Le temps, la perte, la création - Time, loss, creation

Historia de un amor – Carlos Almarán - bolero - México

Ya no estás más a mi lado corazón
en el alma sólo tengo soledad
y si yo no puedo verte
por qué Dios me hizo quererte
para hacerme sufrir más?

Siempre fuiste la razón de mi existir
adorarte para mi fue religión
y en tus besos yo encontraba
el calor que me brindaba
el amor y la pasión.

Es la historia de un amor
como no hay otro igual
que me hizo comprender
todo el bien todo el mal
que le dio luz a mi vida
apagándola después.
Ay, qué vida tan oscura
sin tu amor no viviré.
Es la historia de un amor.

- Visage - Face, Tsai Ming-Liang (蔡明亮), 2009


Mach 20


Self Portrait with Long Hair

John Dugdale, Self Portrait with Long Hair, cyanotype, 1995

Requiem for My Brothers & Sisters

So how could it be ? How would it look ? What could the walls be made of ?
Now that we’ve finally become the invaders, the destroyers. What could my country be made of ?
And so we ask : How can I go home again ? Define home. Define brother. Define another endless day.
There are some things you can simply look up such as the size of Greenland, the dates of the famous 19th century rubber wars, Persian adjectives, the composition of snow.
Yes yes tonight I’m thinking about the survivors, like the wildebeast, you know these animals they’ve got those faces like Abraham Lincoln and those beards and they’re the ones galloping in all the prehistoric cave paintings and they’re so many of them ! And even now when you see them alive in Africa.
You have to ask, But have they changed ? Have they gotten smarter, better ? Well they are survivors. The most you can say is they’re still alive.
Ah ! That faraway high voice came to me like a shot. A revelation. A revolution. There were days and there were days And those were the days. Those were the days.
And now the clock points histrionically to twelve noon Some kind of north.
And o my brothers, and o my sisters, We came marching into their country and then left them their dead to remember us by.
Our linked misfortunes. And here I am on the outside per usual chirping away this incessant chirping and then night falls outside where variously named people live, their lives ruled by fear and impatience and lots of stiff Hawaiian drinks.
And another way to look at time is this : There was an old married couple and they had always hated each other, never been able to stand the sight of each other really.
And when they were in their’ 90s they finally got divorced and people asked : Why did you wait so long ? And they said : We wanted to wait until the children died.
Yes and that will be America. Broken up parking lots, rotten dumps, speedballs, accidents and hesitations. Things left behind, styrofoam, computer chips.
And Jim and John, oh they were there. And Carol too her hair pinned up in that weird beehive way she loved so much.
And Craig and Phil moving at the pace of summer. And Uncle Al who screamed all night in the attic.
Yes something happened to him in the war they said. Over in France. And France had become something we never mentioned. Something dangerous.
What are days for ? To wake us up. To put between the endless nights.
Too late to do what daddy wants. Too late to do what mother said. So is saying nothing saying yes ? And this is a Requiem for my lost brothers and for my long lost sisters. Another song for the seamlessness of time. You can hear it passing.
Dear old God. May I call you old ? And may I ask: Who are these people ?
And look ! Over there where the children are learning to smile by baring their teeth like small rats. So ravenous and so alone.
And the old people. Soon we’ll need more robots for you. More exotic medicines, more Mexican servants And for the young people more surveillance and another new laptop for each one of you with lots more memory and we must admit the life span of a hamster. Is it solid ? Is it a sea ? or will I fall through the ice again ?
Ah America We saw it. We tipped it over and then we sold it. And now look. My country in ruins These are the things I whisper softly to my dolls, those heartless little thugs dressed in calico kilts and jaunty hats and their perpetual white toothy smiles.
But losing your country is losing your heart. Losing your country is starting all over again setting out again, yet more traveling.
Is it solid ? Is it a sea ? Or will I fall through the ice again ? No we cannot save you. No we cannot save you this time or next time either.
But as I walk along this ocean floor There’s happiness all around. And it’s springing out of every crack.
And sometimes hatred can be beautiful and loving can be much too small.
And o my brothers ! And o my long lost sisters. That’s the beauty of it, that’s the fall. O my brothers ! And o my sisters ! That’s the beauty of it.
That’s the beauty of the fall.

Laurie Anderson

The more I live The less I know

Where is it written
What it is I'm meant to be ? That I can't dare...
It all began the day I found That from my window
I could only see A piece of sky.
I stepped outside and looked around,
I never dreamed it was so wide
Or even half as high.
The time had come (Papa, can you hear me ?)
To try my wings (Papa, are you near me ?)
And even though it seemed at any moment I could fall,
I felt the most (Papa, can you see me ?)
Amazing things, (Can you understand me ?)
The things you can't imagine If you've never flown at all.
Though it's safer to stay on the ground,
Sometimes where danger lies
There the sweetest of pleasures are found.
No matter where I go-
There'll be mem'ries that tug at my sleeve
But there will also be
More to question yet more to believe.
Oh tell me where-
Where is the someone who will turn to look at me
And want to share My ev'ry sweet-imagined possibility ?
The more I live - the more I learn.
The more I learn - the more I realize
The less I know.
Each step I take- (Papa, I've a voice now !)
Each page I turn- (Papa, I've a choice now !)
Each mile I travel only means The more I have to go.
What's wrong with wanting more ? If you can fly - then soar !
With all there is - why settle for Just a piece of sky ?
Papa, I can hear you, Papa, I can see you
Papa, I can feel you, Papa, watch me fly !

