Unreal Nature

October 31, 2015

‘With Is No Charge’

Filed under: Uncategorized — unrealnature @ 5:39 am

… wherever you open the book, he would be there — sleeping, walking, spending his time …

Finishing up with That Which Is Not Drawn: William Kentridge & Rosalind C. Morris Conversations (2014):

[ … ]

Rosalind Morris You have spoken about things being trapped in books, ideas being trapped in books, and the implication is that they — the trapped things — want to get out or should be liberated, but much of your work is on the surface of books. It is an invocation of books and a citation of books but the book itself is as much an object as a content.

William Kentridge Yes, I use the book as a support for actual drawings, drawing actually on the pages of books.

Kentridge_2ndHandReading

[ … ]

RM I heard Orhan Pamuk in a conversation with Andreas Huyssen, describing his reading life as having two stages. In the first part of his life he read desperately and with absolute passion, but needy passion, to form himself. He was running and reading through the lettered world, asking who was being what, what are the options, finding nearly infinite possibilities for self-transformation in fiction.

[line break added to make this easier to read online] And then at some point in his life, and this is a point that he grieves, he realized he had stopped reading to form himself and had started reading to confirm himself. And then, if I recall, he said he’s become a different man — he’s no longer becoming anything else. And this induces in him a kind of melancholy. But I recognize it. I myself have a kind of nostalgia for that maddened reading that one did as a young person.

WK And to think ‘Oh my god, how lucky, here is someone who has never yet read that book — it’s still ahead of them.’ …

[ … ]

WK I had a poster in my childhood, for many years, done by Dumile Feni [South African artist, 1942-91], advertising a jazz concert at Mofolo Hall in Soweto. It had a great drawing of jazz musicians. It was an ammonia dye-transfer architect’s poster and finally faded away and disappeared. But it had a text which intrigued me for years: ‘With is no charge.’ It drove me crazy. It was not just saying ‘no charge’ or ‘with no charge’ or ‘is free’ or, even, ‘with no charge.’ If it did, I certainly would not have remembered it for forty years. So, when I talk about awkwardness, or riddles one wants to solve, those things that one desires to set right or make sense of — that’s what compels you.

[ … ]

WK … There is a tract in a book, from the middle ages, or the fifteenth century, which describes a political prisoner in, I think, France. He was a sultan from somewhere in the East, who had been captured in one of the Crusades and brought back to France and held as a prisoner of war for twenty years. His brother, the new sultan, didn’t want him released and so wouldn’t pay the ransom. …

[line break added] So, wherever you open the book, he would be there — sleeping, walking, spending his time marking the wall … The book as prison. [ … ] The fact that you have a person in a text that changes — you can turn the page to find that he’s still there, you can turn back and find he’s still there walking, then, over there, sleeping, then fifty pages later he’s still sleeping …

[ … ]

WK … it makes one think — all this thinking, all this writing, all this time, that this man is still here. Yet there’s even more thinking and time passing in the writing of that text. It’s an extraordinary embodiment of mind.

My most recent previous post from this book is here.

-Julie

http://www.unrealnature.com/

 

October 30, 2015

Like Air Pierced by Rain

Filed under: Uncategorized — unrealnature @ 5:45 am

… like life, pierced by other lives, like air pierced by rain.

This is from Knight’s Move by Viktor Shklovsky (2005):

… Like air with raindrops, life is permeated with other lives, other worlds.

One wheel is turning and intersecting with another wheel. The machine is working in another machine.

This cannot be, yet it is. You know it yourself.

Twisted into another world, my wife lies there and sleeps, not knowing that I have committed an offense in a third world.

Our life is being woven on a strange loom. The threads in it crisscross.

When the fabric is taken from the loom, we see something strange: not the fabric and not something resembling a bridge and not something resembling an airplane, but a wheel working where there is already a wheel working at a different angle, like life, pierced by other lives, like air pierced by rain.

My most recent previous post from Shklovsky’s book is here.

-Julie

http://www.unrealnature.com/

 

October 29, 2015

And You Understand

Filed under: Uncategorized — unrealnature @ 5:44 am

… It’s William Blake’s idea of seeing the world without filters, which many people would claim is impossible …

This is from the author’s interview with Pawel Wojtasik in Avant-Doc: Intersections of Documentary and Avant-Garde Cinema by Scott MacDonald (2015):

[ … ]

Wojtasik: … My sewage-treatment film — Dark Sun Squeeze — made itself, framed itself, and edited itself; it set all of the parameters, and everything was as it’s supposed to be.

