what is the visual fabric of memory? A lack of precision, leaving holes to be filled in; an ongoing fight against the indexicality of the image: Not showing something, only reminding me of something the picture does not show.
this constant slipping…
j j j
Our deductions from the surface to what lies underneath are usually wrong and photography, as the art of surface, is especially vulnerable to this fraud of looking. The projection of complex circumstances onto a flat plane is misleading; in order to get onto paper or onto the screen, the light has to travel through multiple surfaces, that all leave their mark and tell their own story. The lens-plane, the emulsion/the sensor, the chemical plane of the developer, the scanner, the plane of digital manipulation with its vectors of bending and shifting light, revealing and obfuscating with the same gesture… Yet somehow I still believe that the picture tells some kind of story about what is underneath all these surfaces. I am naïve in that way…
But the dilemma is: I only have the pictures to tell me about the world. The flat world of the TV is in turmoil, yet outside my window, everything is dead calm: So, how is the world then? Scratching the surface only reveals another surface and the idea, that all these surfaces together hint on some kind of meaning is only hypothetical…
The images are a result of this confusion: deliberate misunderstandings, being vulnerable to suggestions, being easily susceptible to these voices of the surface…
j j j
The supposed sense of security created by the power of reason as the basis of all understanding has penetrated mans everyday existence creating a terrible need for order in his life so as to achieve stability at all its levels: his working life, love life as well as economic, social and emotional levels of his life. Success depended on the maintenance at all cost of this stability whereas the breakdown of stability necessarily signified failure and consequent exclusion from the benefits thereof.
Our educational system makes us sensitive to these modern precepts; we imbibe the principles of stability together with the letters of the alphabet. We were educated to to achieve success and consequently guarantee ourselves a future free from the slightest insecurity which might endanger this only possible way of life. Nevertheless, parallel to this theory of stability runs the danger of its reversal, which infuses us with fear. We fear the loss of stability and so remain trapped between the desire for job security and fear of unemployment, between the need of finding a permanent partner and fear of loneliness, between the dream of a good salary and the fear of economic misery, between the social prestige of being considered very professional and the fear of not coming up to scratch and finally between the need for an emotionally stable life and the fear of losing ones reason.
The Worlds of Pajcha, Prologue
j j j
The Camera is an apparatus to shed the light from the dark, the view of the world worth preserving from the one you allow yourself to forget, remember the moment you deem decisive and discard the myriads of constellations you consider irrelevant; the good (picture) from the bad. The camera is a moralistic apparatus.
(and here Nakahira has burned his negatives; the arrogance of the photographer who assumes a moral position far above the blaze of this world. He wanted to get rid of himself, but everywhere he turned, there he only found himself.)
his alcoholic intoxication; the suicide attempt: It is not enough to die, you want to erase yourself from the world as if you never had existed.
On the edge of this lies the banality of existence itself: An impulse of rage against “the good picture” and then from here on a rage against all pictures and against seeing the world itself, against the “world becoming image”.
It’s difficult to explain, but I like ravens. If I’m reincarnated I want to be a raven.
I’m wishing that I could stop this world. This act[of photography] may represent my own revenge play against life, and perhaps that is what I enjoy most.
— Masahisa Fukase, 1976
j j j
What do you want to photograph?
where nothing comes from the cliché, that everything has been photographed and all that has been photographed does not amount to much.
where everything comes from banality, the democratization of the gaze, that there is no decisive moment except that every moment is decisive and from every movement, the whole world unfolds.
the equality of all images
(or here it is where I got lost)
j j j
California, July 2016 – http://www.vierundsechzig.de/f64/2016/10/30/drive/
Ravenwood Motel: Seasons of Decay; deceased insects laid to rest in dusty corners, speckles on the wallpaper like it got old-people’s-marks,
The manager being the only one wearing a gingham-shirt and a bright red tie, everybody else is dressed in black&white; the waiter with bis shirt buckling at the belt and having slipped out of his pants; They say, the food is excellent; the thick walls,
the exhaustion coming up from the kitchen, the low hum of the fan up to half-past eleven, starting again at six-thirty with the smell of grease and bacon…
checking into this motel next to a wilderness, the forest black and neverending behind the parking lot, the oad connecting two middle-of-nowheres; the manager never tires of telling stories of who came and who left and who did not leave at all…
j j j
An’ blowed an’ tore an’ reared an’ pitched an’ all,
this slight memorial.There is sufficient material in his letters
The yestertide we’d heard the gloomy gun
Search out and probe, Gehazi,
Me broken–for which thing a hundred died.
[Sidney Lanier; (Amer.) Georgian poet and scholar. 1842-1881.]
A leper white as snow!
j j j