Bit by bit


Yvonne Alexieff, L'acrobate, Dessin : comté-fusain - Salon de mai 2010


Madame Chose

Un homme rêvait qu’il marchait avec le Christ au bord de la mer pendant qu’il regardait des scènes de sa vie dans le ciel. A un moment donné il s’est retourné, puis il a remarqué qu’à quasiment tous les moments de sa vie il y avait deux traces de pas dans le sable, la sienne puis celle du Christ ; sauf dans les pires moments de sa vie il y avait juste une trace de pas. L’homme a dit à Jésus : Tu m’avais dit que tu ferais tout le chemin avec moi, pourquoi est-ce que tu m’as abandonné quand j’avais le plus besoin de toi ? Jésus lui a répondu : S’il y avait juste une trace de pas dans le sable, les moments les plus durs de ta vie, c’est que je te portais.

Marc-André Grondin (Zachary), Hélène Grégoire (Madame Chose), C.R.A.Z.Y., Jean-Marc Vallée, 2005, www.youtube.com

One day I was walking along the beach with the Lord. Across the sky flashed scenes from my life. For each scene, I noticed two sets of footprints in the sand: one belonging to me, and the other to the Lord. When the last scene of my life flashed before me, I looked back at the footprints in the sand. I noticed that many times along the path of my life there was only one set of footprints. I also noticed that it happened at the very lowest and saddest times in my life. This really bothered me and I questioned the Lord about it. "Lord, You said that once I decided to follow you, You'd walk with me all the way. But I have noticed that during the most troublesome times in my life, there is only one set of footprints. I don't understand why when I needed you most you would leave me." The Lord replied, "My son, My precious child, I love you and I would never leave you. During your times of trial and suffering, when you see only one set of footprints, it was then that I Carried You."


Adjani ou la vertu de l’excès

"... Il y a eu deux ans de répit. Elle a eu un enfant, Barnabé, qui veut dire fils de la consolation, et l’a protégé de la publicité. Certains ont dit : Adjani, c’est fini, c’était un feu de paille, une fabrication des médias. J’ai toujours répliqué : vous vous trompez, elle est la plus forte, elle reviendra, elle vous étonnera encore. J’ai toujours défendu l’excès comme une vertu. J’ai toujours aimé vibrer devant un écran, démultiplier mon désir devant un visage agrandi.
Adjani est revenue, dans deux films contradictoires, Possession et Quartet, auxquels elle résiste totalement, auxquels elle a apporté des émerveillements d’enfant, des langueurs félines, la pureté de son énergie. Qui d’autre mieux qu’elle pourrait jouer l’ivresse, comme dans cette scène de Quartet où Alan Bates la contraint à l’aguichage ? Et qui d’autre qu’elle pouvait simuler la blessure sans limites de Possession ? Elle n’a pas déçu : elle a surpassé l’attente.
Ceux qui avaient écrit dans des notes télé : « La Gifle, elle ne l’a pas volée » ont retourné leur plume dans des dithyrambes. Alors, comment Adjani s’habille, et ce qu’elle mange, et dans quelle boîte elle va danser, je m’en fiche un peu. Car elle figure mon désir fou de cinéma."
Hervé Guibert, Adjani ou la vertu de l’excès,
Le Monde, 28 mai 1981
Articles intrépides 1977-1985, Gallimard, 2008

The Black Bull

Isabelle Adjani (Emily), Pascal Greggory (Branwell), Les sœurs Brontë, André Téchiné, 1979

Les soeurs Brontë, filles du vent

Ainsi, le jeune Anglais, aux classiques boucles blondes du XIXe siècle, lors de son passage dans les ateliers de Chelsea, contre l’alcool et les drogues, a troqué les éléments dont s’étaient grisées ses premières années, sur les collines du Nord.
Mais il n’y a pas eu trahison.
Il demeure fidèle à sa fatalité.
Il ignore la mise en scène des paradis artificiels.
Cet adolescent, par les siens décrété génial, peintre et poète dédaigneux des tableaux et des vers, il est donc revenu gorgé de chair, de boissons distillées et fermentées, d’opium, et il va continuer de mener un fier sabbat. Ses soeurs, les vierges ivres de l’unique tempête, ne vont point se scandaliser pour si peu.
Vices et vertus ?
D’un être, elles le savent, compte seul l’écho flamboyant qui le double.
Le quatuor échappe au mensonge qui poursuit l’humanité vulgaire jusque dans les plus secrets replis de ses intempérances extasiées, de ses amours et de son inconscient.
Car il n’y a pas que le mensonge de la vie quotidienne.
Question de rythmes et de degrés, contraste formel et non d’essences dans les diverses manières que les hommes ont de composer avec leurs pensées, leurs états d’âme. Rien de plus théâtral que les propos zigzagants de certaines ivrogneries, les déclarations d’amants très épris et les perspectives de cauchemars pourtant indéniables.
Sans doute, pourrait-on objecter que le propre de certains êtres étant le théâtral, ils ne manquent point à leur nature si, comme eux, sous l’empire d’une émotion, d’un élan, se déforme, s’amplifie l’insincérité qui fait le fond d’eux-mêmes.
Mais justement, nous aimons, nous louons les Brontë, parce que nous les avons imaginés dédaigneux de ces guenilles que les autres, à force de s’en déguiser, prennent pour les lambeaux de leur propre chair.
Patrick Branwell aime le whisky, le suc de pavot, avec la même imprudence qu’Emily le vent.
René Crevel, Les soeurs Brontë filles du vent, Les Quatre Chemins, 1930 (in Babylone, Pauvert, 1975)

Bibliothèque numérique Mélusine


姚莉 Yao Lee


Miwako Kawai (Nagiko jeune), Yoshi Oida (L'éditeur), The Pillow Book, Peter Greenaway, 1996


Duane Michals, Hervé Guibert, Gustave Roud