Some of my Photography...with extracts of poetry (that is not mine)

Goodbye

If you are still alive when you read this,
close your eyes. I am
under their lids, growing black.


- Bill Knott, in Surrealist Poetry, ed. Edward B. Germain ( Middlesex: Penguin Books, 1978)

'O plunge your hands in water,
      plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
      And wonder what you've missed.

'The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
        The dessert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
        A lane to the land of the dead.

-from 'As I walked out one evening...' , W. H. Auden

Wld it be different with a different pen? Of about to within which
what. Poppies grew out of the pile of broken-up cement. I began
again & again. These clouds are not apt to burn off. The yellow room
has a sober hue. Each sentence accounts for its place. Not this. Old
chairs in the back yard rotting from winter. Grease on the stove top
sizzled & spat. It's the same, only different. Ammonia's odour hangs in
the air. Not not this.
   Analogies to quicksand. Not that either. Burglar's book. Last week I
wrote "I can barely grip this pen."White butterfly atop the gray con-
crete. Not so. Exactly. What then? What it means to "fiddle with" a
guitar. I found I'd begun. One orange, one white, two gray. This morn-
ing my lip is swollen, in pain. Nothing's discrete. I straddled an old chair
out behind the anise. A bit a part a lake. I cld have done it some other
way. Pilots & meteorologists disagree about the sky. The figure five
figures in. The way new shoots stretch out. Each finger has a seperate
function. Like choosing the form of one's execution.

-from Tjanting, by Ron Silliman.

'By degrees we beheld the infinite Abyss, fiery as the smoke of a burning city; beneath us at an immense distance was the sun, black but shining [;] round it were fiery tracks on which revolv'd vast spiders, crawling after their prey; which flew or rather swum in the infinite deep, in the most terrific shapes of annimals sprung from corruption. & the air was full of them, & seemed composed of them; these are Devils. and are called powers of the air, I now asked my companion which was my eternal lot? he said, between the black and white spiders...'

-from, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, William Blake.

Wherever in this city, screens flicker
with pornography, with science-fiction vampires,
victimized hirelings bending to the lash,
we also have to walk . . . if simply as we walk
through the rainsoaked garbage, the tabloid cruelties
of our own neighborhoods.
We need to grasp our lives inseperable
from those rancid dreams, that blurt of metal, those disgraces,
and the red begonia perilously flashing
from a tenement still six stories high,
or the long legged young girls playing ball
in the junior highschool playground.
No one has imagined us. We want to live like trees,
sycamores blazing through the sulfuric air,
dappled with scars, still exuberantly budding,
our animal passion rooted in the city.

-  part I, in 'Twenty-One Love Poems', Adrienne Rich

FILM LOG: JANUARY

[all images courtesy of respective distributors]

 So, in a moment of inspired boredom:  a revelation of daringly uncool proportions dawned upon a young man...a young man with whom this paticular blog mollusc is acquainted with...well, he decided that in order to capitalise upon the time consuming hobby of reclusively watching films, pillaging amazon and idly perusing HMV, it would be beneficial to life, cinema, the internet and presumably a whole host of other important aspects of modern life...to keep a film blog. I know...pioneering...audacious...madness!!? A step too far, an originality uncalled for in an age of tentative blogging, an age in which cinema remains a relatively little talked of novelty...surely this was leaping into an unfathomable abyss, such courage, such goddam couarage! Still, prevailing with a sense of mild dissapointment (regretting his digression of unfunny sarcasm) the mollusc followed suit and joined in the film logging revelry. The rules were simple: no film should be listed that had been watched before, films should be rated out of ten (none of this predictable five star bullshit... in a time of mavericks the 'out of ten' rating is king!) , all comments made about said films should be expressed with an air of near pretentious authority, reviews should be brief ( ideally one sentence- realistically a large and jumbled couple of sentences, inviting dubious use of odd punctuation)...also all comments made should be read, recieved and pondered upon with a fanatical eye of scrutiny...as if these words are profound pebbles of wisdom, plucked from the shoreline of anonymous genius. Failing that, bad grammar, bad writing, and bad taste, should be dutifully ignored. Anger Management is a good film. I dont care what anyone says. With that initial gem of insight I bid thee farewell...and enjoy...this fairly tepid critique of ecclectic films!

