‘The first thing that strikes the reader of the fiction of Liliane Giraudon is that she doesn’t write like anyone else. Bearing vague traces of surrealism, Giraudon’s oeuvre draws comparison with that of Leonora Carrington, Gisèle Prassinos, and Rikki Ducornet; but Giraudon is not a surrealist. Neither is she a pure fantast like her French contemporary Julia Verlanger, nor a naive meliorist in spite of all odds like her other compatriot Marie Redonnet. Her voice is hypnotic, inscrutable, unique. A trip through one of her narratives is like a somnambular stroll through a rain-soaked ravine with an unreadable road map; a ramble in fugue-state through a wilderness where signposts are written in the language of emotion and the logic of the heart.

‘Giraudon is a practitioner of silent writing—that is, writing which does not explicitly signal its meaning or purpose. Her poetically-charged prose percolates with unsaid bubblings and unstated gurglings which never surge to the surface, but rush past in irresistible riptides. Her style is discontinuous, at times even fragmentary, yet image-rich and marked by descriptive precision. This disjunctive, highly-colored verbotechny results in an exquisite fuzziness a la Mallarmé. The pieces of her puzzles are like broken mirror shards, each reflecting other parts of a larger image, but never the whole. A clue may be taken from the title of her previous collection of stories (also published by Sun & Moon) Palaksch, Palaksch: a phrase employed by deranged poet Friedrich Holderlin, to mean anything…or nothing.

‘Giraudon’s operational field is a mythic space unpolluted by references to contemporary cheese culture; her characters breathe the sterile air of psycho-emotional vacuum. Her plots and themes are enigmatic and border on the unreal, if not, at times, the non-representational; but there are badges of familiar sensibility—a preoccupation with victims and victimization, revenge motifs, and acts of unrepentant enmity—conspicuous hallmarks of the cruel tale. Her inventory is stocked with fetish and fixation, aberrant behavior, medical anomaly, atavism, evolutionary warpage, and creatic compulsion. Her characters are wounded souls, lost, lonely, often self-loathing; insular anti-heroes whose private hells slowly unravel to reveal a barely controlled hysteria. Their secret selves, propelled by instinct and animal drives, are awash with dark undercurrents of primal savagery; held in bondage by a sensuality which starts out where D. H. Lawrence left off, they grope in a stew of dream and desire, around which the deformed, the disfigured, and the denatured do a dance for domination. These prisoners of the flesh, beset by strange obsessions, teased by Aeons and Archons, tortured by twisted eroticism, are gripped by predatory forces to which they are tacitly resigned. The spirit of Dr. Moreau is everywhere: hints at moonspawn and mutant progeny abound; insinuations of union between man and beasts accentuate an exploration of biomorphic boundaries and what defines them.

‘At least two of Fur’s narratives sit squarely in the grand tradition of the cruel tale: “Clothilde’s Goat” and “The Yellow Glove.” Others are about life’s cruelties: its tantalizations and temptations, dashed hopes, and damaged dreams; about dead babies whose absence is commemorated by concluding lines like: “At this time, around her, that is, here, near us, the stars continue their monotonous course; a terrible heart disease is found in all dogs.”

‘In “Lateral Life,” the subject is bodily sacrifice; in “The Lesson,” interruption, truncation, curtailment of action, inhibition of completion; in “The Peephole,” it is a masochistic ravishment persecution fantasy, with minatory spectral participants; in “The Tie,” the thinness of the veneer separating civilization from the teeming bestiality beneath. In “The Center,” linguistic interpreters inhabit a tactile sensorium which is a metaphor for the elusiveness of the abstract, the unobtainable nature of the absolute, and the ephemerality of all things; “Pauline Buisson” is about the art of suffering, how fate exacts its pound of flesh, how people get under the skin and make each other bleed; in “Wolf Pass” the keynote is the threat of the inhuman; in “Lidia’s Leg,” cross-species loss and longing.

‘From the country which gave birth to the cruel tale, to the Theater of Cruelty and to Donatien Alphonse de Sade, comes a fresh contribution to the canon of the unkind: Fur is a book of disturbing beauty reverberant with endless mystery.’ — Gilbert Alter-Gilbert

 

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Further

Liliane Giraudon Site
‘Fur’ @ goodreads
Carolyn Kuebler | Review of Liliane Giraudon’s Fur
Liliane Giraudon – Detached but descriptive, enigmatic but banal: verbal assemblage of fragments, and detritus
No one reads Liliane Giraudon.
LG @ PROJECT FOR INNOVATIVE POETRY
LG English language resource
Liliane Giraudon @ Facebook
Buy ‘Fur’

 

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Extras

Liliane Giraudon est-ce que le monde a changé ?

