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“One glimpses this night when one looks into the eyes of another human–into a night which becomes frightening; here each of us is suspended confronting the night of the world“
-Hegel-
Filed under Post Conversation …
AGNES GODARD DIXIT
“As a cinematographer you have to be a chameleon and adapt to different directors. But I don’t like the idea of simply illustrating a script. A script is pages and words, and the image is the basic unit of the film’s language. So it’s very important to work out the transition from word to image. The most inexhaustible landscapes for me remain faces and bodies: I like to look at people, to look at them in order to love them. It’s like dancing with someone, except with a camera you don’t touch them. I just want to tell them that I’d like to put my hand on them.”
BEHIND THE SEAMS, A BULLETPROOF TAILOR
After posting the new photo series by  Milagros de la Torre, I remembered that our dear Bernardo Loyola (from VBS.tv) had told me, over Spanish tapas in Brooklyn, that VBS had recently interviewed Miguel Caballero, “the Armani of Bulletproof clothing”.
Click play, click click.
And take a look at Milagro’s work (a few posts below) if you have not seen it yet.
NEW YORK DIARIES No. 003: IT IS STARTING LIKE THIS
“It is starting like this. I am feeling itch like insect is crawling on my skin, and then my head is just starting to tingle right between my eye, and then I am wanting to sneeze because my nose is itching, and then air is just blowing into my ear and I am hearing so many thing: the clicking of insect, the sound of truck grumbling like one kind of animal, and then the sound of somebody shouting TAKE YOUR POSITION RIGHT NOW! QUICK! QUCIK QUICK! MOVE WITH SPEED! MOVE FAST OH! In voice that is just touching my body like a knife.”
-Uzodinma Iweala, Beasts of No Nation-
(page 1, and a child soldier fighting wars in an unnamed African country)
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NEW YORK DIARIES No. 004: IT IS GOING LIKE THAT
“If I could do it, I’d do no writing at all here. It would be photographs; the rest would be fragments of cloth, bits of cotton, lumps of earth, records of speech, pieces of wood and iron, phials of odors, plates of food and of excrement. Booksellers would consider it quite a novelty; critics would murmur, yes, but is it art; and I could trust a majority of you to use it as you would a parlor game.
A piece of the body torn out by the roots might be more to the point
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Get a radio or phonograph capable of the most extreme loudness possible, and sit down to listen to a peformance of Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony or of Schubert’s C-Major Symphony. But I don’t mean just sit down and listen. I mean this: Turn it on as loud as you can get it. Then get down on the floor and jam your ear as close into the loudspeaker as you can get it and stay there, breathing as lightly as possible, and not moving, and neither eating nor smoking nor drinking. Concentrate everything you can into your hearing and into your body. You won’t hear it nicely. If it hurts you, be glad of it. As near as you will ever get, you are inside the music; not only inside it, you are it; your body is no longer your shape and substance, it is the shape and substance of the music. Is what you hear pretty? or beautiful? or legal? or acceptable in polite or any other society? It is beyond any calculation savage and dangerous and murderous to all equilibrium in human life as human life is; and nothing can equal the rape it does on all that death; nothing except anything, anything in existence or dream, percieved anywhere remotely towards its true dimension”
-James Agee, Let Us Now Praise Famous Men-
(page 15, author traveling on into Alabama, into the 30s, across the pictures of Walker Evans, up to the farms, into the tents)
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(Gracias Benji Z)
POST CONVERSATION No. 008: PELLIZCOS Y CIERTOS MUNDOS
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“Donde el sueño tropieza con su realidad, ahà mis pequeños ojos”
-GarcÃa Lorca-
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POST CONVERSATION No. 007: THE EXTREMES ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE SCALE
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y concentrar en un solo centÃmetro el contenido de varios metros enteros
(recuérdame cuando se me olvide)
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POST CONVERSATION No. 006: AND BUCKY DIXIT TOO
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“You never change things by fighting the existing reality. To change something, build a new model that makes the existing model obsolete.”
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POST CONVERSATIONS No. 003: THE CALL, AND THE ANSWER TO THE CALL
Images by Abigail Lloyd. Más aquÃ
POST CONVERSATIONS No. 001: THE CREATION OF A LANGUAGE PROPER
“I began assiduously examining the style and technique of those whom I admired and worshiped: Nietzsche, Dostoyevsky, Hamsun. I imitated every style in the hopes of finding a clue to the gnawing secret of how to write. Finally I came to a dead end, to a despair and desperation which few men have known, because there was no divorce between myself as a writer and myself as a man. And I failed. I realized that I was nothing–less than nothing–a minus quantity. It was at this point, in the midst of the dead Sargasso Sea, so to speak, that I really began to write. I began from scratch, throwing everything overboard, even those other writers whom I loved most. Immediately I heard my own voice. I was enchanted: the fact that it was a separate, distinct, unique voice sustained me. It didn´t matter to me if what I wrote should be considered bad. Good and bad dropped out of my vocabulary. I jumped with two feet into the realm of aesthetics, the non-moral, non-ethical, non-utilitarian realm of art. My life itself became a work of art. I had found a voice, I was whole again. The experience was very much like what we read in connection with the lives of Zen initiates. My huge failure was like the recapitulation of the experience of the race: I had to grow foul with knowledge, smash everything, grow desperate, then humble, then sponge myself off the slate, as it where, in order to recover my authenticity. I had to arrive at the brink and take a leap in the dark…. [...]… I obey only my own instincts and intuitions. I know nothing in advance. Often I put down things which I do not understand myself, secure in the knowledge that later they will become clear and meaningful to me. I now have faith in the man who is writing, who is myself, the writer. I do not believe in words, no matter if it is strung together by the most skillful man: I believe in language, something which words give only an inadequate illusion of.”
-Henry Miller-