Wojtasik_DSS

MacDonald: Where was Dark Sun Squeeze shot?

Wojtasik: In West Haven, Connecticut, at Enthone Omi, Inc. The film was a result of a series of investigations, which began with supermarkets. Soon after we arrived in the States [from Poland], my mother dragged me to a supermarket; she was so excited about America and all these products. I was nauseated by her excitement, but I took my camera and filmed the shelves, the products, all in negative. After that, I wondered, “What’s next?”

[line break added to make this easier to read online] And I thought, “Trash!” — because all this stuff ends up as trash, so I went to a garbage transfer station where trucks came in and the trash comes out of their giant bellies. After filming trash, I thought, “What would be another good subject along these lines,” and I thought, “Shit.” I asked around and found out about this sewage treatment plant in West Haven. I called them, told them what I wanted to do, and they said, “Sure, why not?”

They gave me a tour of the plant, an amazing place. When I came back to film, they told me, “You’re on your own; try not to fall into the tanks, because we’re not getting you out of there” — there were no guard rails or anything. I said “Great!” and soon I was a man alone in a vast sea of sewage. Very existential. During the time when I was shooting, my girlfriend left me for someone else and I was in a lot of pain, but somehow the smell of this sewage and the experience of documenting this process were very healing. In my mind, that break-up and this film are related.

Dark Sun Squeeze is constructed very logically and builds in intensity. In the end this mass of shit feels unstoppable and it’s coming at you, but the film begins with close-ups of bubbling. The way the sewage treatment process works is that air is pumped into these thirty-foot-deep tanks: the solid excrement is sitting there and they dump tons of bacteria into the tanks, the same bacteria that process leaves in a forest. The bacteria are actually doing the work, but the process needs air, so they pump air in — that’s why there are bubbles

I made one or two hand-held shots, but everything else was shot on a tripod, very carefully framed. There’s a scene near the beginning of the film where I was shooting in wide angle, and you see an expansive image of this tank; you don’t immediately know what is in that tank, sparkling in the sun, then you begin to see these floating chunks and you understand.

[ … ]

MacDonald: There’s an unusual, mysterious sensibility behind your films, almost a frightening sensibility. The opening image of the version of Pigs I’m most familiar with is so visceral that for a while I couldn’t continue to watch it. Also, there’s a hysteria in the pigs’ voices.

Wojtasik_Pigs

Wojtasik: Especially during the feeding frenzy. The pigs normally make sounds like a dissonant symphony. In the film, we see them as individuals or in small groups for a time; then suddenly, at feeding time, we’re seeing a whole mass of them, piling up on each other with the sounds of their voices drowning out everything else.

MacDonald: Frightening

Wojtasik: Fear — you’re on the right track. That is the motivating force. And the counter-force to fear, the way I see it, is pure perception, or naked perception. It’s William Blake’s idea of seeing the world without filters, which many people would claim is impossible …

My most recent previous post from MacDonald’s book is here.

-Julie

http://www.unrealnature.com/

 

October 28, 2015

The Shy, Tender Meeting of Strangers

Filed under: Uncategorized — unrealnature @ 5:56 am

… of photographic seeing not only as a form of noticing and pointing out but as the basis of a human connection, a form of empathy.

This is from the essay ‘Consciousness Breathing’ by David Chandler found in The Whiteness of the Whale: American Photographs 1998-2011 by Paul Graham (2015):

We are in The Present, turning and unfolding the pages of Paul Graham’s 2012 book of that name. The photographs we see are taken on the streets of New York, or rather they monitor those streets. For there’s something systematic in Graham’s tracking of people over short sequences of two or three images, the photographer’s focus following their movement or shifting among the crowd from person to person, from picture to picture. Street corner vantage points are taken up, and held, sight lines are drawn, and as people drift in and out of the frame the photographs appear to replicate Graham’s mind wandering, his attention varying …

PaulGraham_ThePresent02

… the sequences of photographs frame what Graham has called ‘a growing consciousness of the moment in the shy, tender meeting of strangers … the recognition of consciousness breathing.’

… the sequence of pictures firmly registers Graham’s presence, not only as an active observer but also as someone absorbing information and learning from what he is seeing. One of the many rewards of [Graham’s book] shimmer [a shimmer of possibility (2007)], as a viewer, a reader, is to be allowed inside this process, and, in a sense that is also gently instructive, to share in it.