My Winnipeg – Guy Maddin – DVD (3/1/12) – A unique and inventive documentary that sleepwalks its way through a poetry of memory, film and histories, creating a dream of obscurity and absurdity. – 7/10

If…. – Lindsay Anderson – DVD (4/1/12) – An uprising against authority within an old boarding school, segmented into chapters; the rebellion is depicted with an unnerving and surreal undercurrent of homoeroticism, oppression and humour. 6/10

Enter the Void – Gasper Noé – DVD (5/1/12) – An interesting concept ( based on ideas from the Tibetan Book of The Dead) following a young man after his death, his soul in continual purgatory floating over scenes from  the past and present and the people he knew-until eventual reincarnation. However, what could have been a brave and visionary film becomes an infuriatingly clumsy and repetitive exercise in immature and frustrating filmmaking; patronising the viewer through removing any sense of subtlety in favour of a bored oblivion of strobe lights and mumbled pseudo philosophy. It becomes an adolescent crash course in trauma, sex and trippy camera techniques, fuelled by endless transparent excuses for extravagant lighting. 5/10

The Child (L’Enfant) – Jean-Pierre Dardenne and Luc Dardenne – DVD (5/1/12) – A simple and understated drama, beautifully observed and brilliantly acted-it’s emotional force grows long after viewing. 7/10

Goodfellas – Martin Scorsese – DVD (8/1/12) – After seeing Casino my reaction was comparatively muted, as they are such similar films (in structure/style/characters/music). However, undeniably a great and compelling film-Joe Pesci is fantastic (essentially the same character as in Casino), missed De Niro being a more central character. A glorious proliferation of the phrase ‘Breaking my balls!’ and of course the tense…‘How am I funny…?’ 8/10

The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie – Luis Buñuel – DVD (9/1/12) – A ridiculous, absurd and playful satire on the superficial traditions of bourgeois artifice; although the dream sequences are entertaining, the film’s formulaic dinner interruptions soon become repetitive, bordering on clumsy. Still: an entertaining oddity.  Best scene: the melancholy monologue of a lieutenant recalling his traumatic childhood, casually ambushing three women at a tearoom to launch into a tale of ghosts and murder…also, cockroaches on the piano keys-the piano as a torture device- connotations of Un Chien Andalou  6/10

The Saddest Music in the World – Guy Maddin – DVD (17/1/12) – A warped melodrama that flickers between darkly comical and wildly absurd, all through the surreal and shifting lens of a dream like black and white scratched camera. An inventive story (based on Ishaguru’s original screenplay), that while ridiculous and grotesque, also manages to create moments of surprisingly emotive and memorable beauty. An eccentric, unique, musical and accomplished slice of Surrealist cinema. 8/10

Red Road – Andrea Arnold – DVD (25/1/12) – Compulsive viewing; the camera follows the female protagonist’s moves with the same perplexed obsession as she displays, following apparent strangers on her multiple CCTV screens. The isolation of her job, her life and the frightening situation she wilfully constructs, conspire to create a cold and isolated environment of loneliness that, as the narrative and characters build, becomes all the more powerful. Pretty harrowing-but displays the same sensitive camera work evident in her later films ( Fish Tank and Wuthering Heights), that is at once delicate and raw-a sensitivity to light and texture that seems to suggest a genuinely individual cinematic style emerging. 8/10

Shame – Steve McQueen – Cinema (26/1/12) – A stylish and exciting follow up to an astonishing debut. Having seen Hunger, which established McQueen as a daring and provocative director, Shame seems comparatively less visually confrontational. Fassbender’s stunning performance is allowed to dominate attention; the visuals becoming less strikingly arthouse and more filmic. This provides the space and platform from which Fassbender’s character development can confidently drive the film’s power. McQueen is obviously a very individual and innovative talent, but in this film acting eclipses cinematography. In the films of Andrea Arnold and Steve McQueen Britain has acquired two new and progressive directors, both unafraid to be artistically bold. 7.8/10 (why the pretentious ‘.8’? Well, not entirely sure…it was better than a 7.5…and not quite an 8…that’s the unhelpful numerical logic…otherwise, I just felt – despite the need for an element of cold detachment in the film, it was the moments of dialogue that shone…and, maybe there just wasn’t enough – I felt myself wanting to care more, wanting to be more involved. For the exploration of ‘sex addiction’ to maybe surface more overtly in dialogue…one of the few references is when his sister dismissively sneers ‘Don’t talk to me about a healthy sex-life’…I just feel that there could have been more made out of it, for a director who is clearly gifted with controlling and presenting conversation I wanted more!! Maybe a result of too high expectations…however still a dam good film…and maybe I’ve been harsh).

