Place. The importance of the place. The exhibition venue. And what happens to items placed on the stage of meaning ...
the opening, a reporter wanted to discuss the exhibition, as simply as possible, in his article, returning often to this question "yes, but for the neophyte ...?"
As much, myself, a stickler about the importance of the "spectrum", I understand what kind of question: the need for a broad spectrum is the founder for me in this kind of work, especially in this medium : exposure.
Reveal the mind and to travel on the ramparts of the person. There the spectrum ...
The Phantom, the residual traces in the present of a past presence of a crossing. Mine.
Specter. A Character. No meat. Building. As in a novel. A being built by elements affixed. A party applying to the whole. And vice versa. Synecdoche and company. Reality it is variable, multiple. It escapes its reduction, changes that will take to text is the proof: I can not control the flow of words and my flow is lost in a babble of references, forming mountain valley. We thought in literature and we're painting. The Spectre. Wide palette of colors. Continuum of colors in the decomposition of white light. And we're back in literature ...
White: "Naked!" (Words of Hamlet, back at Elsinore): it no longer play (act) but continues to play (play).
Decomposition. Carrion Baudelaire. It's in the decomposition of white light that is the birth of the spectrum of colors. Birth of an identity built or constructed. A probably also deconstruct. The man can think of a window, a white light infused it shimmers as colored tiles and the ground lead.
The window broke. The church is to the four winds. The light is the same as outside. White. And in the church, not a thing is warmed by the color of a loaded beam. Everything is game of light and shadow. White.
White. Page. Words.
Specter is necessary for any facility. It is he who opens, catching the eye and take him. Travel. "Enrapture", the English say, "Abduction," "Getting carried away" ...
The work takes place on several levels: the desk, his chair, books, boots, rods, tent, canoe ... all this portrays the character created, literary, writer occasionally call it, say, Dimitri Vazemsky. The character, Spectrum, is the hook, the most visible part of spectrum by all. Carne.
Here in the most prehensile of the spectrum, the concierge is not dead it still tells stories. Is not it?
That is where one enters the building, in the sort of space created. The story begins. Installation. A boat. Text. Presence. This absence of the author. And narration of the act.
'The Deed Is Done! "
time the narrative is linear, a beginning or an end, we let ourselves go with a story, a succession of freeze frames, locks to pass the stream as chanting, movement, flow, time The river ...
In this case, a channel. Scarpe is channeled. Worked by human hands. Like any novel.
should never speak of "writing river" but "write channel".
The river is natural.
We return to the landscape.
his place. A space.
Nature. Or not.
I searched throughout the residence, the "Wild" as I call it ... difficult to translate, no doubt a feeling ... solitude amidst a natural environment ... But what is a "natural environment"? The human being, ipso facto, is part of nature, being itself a part of it (remember the first episodes) habitat even part of this "natural environment" ... a "nature" more or less tinted "culture" even if, at the base, a shelter to hide from the rain that's natural. The rest is cultural. And probably unnecessary, except to say, exhibit, membership in a culture ... The decor, ikea, the garden gnome and his minions ... white molded plastic.
This "Wild" For me, looks like a place of deprivation of that culture or any culture, to try to find a place devoid of any structure or cultural organization. A search of the raw essence and a direct relationship to space. But also in time.
The look and spirit are lost in contemplation of the landscape that is not stopped by a "brand cultural, "or a" time marker "that will come wandering break. And impose a rhythm.
Around the Scarpe, the omnipotence of man is more duckweed invaded the locks closed , factory chimneys forgotten are lost under the vegetation, rotten wood docks built on the outskirts now inaccessible, the plates (of human tectonic?) that funneled the waterway overlapped, broken, find the channel River slowly status. And on the edge of the bed, still speak of "dead arm".
"dead arm" we are in a certain poetry, "native". Not in the hackneyed images conveyed; but in a language that seeks to capture, as accurately as possible, a bottom not yet caught. White light not yet filtered. A fair, simple and just right.
Level Zero of Writing (writing project on landscape began with the red letters) comes close: the imagined border waves, it seeks to place a phrase in the mainland of Terra Cognita knowledge acquired from the known, firm, stable, and the swell moving, informed ... This shepherdess of azure infinity ... its changing reflections dancing along the clear gulfs, almost see her big wet reeds ponds, birds and these white houses Rusty ...
passage. Watch the recording in the middle of the song, is not it, Trenet made a remark about "the sea" (the quotes prove that we are talking about a song and not the real). A success "U.S.." France at this time was "swing". Still, that is, in my opinion, no longer possible to sing "The sea" like that. Yet that's how "the sea" was built in many minds ...