Liliane GIRAUDON – Surpris par la Poésie (France Culture, 2003)

Liliane Giraudon Le travail de la viande

 

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Interview

 

Serge Gavronsky: As a reader, as codirector of Banana Split , as a writer, you would agree, I’m sure, that within the past fifteen years it’s been almost impossible to avoid the term écriture in speaking about contemporary French letters and philosophy. Could you give me some examples of the way you think that concept may have functioned in your own work?

Liliane Giraudon: In my own case, writing is something that doesn’t depend on the possession of a form of knowledge. I would rather conceive of it as a sort of forward movement and, first of all, something of a solitary endeavor, though inscribed in a history that posits the question of reading, which for me is inseparable from writing. I think that if I hadn’t read a number of texts, I would not have begun to write. In my case, more and more, writing is something that rests—if you’ll allow the abstraction—on an idiolect, that is, something unique that doesn’t even have a beginning, nor does it have an end: a practice that’s quite instantaneous, though unraveled along a continuum that has pitfalls and, without one’s knowing it, a forward movement. In the final analysis, it’s as though the fact that the letters of the alphabet are black renders things equally black for me in this forward movement, even when they open up in an impression of speed. Sometimes I feel that I’ve made it there, perhaps after having written tales of sexuality. But no sooner are you there than it disappears, and you no longer know if it hasn’t all been invented! When I reread my work, it’s as if someone else had written it, and I think that is what pleases me in writing.

As you know, I am less and less inclined to separate prose from poetry; I find it increasingly difficult to say—or dare to say!—that I’m writing a poem, because today there’s an ideological investment, a mystical one in our French tradition that appears too heavy for me in relation to my own insignificant story, which can’t find its place there. I have a feeling that in reaction to the mass of culture, I’m like a biographical accident on the road—that is, I find myself there, though I shouldn’t ever have been there! However, as I go on reading and acquiring new techniques, I realize that what is happening is an act of dispossession; rather than accumulating things, in fact I’m getting rid of them! I also believe that I shall continue to write without knowing if I’ve made it there. Well, that’s my position, when I think of writing and poetry. There’s a statement I’d like to borrow from Jacques Roubaud, which in effect says that “poetry is most contemporary today because it most exactly formulates the question of survival.” I truly feel that way. There’s something in poetry that reveals the end of something, and it may just be the end that explains the ardor within.

At the same time there’s a posture in poetry that I don’t like, which is undoubtedly connected to a religious problem, the sacred, something that seems treacherous to me in that it entails a certain mastery, and it is easier, I think, to be a major traitor with objects cheaply made. I think that one can, by oneself, produce or read even though there comes a moment—the drama of contemporaneity—when one realizes that what one has written is finally so limited, as is one’s evaluation of one’s contemporaries, that one is also hostage to the system. Given this situation, I’m not sure if one can actually proceed. When I read a piece of prose, I believe I can identify a certain breath, a certain speed, a certain weight that writing possesses. But this is increasingly difficult to do when I read poetry, and I am increasingly skeptical about my ability to know whether what I have in hand is an écriture or a parody, the work of someone who’s bluffing or who is just a fine technician.

I believe, contrary to what is commonly held, that in poetry there is at the same time less danger and yet more urgency. I don’t mean danger for the one who is writing but rather in relation to the act of writing itself, and less so in forms that appear less musical, such as prose. Sometimes something happens all of a sudden, and then one truly has the sense that écriture is something that can change opinions, that it might radically transform both the world and those who read. Thus, it’s difficult for me to move forward today within these categories, because furthermore, there appears to be a protective closure as soon as poetry is mentioned, one that doesn’t function in favor of poets but rather to their detriment. I have written a book called La Réserve , because for me the word brings to mind at once the reserve section in a library and the idea of an Indian reservation. It might be urgent for me to experience the reservation, in the sense that as a child, I played at Indians and was very much taken by the fact that the Indians hadn’t been beaten but had survived with negative connotations—they had been made to look like savages, like failures.