The Descendants – Alexander Payne – Cinema (29/1/12) – A melancholy and gently humorous portrayal of a family coping with unexpected tragedy and change. The script is fantastic, with understated emotion that builds without ever becoming sentimentalised or clumsy. Roger Ebert, in his review of The Descendants (for the Chicago Sun Times), insightfully credits George Clooney as a presence of intelligence in the film. Clooney plays ‘Matt King’ with nuanced gestures, measured emotion, pace and control – all of which allows the audience to infer a weathered maturity beyond what is said or physically elaborated. This ‘intelligence’ conspires to elevate the suave (insanely irritating) Clooney cliché lady’s man persona…allowing instead a far more developed and interesting character to emerge…and not simply a new take on that  ‘Clooney’ image. 8/10

Until February.......

Two Poems and a Short Story Extract - in the NCLA

http://www.frictionmagazine.co.uk/2012/02/03/welcome-to-issue-4-of-friction-magazine/

Some Poetry by 'Ze Masterrs'Accompanied by my Photos

 There was much to be said in favor of storms
  But you seem to have abandoned them in favor of endless
       light
I cannot say that I think the change much of an
       improvement.
There is something fearful in these summer nights that go on
       forever. . . .

-from 'The Skaters' (in the collection Rivers And Mountains), by John Ashbery.

a poem is a city filled with streets and sewers
filled with saints, heroes, beggars, madmen,
filled with banality and booze,
filled with rain and thunder and periods of
drought, a poem is a city at war.
a poem is a city asking the clock why,
a poem is a city burning,
a poem is a city under guns
its barbershops filled with cynical drunks,

-from 'a poem is a city' (in the collection The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over The Hills), by Charles Bukowski.

Of all the iron beds in paradise
yours was the most cruel
and I was smoke in your mirror
and you sluiced your hair with jade,
but you were a woman and I was a
boy, but boy enough for an iron bed
and man enough for wine
and you.

-from 'for one I knew' (in the collection The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over The Hills), by Charles Bukowski

 Still, I am prepared for this voyage, and for anything else you
        may care to mention.
Not that I am not afraid, but there is very little time left.

-from 'The Skaters' (in the collection Rivers And Mountains), by John Ashbery.

Slightly encouraged, he dipped his brush
In the sea, murmering a heartfelt prayer:
"My soul, when I paint this next portrait
Let it be you who wrecks the canvas."
The news spread like wildfire through the buildings:
He had gone back to the sea for his subject.

-from 'The Painter' (in the collection Some Trees), by John Ashbery.

as if it were a scene made-up by the mind
that is not mine, but is a made place,

that is mine, it is so near the heart,
an eternal pasture folded in all thought
so that there is a hall therein

that is a made place, created by light
wherefrom the shadows that are forms fall.

-from 'Often I am Permitted to Return to a Meadow' (in the collection The Opening of the Field), by Robert Duncan.

 How all beings into all beings pass,
How the great Beasts eat the human Grass,
And the faces of Men in the World's Glass
Are faces of Apes, Birds, Diamonds,
Worlds and insubstantial Shapes
Conjured out of the dust - Alas!
These things I know.
Worlds out of Worlds in Magic grow.

-from 'The Ballad of the Enamord Mage' (in the collection The Opening of the Field), by Robert Duncan.

We drop like planks from a rotting floor
as the world strives to unlock the bone that weights its brain.
(God is a lonely place without steak.)

-from 'poem for personnel managers' (in the collection The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over The Hills), by Charles Bukowski

and if the flies wore clothes on their
backs
and all the buildings burned in
golden fire,
if heaven shook like a belly dancer
and all the atom bombs began to
cry,
some people would be young and nothing
else,
and the rest would be the same
the rest would be the same.

-from 'footnote upon the construction of the masses:' (in the collection The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over The Hills), by Charles Bukowski

(razor, carcrash, turpentine, gaspipe)
(good job, marriage, investments in the market)
what is left of
myself.

-from 'these mad windows that taste life and cut me if I go through them' (in the collection The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over The Hills), by Charles Bukowski

The horses were more real than
my father
more real than God
and they could have stepped on my
feet but they didn't
they could have done all kinds of horrors
but they didn't

-from 'ice for the eagles' (in the collection The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over The Hills), by Charles Bukowski

This is what you wanted to hear, so why
Did you think of listening to something else? We are all
       talkers
It is true, but underneath the talk lies
The moving and not wanting to be moved, the loose
Meaning, untidy and simple like a threshing floor.

-from 'Soonest Mended' (in the collection The Double Dream of Spring), by John Ashbery.