This is a long way from the image of the photographer on the street that has flickered away in the photographic imagination since the advent of the Leica in the 1930s; the compulsive, almost frenzied figure, whose mythic striving for the exemplary picture conflates the intuitive and the instinctual with preternatural powers of anticipation, judgment and intelligence. So often these traits and the restless physical activity propelled by them have conjured predatory, even animalistic associations.

[line break added to make this easier to read online] Captivated by Robert Frank’s physical movement, Jack Kerouac described him as ‘prowling like a cat, or an angry bear,’ reiterating the now pervasive hunting metaphor in which the passive subject is the victim of a violent intrusion. More subtly perhaps, Joel Meyerowitz remembers first hand experience of Frank ‘sliding and weaving his way’ around his subjects and ‘through their lives.’ …

[line break added] … Truman Capote remembered once watching Henri Cartier-Bresson on a street in New Orleans, dancing along the pavement like an agitated dragonfly, three Leicas swinging from straps around his neck, a fourth hugged to his eye: click, click, click (the camera seems to be part of his own body) clicking away with a joyous intensity, a religious absorption.’ Similarly the writer John Malcolm Brinnin observed that ‘while he is focusing on one thing [Cartier-Bresson] quivers in the imminence of ten others … When there’s nothing in view, he’s mute, unapproachable, humming-bird tense.’

[ … ]

… There is nothing ‘decisive’ in these photographs [a sequence in Graham’s book The Present]; across each image visual information is incidental and fragmentary, and there may be other pictures taken between them in which we could track the time-bound events more closely. But what we glean from the three pictures included in the book is an impression of selective attention as it changes and the acuity of that attention from which we, the viewers, can begin to grasp the texture of things and imagine ourselves into the scene.

[line break added] Once again, the photographs suggest the photographer’s tangible, embodied presence on the street as an active observer; the matching of the camera’s precision with the gentle, equivocal nature of Graham’s deliberate repetition, enhancing that sense, too, of photographic seeing not only as a form of noticing and pointing out but as the basis of a human connection, a form of empathy.

PaulGraham_ThePresent

[ … ]

… The political undertones of visual inconsistency rumble on through the book — that feeling of an unspecified social malaise rooted in perceptual failings — but Graham also remains in thrall to those ‘kaleidoscopic sights’ and ‘visual complexes,’ and ‘the innumerable suggestions they offer’; the casting of the city’s spell that also creates him in the act of photographing.

-Julie

http://www.unrealnature.com/

 

October 27, 2015

Mood Between Them

Filed under: Uncategorized — unrealnature @ 5:53 am

… mutating cuddly security into brittle vulnerability, with a quietly breath-stopping sense of imminent violence.

This is my concluding post from Modern Painting and Sculpture: 1880 to the Present at The Museum of Modern Art, edited by John Elderfield (2004). This book uses extracts from other books to comment on the featured artists (I’m extracting from those extracts… ) If that text does not refer specifically to the MoMA art that is shown in the parent book, I may choose to use some other work by the artist to illustrate my post. Today’s first is from The Drawings of Richard Diebenkorn by John Elderfield (1988):

Diebenkorn’s deepest feeling is not simply for space and light: when he lists these as his interests, he places mood between them. Neither is his feeling, finally, for place. It is, rather, for his own sense of place: he does not only look out on the world but examines his place in the world as he does so.

Diebenkorn_Ocean_Park_No_129
Richard Diebenkorn, Ocean Park No. 129, 1984

Next is from On the Edge: Contemporary Art fromthe Werner and Elaine Dannheiser Collection by Robert Storr (1997):

… Far from playing hard to get with his audience, Nauman seeks to involve people with hard-to-grasp ideas and hard-to-face uncertainties or ambivalences, and he is prepared to use any method — formal contradictions, verbal gymnastics, blunt declarations, disturbing images, raw humor — to push aside distractions, break down resistance, and make contact.

[line break added to make this easier to read online] Correspondingly, the unease created by Nauman’s all-out and all-fronts assault on his own and other people’s mental habits expresses itself in many ways: recoil at the sight of an apparently grim object, confusion at the sight of an inexplicably abstract one, surprise at the intensity of sounds or lights, embarrassed laughter at a crude joke or cartoon. Whatever that discomfort’s manifestation, however, its importance is the same. For Nauman, thinking is feeling. To do the one is to do, even to be impelled to do, the other.