We construct reality through the images received, or seen through language, painting, video postcards ... This is information with which we construct a world view, and then, of course, my good woman, there's the reality, but reality is far, far away, with its essence, that which touches the body, but without any real form, wave, also asked that this information, reached the brain, assembling things with astonishing ease and a certain beauty ... and sometimes, sometimes the two overlap, meet, like the time I was living, (not in the third cellar, drunken, foul, infamous, ...) but in a cottage at the gateway to Connemara, the m ' arrived at the mountaintop view spread beneath my feet lands burned in the wind, moorland stones around the lake ...
Behind the words, gray, lies a link. Packaging. Arrangement. Arrangements, a voice, a tone, a way of thinking, a way to introduce ... also a time ... By
cons to change the subject and talk about the shape, words related to the sly, in gray, sleep a mechanism for writing network: before the reference was to be shared with the reader or not was not ... "May include" to quote Bobby Lapointe. Now, here, writing links can be woven, the text also skidded to a business, discoverable by the reader: the explanation of the hidden, the link behind the text is grayed out ... One click and you're there: and the reference appears ...
reference plus one or two pubs in addition, a meeting for the club in the right corner, damaging the solitude of the reader, and then makes you wait, loading time, with a jingle praising a mark so cool ...
The ideal is to return home, import the link here in a small screen directly, and tweak the code language to purify all the dross that you file with extract imported, clean reference ... there is this:
I struggled a long time, I still struggle not to have Sardou in mind, the mere mention of Connemara. It works in me as an intruder, emerging as one would like to see him dead, stabbed in his bath ...
"in connemara we know all the price of silence!"
Unable to pronounce "scorched earth, wind, moorland stone ..." without music and coil Sardou, son of Jackie.
I continue in the series "How we built," I grew up with it, among others ... part for the whole. But this one touches me. Little is known about the man behind the glitter. The character is complex, tragic, trapped in a self representation which is doubtless far, torn between cultures ... her mother played in the orchestra by Pablo Casals, his father was a filmmaker, is shown singing a cover of Bob Marley, lyrics reworked, adapted, but confronting the antithesis of the very spot where he states: "My island is sad that a steel platform ..." The man is wearing a suit, bow tie, on the edge of a pool ... " Iroise Sea?" As
in Sardou, where the "hush money" swear to the tumult, noise and fury of this orchestra foil, cold, with his solo electric keyboard trying to mimic a violin or modulating a tin whistle, there is a complete rupture of the link between speech and text ... see for yourself: a worker on an oil derrick, sung by a suit from 4 pins to a luxurious pool, postcard ...
This exhibition, through books in the location, mainly "In canoeing on the rivers of the north" Stevenson talks about it, a report to nature that we want raw, virgin, but a report and a fear that is left with the tools ... Trenet, Sardou Joe Dassin ... and behind those three, the Spectre (007) American ... "The Sea", a tube called "American" ... Joe Dassin ... "America, America, I want to have and I would ..." Sardou and ... with this monument of French Culture Mosieur, which could not exist here, which is the most "pure" product ... with a beautiful lesson in kinetic choreography, watch the gestures are natural?
And I, in my canoe, I had in mind, often the generic Tom Sawyer ... "This is America, the symbol of freedom ..."
I commend you, here on the table ...
Ah! if the Yanks were not there, the Japanese would not have made cartoons ...
And then there's that ...
Here there is everything from true American, a "native" ("He Who talks loud and say nothing" but is called "Nobody"). Further, holders of other cultures, as William Blake / Johnny Depp, wearing involuntarily name of a poet, English, unlike the Indian who knows him by heart all the poetry of William Blake. Another vendor, religious ... Canoeing. "We need a canoe." The value of a character, its image. The role of image in the recognition of a face. Nature, Culture. The Indian (nature) cites the William Blake (culture) in response to the gospel quoted by the dealer who installed his tent in the Wild West to sell its products. And then there's the power of the pen, writing that freezes the hand. Mouth of fire that speaks when there is nothing more to say than to slay ...