Night after night this message returns, repeated
In the flickering bulbs of the sky, raised past us, taken away
      from us.
Yet ours over and over until the end that is past truth,
The being of our sentences, in the climate that fostered them,
Not ours to own, like a book, but to be with, and sometimes
To be without, alone and desperate.

-from 'Soonest Mended' (in the collection The Double Dream of Spring), by John Ashbery.

Photos taken of Borth (Wales) station...and exerpt from 'The Skaters'

The sands are frantic
In the hourglass. But there is time
To change, to utterly destroy
That too-familiar image
Lurking in the glass
Each morning, at the edge of the mirror.

The train is still sitting in the station.
You only dreamed it was in motion.

- taken from 'The Skaters'( in the collection  Rivers and Mountains), by John Ashbery.

Photo from the Tate: Jannis Kounellis

He put the birdhouse where you wanted it,
And I think I just felt the earth move.

The Unilever Series: Taciter Dean at the Tate Modern

In the darkened, cavernous space of the Tate's Turbine Hall a 13 metre screen stands. Not only does this impressive piece stand as a moving tribute to the demise of analogue filmaking, but also, in its own right,  successfully commands the space with an ambition comparable to Olafur Eliason's 'The Weather Project' (in which the Turbine Hall was basked in the HUUUUGE orange glow of a recreated sun). Both exhibitions/installations genuinely invigorate the daunting hangar-like space with a simple, but memorably affecting, vision. Watching the stretched screen flick between the industrial cigar of a monolithic chimney, to lapping waves on a shoreline, sprouting mushrooms, abstract colours, escalator steps and the slow inquisition of a snail on a leaf...all conspire to create a beautiful and surreal cinematic poem. The screen is utilized not conventionally as a simple window on to the world view-but instead  seems aware of its static property as an installation, becoming at times like a moving portrait-painting realised in motion...at times very tangibly like a window (not an unreflexive, unquestioning window on to the world eye), fragmented into stain glass cathedral gravitas. Even bored toddlers scurrying around the empty and dark hall couldnt detract from the magic. If anything their tiny sillhouettes, scuttling in sugar high circles, served to further enhance the monumental size and power of the screen. Running right up to the 13 foot cinematic beast, unlike their musing and dull parental counterparts, the children enhanced the viewing-unwittingly evoking the interactive power of cinema.

It also seemed a paticularly pertinent time to see the Tacita Dean film - rather than simply a fond nostalgia for the reel and cell, projectionist craft of film-it reminds us of the importance of such shifting milestones in cinema. Timing which coincides with the release of Michel Hazanavicius' inventive silent film 'The Artist'. The film follows a silent film star (complete with admirable moustache and comedy pet dog) struggling to find work with the advent of the 'talkies'. A film therefore dealing with the possible trauma of change, and one that explores the impact of technology upon an artistic medium. The tension between technical advances and artistic loyalties...with the welcome addition of a pet dog. There is one scene in which our ill fated star (Valentin) is shown feverishly tearing apart the reels of film, film that has come to represent his faded past and former glory. This physical grappling with the art form resonates with the Tacita Dean film; it seems Valentin's outburst of desperation in which he tries to destroy film comes unnervingly close to reminding us (as viewers...as an audience) how film, as a physicality, is being lost. However, that is somewhat warping the purpose of the scene through a lack of context - what could be comically intriguing, is a modern update: a contemporary aspiring actor/actress in a moment of career darkness opens her apple mac to calmly click away at the countless tiny digital folders in which her life...her work, is stored. Not quite as visceral...no need for fire or a frantic tearing of celluloid-just the detached tap of a touch pad.

 Although the film/digital change has long been on the cards...and it is woefully far from me to have any stumbling clue about the intricate history... and general facts of the whole...thing. It is clear enough that instead of simply being a change of economic advantage and advanced versatility, it will mark a definite shift in the aesthetic properties,style and editing nature of films to come. I have no overwhelming romantic attachment to the warmth or look of film over new digitalized approaches (as I am not a self proclaimed cinephile...but rather a procrastinator with a love of films...and a dangerous addiction to amazon purchases), but it seems significant to realise and consider this change with the attention and time it deserves. The style and approach to watching film, and making film, are changing with all the agility of the morph-tastic opening credits of David Fincher's remake of 'The Girl With Dragon Tattoo'...things be movin' quick...and in such breathless times the ability to sit down and absorb the atmosphere, scale, and beauty of the Tacita Dean film offers a much needed pause for contemplation.