Nauman01

Finally, this is from Modern Contemporary: Art at MoMA since 1980 by Kirk Varnedoe (2000):

… A chilling ambiguity can be found in the spindly upright crib of Mona Hatoum’s Silence. There, the glass tubing simultaneously evokes and cancels early modern notions of precision and clarity … , mutating cuddly security into brittle vulnerability, with a quietly breath-stopping sense of imminent violence.

Hatoum_Silence
Mona Hatoum, Silence, 1994

My most recent previous post from this book is here.

-Julie

http://www.unrealnature.com/

 

October 26, 2015

Uncanny Delight

Filed under: Uncategorized — unrealnature @ 5:55 am

… Both … were in revolt against the idea of the sublime landscape as an icon of solemnity …

Continuing through High & Low: Modern Art and Popular Culture by Kirk Varnedoe and Adam Gopnik (1990):

Herriman_KrazyKat01

Krazy Kat is an imaginary vision of a perfectly happy and harmonious place. As much as any artifact of the twentieth century, it seems to have achieved the status of the joyful unifying popular comedy that criticism struggles to name — the form that Baudelaire, looking at E.T.A. Hoffmann, called “absolute” comedy; that Auden, looking at P.G. Wodehouse called “Edenic comedy”, and that the Russian literary historian Mikhail Bakhtin, looking at Rabelais, called “carnival comedy.”

[line break added to make this easier to read online] It is arcadia without nostalgia; the visual language in Herriman looks “modern” in a way that, say, McCay’s and Fisher’s invented worlds do not. Yet mutual incomprehension between high and low still afflicts discussion of Herriman’s place as a modern artist. Just as the high tradition either excludes Herriman, or sees him as a peculiar special case, the admirers of the low tradition treat the provisional categories of art history as though they were timeless descriptive terms.

[line break added] So, for instance, a recent admirer of Herriman’s could say, loftily, that though Herriman uses “Surrealist devices,” he is not a Surrealist, when the point of course is that Herriman’s style was fully evolved before Surrealism employed some of Herriman’s devices. The problematic affinity can’t be wished away by taking it out of history.

Herriman_KrazyKat00

… It is not just that a comic strip can be like a Miró, it’s that a Miró is, as he declared, is a little like a comic strip. Both Miró and Herriman were in revolt against the idea of the sublime landscape as an icon of solemnity; both sought to make instead a landscape that was musical and free. Both Herriman and Miró wanted to draw sublime landscapes that would be an uncanny delight to look at, and this unpretentious ambition was more revolutionary than it may sound.

Miro_dog-barking1926
Joan Miró, Dog Barking at the Moon, 1926

… The dream of play is one that is deeply embodied in all of the century’s art, and we are, of course, familiar with the various attempts to gain the possibility of free play for painting and drawing. One way, of course, is to cut the knot and make “visible action” the whole subject of the painting. Yet another way to fly into “ethereal spaces” involves not the splatter and splash of paint, but the creation of interrupted stories, through narratives that bear no moral or allegorical freight beyond their own implied joy of action.

Miro_dialogueOfInsects1924_25
Joan Miró, Dialogue of Insects, 1924-25

My most recent previous post from this book is here.

-Julie

http://www.unrealnature.com/

 

October 25, 2015

The Nervous System

Filed under: Uncategorized — unrealnature @ 5:39 am

… this strange reality that is made up … of the influences that emerge from it, of the nervous system that makes up these influences, of the fields of bizarre forces in which usual human feelings are transformed …

This is from the essay ‘The Novel and Morality’ found in Faux Pas by Maurice Blanchot, translated by Charlotte Mandell (2001):

He knows very well that by extracting from his novels the abstract flashes of lightning that illuminated them, he has altered their nature. He has made a division that was not his to make. He has divided himself against himself. He has taken sides. From now on, when we hear his characters speak to us what they think is their own truth, it will be impossible for us not to hear the voice of the author asserting with them: “This is true,” sacrificing them at the very instant that he supports them and chasing them from his own mirror.

He delights in thoughts whose simplicity is the height of pride. One feels he has become his own oracle, desirous above all to reign over the violences of his mind. The world in which he is accepts only the presence of the character that he has become.

… [Such writers] are the masters of allegories, and from the words hypocrisy, vanity, happiness, love they draw an abstract tragedy in which they express, without care for verisimilitude, their scorn or their taste for life. Morality becomes a mythology for them, and their imperious way of thinking asserts, with a provocative prejudice, the desire to see only what it has chosen. In these conditions one can say that a novelist is tempted by the pure abstractions of morality to the extent that, incapable of creating real myths, he also can’t content himself with life as psychology forces him to grasp it.

