:

He is drunk.

Michael Smythe:

Corus – don’t be unkind – Simon’s incoherent rambling may simply be the natural and inevitable outcome of attempting to avoid stitching himself up with the exercise of false conscience and /or pursuing shibboleths.

Simon – It’s hard to reconcile your nostalgia for the good old days of theatre companies and your championing of National Radio with your not very successful efforts to pour scorn on John’s very legitimate, and clearly communicated, concerns. His key questions are dead simple – If tax-payer funded theatres do not get new New Zealand plays to the stage who will? And is there a more legitimate time to do it than as a contribution to an international arts festival?

The ‘what is a New Zealand play anyway’ question is a red herring swimming down a cul-de-sac. All that is relevant to this discussion is that the work being reviewed is clearly not a New Zealand play.

Simon Taylor:

Michael, perhaps you heard it on the bloodline and can extrapolate the dead simplicity of John’s Key Questions naturally and inevitably. I am happy to read that they are:

If tax-payer funded theatres do not get new New Zealand plays to the stage who will?

And is there a more legitimate time to do it than as a contribution to an international arts festival?

The first question is surely answered by John’s

the groundswell created by the creative co-ops whose often extraordinary works are celebrated on this website.

The second question, desperately seeking legitimacy on Circa’s behalf for Circa’s contribution to an international arts festival, Circa should be asked to answer.

The shame and crime here, on which I drunkenly pour my incoherent scorn, is both that there no longer exists a national “ecology of theatre” because of the way public funds are dispensed, because CNZ [link] lacks policy directives, among other and less important factors, AND that when in a position to condemn the agency that funds Circa, from the public coffer, John would rather lead the critique, the discussion, down the cul-de-sac to chase the red herring of moral (read ‘cultural’) rectitude – in an arena that is already ethically compromised – by chorusing that it ought to have done the right thing by us, and, with unwitting irony, suggesting that

the role of New Zealand companies is to produce New Zealand work, especially of the kind that might be attractive to other international festivals.

It is for me, Michael, to reconcile my nostalgia for “the good old days of theatre companies [sic!] and [my] championing of National Radio with [my] not very successful efforts to pour scorn on John’s very legitimate, and clearly communicated, concerns.” I think I’ll pour another.

Cheers.

National Scandal
croydon
enomy
pique-assiettes
representationalism
theatricality

Comments (0)

Permalink