It seems to me it’s the opposite for poets. Poets emerge if only because the poem is already there and because the poetic object in itself becomes an object that protects. For me, that’s the opposite of what it is to write. It’s not a form of knowledge, not a way of proceeding within protective reserves, not a question of fighting, in the way Denis Roche talks about fighting when he approaches with his camera in a slightly phallic stance, taking shot after shot, coming back home, well fed, in order to assume the posture of a cultural object. I don’t mean this as an attack on Roche but rather on the object we produce. That’s why today there are écritures. I’m also thinking about someone like [the novelist and playwright] Marie Redonnet, because I think she’s someone who should be talked about; she has produced small objects that make me think much more than do certain poems which, among my contemporaries, raise a sort of sacred sigh—muted and sometimes a bit painful and sterile, because it comes out of an obligatory, necessary, incontrovertible allegiance.

SG: Do you make a conscious decision, as you begin to write, to exclude a certain subject matter, all the while alluding to it indirectly, translating some of its codes so that one who might recognize them, who might have that language in his ear, might immediately exclaim: “Yes! I recognize that sentence, the way it’s been put together. It reminds me of a particular situation.” But in your texts you have excluded the situation from which the music and the language come. I suppose for you, had you kept the context, it might have appeared too direct, or perhaps unethical.

LG: It’s all very curious. At first it was a decision, a self-imposed ban for reasons that are not always clear. There’s a reason I’ve read about that photographers give. Some photographers never photograph without asking for permission first. That shows a respect for the model, for the subject. There’s something magic in that. It may be because I don’t feel I have the right to appropriate stories or reproduce things I share with people who will not have access to them. That means that I don’t want to take forms and make of them another object that would be a reflection of the ones I’ve taken, in a slightly magical way, from those who are not able to see what I’ve done. That’s called respect, but in my case it’s also a form of superstition. It’s very odd, similar to what happens among certain tribes—there are things that are allowed, others that are not. I’m sure there’s a danger in taking from others that way—a danger for them, a danger for me; not for those who read the work. And from another point of view I also know it produces the worst kind of literature, that is, either a form of reportage or the realistic novel, which may in itself be excellent but has nothing to do with literature. For me literature must free itself from both. Therefore, I escape through a form of knowledge I take from elsewhere, though in fact I have neither the tools to do that nor the power or the strength.

In my book La Nuit  I was dealing with a fable wholly transposed, in which I took a lot from another “book,” the book of those who have no language. I also took from what I saw, what I heard, what I grasped. Let’s say from what I received, because there’s a connection. What I find curious, bizarre, is the idea of the destructive warrior. I don’t at all have the impression that I work that way. I rather think I operate through a system of connections; that is, I try to connect like bodies that try to gather a little light, with which I recharge myself and, in return, give something back—not a mirror image or a representation, but something that would transmit this violence. That is what I believe, and it’s what I’ve found in certain writers. That’s what literature is all about! A certain degree of intensity, a certain phosphorescence, sometimes following a number of lines of print, which results in the passage of something and is transmitted to the reader, for whom it will also change something. This has nothing to do with anything intellectual for me; it’s almost chemical, a transmission via a chemical process that can destroy as well as build. What interests me in literature is its destructive side, and I’m convinced that literature destroys. It has allowed me to destroy, among other things, an anguish and a fear of society and of its laws, which were totally deadly, a killer in my youth, and that would no doubt have destroyed me physically had I not encountered literature. At that moment, writing intervened.

This business about teaching was also a chance occurrence. At one point, instead of doing that, I might have trained horses. But I’m convinced that in the animal realm there are equivalences with the human realm. In any case, in our contacts with the animal kingdom there are equivalences, as well as in our contacts with nature; here I should clarify, because I’ve read too much bullshit on what people say about nature and poetry. I recently reread an interview of David Antin. He said something that touched me a lot. He spoke about the state he finds himself in when he sees buds blooming. At that moment there’s a sudden electric charge that results in the rediscovery of oneself. It is at once incomprehensible and overwhelming, and it’s there. Literature is also that for me; it’s the connection with things like that. I spoke about the animal world because the short stories I’m now fabricating are at once based on animals and on people, the people I’ve taken in that particular reserve and hadn’t dared touch before. I’ve tried to touch them, but in a completely transposed manner, which means I’ve introduced a degree of strangeness in them. I’m not saying that to place myself in the company of someone like Kafka, but I think he succeeded extraordinarily at that, that is, in situating a world that is in fact more human than our own but at times is completely unreal, symbolic, removed from and yet connected to what is most human, too human, in fact!