This next is from Blanchot’s essay ‘Criticism of Albert Thibaudet‘:

… he rarely separates the work from the network of outer and inner phenomena of which it is the fruit. In reality the work and the author exist less for him in their separate and almost abstract existence than the whole of literature whose unique life, whose invisible current and indefinite connections he has, with singular profundity, discerned, as if it were a matter of a world apart whose mysterious laws answered wonderfully to its possibilities and its knowledge.

… What he feels and what he describes is literary reality, this strange reality that is made up not only of words, of writers, but of the influences that emerge from it, of the nervous system that makes up these influences, of the fields of bizarre forces in which usual human feelings are transformed and are organized into an entirely new form of duration.

… His art consisted not only of choosing for the reader a privileged theater in which the reader could hope to contemplate many new things but also in giving him, thanks to a constant change of lighting and backdrop, incessantly renewed views of the same spectacle. It seems, when we read him, that all the relationships through which he directs us are the most natural in the world, the most well-known, the most usual. He gives the impression of making us discover everything while himself seeming to discover nothing.

-Julie

http://www.unrealnature.com/

 

October 24, 2015

Falling Into Place

Filed under: Uncategorized — unrealnature @ 5:54 am

… the cliché about art is about recognition: ‘I don’t know about art, but I know what I like.’ I always find myself saying the opposite: ‘I know about art, but I don’t know what I like.’

Continuing through That Which Is Not Drawn: William Kentridge & Rosalind C. Morris Conversations (2014):

[ … ]

Rosalind Morris Is there a relationship between that play, which sometimes appears in these ludic forms, these joyous, wildly absurd, you-can-only-laugh forms (which are also sometimes scary), and what appears to be a form of dreamwork? The logic of the process you describe seems to be one of visual association; you see something that solicits the thought of something else, by virtue of some complex kind of resemblance — a coffee plunger and a drill bit, for example, or a corkscrew and a woman in a hooped skirt, a cat and an espresso pot. All of the resemblances depend on seeing from a particular perspective, a point at which difference is utterly overcome.

William Kentridge Yes, I think they’re connected very much to how dreams work or how dreams are constructed. I’m always trying very hard not to do something that feels like a dream, because, as you know, one’s dreams are completely fascinating to oneself, but when you start describing it to someone else, it seems so ad hoc. And I don’t want the film to feel like a dream.

RM Why? Is it because if there’s something about them that is dream-like, one knows one can’t make those associations anywhere else?

WK No, but there’s such a difference between the pressure of things having to make sense in your dream and the lack of need for things to make sense in someone else’s dream when it’s described.

RM That seems like a good point for us to raise the question of the grammar of the world, a phrase you’ve used to describe one of the determining forces in your work and an object for exploration or excavation in drawing. I say that because it is clear from what you have just said that you believe the work has to be legible to others, that it is not enough to give form to the illogic of your own dreams and that legibility depends on a grammar that traverses or motivates the associations linking images in your mind or dreamwork to the world from which they come and in which they can be grasped despite their improbable transformation.

[ … ]

WK … There is a fundamental way in which the cliché about art is about recognition: ‘I don’t know about art, but I know what I like.’ I always find myself saying the opposite: ‘I know about art, but I don’t know what I like.’ So, I look at something. Is it great? Is it not great? I’m very open to persuasion. But having said that, because of the radical uncertainty that we’ve spoken of, I hang on very strongly to things that announce clearly what they are.

[line break added to make this easier to read online] To go back to the horse: I tore out these black paper shapes, then I arranged them. I put together a neck, or a piece which I called a neck, and a smaller piece for a head and long thin pieces for legs. It’s uncertain for a while but there’s a point at which it is unmistakably a horse — you can recognize it as such. And it’s not a matter of saying, ‘Okay, if I look hard, I can try and pretend it’s a horse.’ It’s much more about that horse jumping out insistently at you. It’s the most primitive and basic form of recognition.

[line break added] I am sure there’s a physiological description of how that operates but you don’t do an algorithm of recognition. Maybe your brain, in some strange part, is performing that operation but for living in the world there is a process of instantaneous recognition. Or not, and then you leap, as we said earlier, across the gap which is the failure of recognition. Reading involves the same kind of thing — of those words falling into place, instantaneously. If they don’t, you go through some imaginative jumps, trying to say what those marks could mean.