It is within these limits, in this swampy world, that écriture interests me. And it’s true that I regret being a French author, and what’s more, I’m a French author who’s incapable of learning a foreign language, even though I went to a school where I was taught one, and though I am now myself a teacher and taught Latin when I began. But still I’m incapable of learning a foreign language, and besides, the French language drives me crazy. I resist the role of apprentice, even though I’m beginning to learn a lot of tricks, but I can’t seem to possess them. To tell the truth, I’m incapable of knowing. In analysis I was told that this inability was unquestionably a very deep decision on my part that I had made into something effective. Because I do think I have the capacity for learning a foreign language like anybody else, but in fact I haven’t done so. I’m incapable of it!

SG: That may be so, but the texts you’ve produced are obviously part of the French language, though not necessarily of that French language we’re using around this kitchen table in Marseille! You have your own style, and I might say that, contrary to what you’ve just implied, you do have a remarkable mastery over the French language; you’ve been able to make it into a language of your own within the larger confines of the French language itself. In fact that is your signature.

LG: That reminds me of something Emmanuel Hocquard once said about writing: “It’s a little language within language.” And that may be what testifies to the impossibility of language.

SG: One last question: How important is your identity as a woman? Are you polemically conscious of it, scripturally so? Is that I found in your texts a corporeal one? Is it feminine? feminist? I say this within the context of recent theoretical positions that have, in reading women’s works—mostly, but not entirely, of the past—insisted on their marginalization. If that were your understanding of it, then Hocquard’s comment would have a double meaning: as a writer you would associate yourself with that minimalization within the broader scope of language, and as a woman, that same observation would then become overdetermining. Would your own experience as a writer conform to some of those interpretations?

LG: It’s a very complicated matter. I don’t believe I play games when I write. That may be the difference; that may be the juncture at which I separate myself from a feminist concept of literature. I do think it’s important, however, and it’s not a chance thing that I’m disappointed by feminist literature. In general, though I’m a radical feminist, with deep convictions that I act on in my day-to-day struggle, I’m nonetheless disappointed, because to my way of thinking, barbarism is an essential aspect of literature. I once believed—it was my dream—that women, less and less absent, and thereby more and more numerous in their absence from the arts, from literature, music, painting, and sculpture, were really going to create a salutary form of barbarism, one that would be visible. Ten years ago I really thought something like that was going to happen. I think I must have been living in a utopia.

Nevertheless, I don’t think I was wrong when I thought about something different, because it’s true, I think, that something different was going on. I’m thinking, for example, of a woman sculptor whom I like a great deal and about whom little is said today, and that’s Germaine Richier. One of the first times I was deeply moved by sculpture was when I was very young and totally ignorant, and by chance I stood in front of a reproduction of one of her pieces. At that time, of course, I hadn’t any idea who Germaine Richier was. I hadn’t even seen her name. That sculpture really became a totemic object for me; I dreamed about it, and to compound chance, it also happened to be an animal! And yet it wasn’t an animal one could identify. It may have been a turtle. It’s all quite vague in my mind since it was only a reproduction, though my dreams were founded on that basis. Afterward I said, “Who is that sculptor?” Then I looked around and saw things, and when I saw that there was power in the actual piece, which was even larger, I felt an even greater vibration than I had felt looking at the reproduction. I would have liked . . . at that time I was totally uneducated in the ways of the eye in relation to sculpture; in fact that went for all the visual arts. What occurred then has happened in many of the productions shaped by women, but I have often been disappointed when I heard that same little musical phrasing and, furthermore, found it co-opted by men.

There you have it. I don’t believe there is a feminine écriture. I had hoped for a more violent operation, but I don’t think it happened. It must happen from time to time; what hampers me is to be a woman and write. For me it’s a hindrance. It’s the nature of co-optation by men that is always ambiguous, that’s always either seductive or protective and, at moments of fragility, is undoubtedly dangerous for women who produce art or literature. Furthermore, when you talk about publishers . . . well, Marguerite Duras had a few harsh words to say about them! I recently heard her speak on television, and I found quite curious the hatred, the disdain that she provokes among certain intellectuals today. I found that very interesting. There must be an element of what I call barbarism in her work. She really must have reached that, because over the past three to four years she’s been involved in things people say she shouldn’t have meddled with. There’s a violent reaction to her, a true desire to dismiss her through irony—calling her “that old bag”—which is really symptomatic of something!