Kentridge_Horse

My most recent previous post from this book is here.

-Julie

http://www.unrealnature.com/

 

October 23, 2015

Not the Answer

Filed under: Uncategorized — unrealnature @ 5:35 am

… Woe betide him who begins … directly from the “answers” …

This is from Knight’s Move by Viktor Shklovsky (2005):

… There are books of mathematical problems; the problems in them are arranged in order. Some problems concern an equation with one unknown. A bit farther on are problems concerning the quadratic equation.

The answers are found at the back of the book. They are given as an even column in order:

4835 …….. 5 sheep
4836 …….. 17 cranes
4837 …….. 13 days
4838 …….. 1000 herrings

Woe betide him who begins the study of mathematics directly from the “answers” and tries to make sense of that exact column.

The problems are important and the course of their solutions — not the answers.

Those theoreticians whose interest in works of art confines itself to the ideas, the conclusions, and not the structure of things, find themselves in the position of a man who, wanting to study mathematics, studies the columns of answers.

… Unfortunate is the writer who tries to augment the weight of his work not by articulating its direction but by magnifying the “answer” to his problem.

[ … ]

… How unaccustomed are the philistines to the fact that art is always before them, that those artists of interest to art history are only those who want to do something different from their predecessors. There are others, those who want to do the same thing over and over again, but they are of no interest.

My most recent previous post from Shklovsky’s book is here.

-Julie

http://www.unrealnature.com/

 

October 22, 2015

I Could Not Understand

Filed under: Uncategorized — unrealnature @ 5:41 am

Time Indefinite was made by another Ross living a different life.

This is from the author’s interview with Ross McElwee in Avant-Doc: Intersections of Documentary and Avant-Garde Cinema by Scott MacDonald (2015):

[ … ]

MacDonald: I see it as an occupational hazard of personal documentary that, as the years go by, the family dynamic often changes, rendering earlier filmmaking problematic.

… Robb Moss has struggled with showing The Tourist [1991] as his daughter Anna has grown up. Alfred Guzzetti has withdrawn Beginning Pieces from circulation because his daughter is uncomfortable with it; and recently you’ve had a struggle with In Paraguay, presumably as a result of some of the same tensions that resulted in your recent divorce — tensions that seem to me to be subtly evident in your films, beginning with Time Indefinite. I would be grateful to know to what extent your filming your family developed into a problem and how you dealt with this problem as you conceived and produced your films.

McElwee: I think the thing that has been most difficult for me to accept is that Marilyn simply changed her mind about supporting my approach to filmmaking. She was happy enough to go along with the whole endeavor in Time Indefinite and Six O’Clock News, but for some reason she began to feel uncomfortable being filmed — and made it pretty clear that she no longer wanted to appear in my films.

… when Marilyn decided she did not want to be in my films at all, I felt betrayed. At one point, she told me she did not respect my form of filmmaking anymore. She was, of course, entitled to feel that way, but still, it hurt when she said it. I felt I had always invested my films with obvious affection and love for her, for our children, and for our extended family, including her parents. But for some reason, that no longer mattered. I could not understand why. And now that we’re divorced, I confess to being at sea — certainly about my own life and how to move on — but also about my work.

I loved being married, loved having children. In Time Indefinite, Six O’Clock News, Bright Leaves, and In Paraguay, I felt compelled to film as a way of celebrating the whole wonderful, messy enterprise of having and sustaining a family.

… What does it mean to produce these movies in light of the fact that contexts and personal circumstances invariably alter their meaning?

… if I were to watch [Time Indefinite] now, it would be a completely different film — as different as if it had been re-shot, re-edited, and given a different voice-over. Time Indefinite was made by another Ross living a different life.

… Even if I don’t screen Time Indefinite for myself anytime soon, I involuntarily carry a version of the film around in my head, as I suspect most filmmakers do with their films. At unpredictable moments during the day, or as I am trying to fall asleep at night, something jogs my interior film projector and a scene from the film runs fleetingly across the movie screen in my mind. The soon-to-be wife preparing for the wedding ceremony, putting flowers in her lovely hair, regarding herself in a mirror. The nervous groom placing a wedding ring on the wrong finger of her hand. These scenes now lacerate — shards of a beautiful stained glass window through which a brick has been thrown.

My most recent previous post from MacDonald’s book is here.

-Julie

http://www.unrealnature.com/

 

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