 

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Book

Liliane Giraudon Fur
Sun and Moon Press

‘A dimly-lit torture chamber, a showcase displaying genitalia and other organs, a laboratory reeking of rotting flesh, a child’s room strewn with stuffed animals – such are the settings of Fur, a collection of thirteen new tales by Liliane Giraudon.

‘In a style admirable both for what it reveals and what it fails to reveal, Giraudon continues her exploration of the frequently cruel and ambiguous dynamics of interpersonal relationships. Moving through an indeterminate atmosphere reminiscent of Beckett, marginalized characters are mysteriously drawn to one another or brutally torn apart for reasons they cannot understand or which they completely ignore, for Giraudon gives no explanation, forcing us to drawn our own conclusions and leaving us with a feeling of puzzlement and wonder.’ — Sun and Moon Press

Excerpt

*

p.s. Hey. Tomorrow morning I get my booster shot, and I have to go a little ways outside of Paris to do that, and god knows how long that will take, so instead of giving you post without a p.s. tomorrow, I’m going to take the day off and come back with a post/p.s. on Thursday. ** Dominik, Hi!!! I’m happy his films intrigued you. I couldn’t really see the collages because non-members can’t enlarge anything there, and they block you before you can scroll very far, but I’ll figure out a way. Your love is so agreeable! I would continue the thread, but it might start getting a little nasty, so, uh, love peering thoughtfully at the poppers for a moment then throwing the bottle out a window and saying, ‘Fuck it, let’s go to Disneyland!, G ** David, It was your birthday yesterday! Happy happy from its aftermath, dude. My birthday is exactly a week after yours aka next Monday. Uh, I don’t really dance but I can retroactively shuffle my feet and head bang gently if that helps? Did you blow Monday out in celebration? ** Maria, Isabella, Camila, Malaria, Gabriela, Thank you for giving David the celebration I couldn’t. Well, I consider feet shuffling to be dancing, so please spare my life. You’re most welcome, multiple person! ** David Ehrenstein, Oh, wow, how cool that you had in-person encounters with Dwoskin. Not me, unfortunately, as I came to his work very late. Thank you for the wisdom! ** David Fishkind, Hi. I haven’t read your new work yet due to work-related brain devouring, but today, I think. I haven’t seen ‘Last Night in Soho’ yet, no, but thank you for reminding me. I have it on one of my freebie/illegal(?) sites, so I’ll get on it. What did you think of it? ** Tosh Berman, Magically well! Dude, speaking from my current horrible experience, if you’ve found a cool producer who’s the real deal and is someone you want to work with, that’s no small thing. Very exciting! Well, aiming high is always a good thing to do just as long as you’re a little flexible once reality is in control, ha ha. I’m so sorry that things are dark for you at moment, you of all people. We’ve already traded this homily before, I think, but art will save you. Dumb sounding but true. Love, me. ** _Black_Acrylic, Glad you enjoyed it, Ben. How’s your writing going? ** Bill, Hi. Ah, not a bad queue there. Well, except for the Weerasethakul, but you probably won’t agree. ** l@rst, Happy New Year to you, big L! I tend to space out re: Ubuweb too. Strange. Huh, I haven’t read Douglas Coupland for almost literally a billion years. 60 super short semi-interconnected stories sounds pretty doable. Okay, I’ll search it. Thanks, buddy. Is your year starting in one digestible piece so far? ** Brian, Hey, B. Yeah, Dwoskin is strangely under-known in the US for some reason. Good stuff. We’re obligated to be masked outdoors again here. I think because it’s cold out, it doesn’t really bother me. Very cool about the screenplay and the film shoot. I really hope everything falls into place and you can do that. Sounds super fun, and, as someone who’s longing to make our new film, it sounds heavenly too. ‘Phantom’ is on Broadway?! Like, again, or has it been playing there for decades? Strange. No doomy predictions, man. Let’s bump elbows in agreement. Mm, my Monday was work-y, and the film shit is getting me down, but I saw my friend Ange for a coffee and good talk. So, it was okay. Tuesday, yours, on a scale of 1 – 10? ** Okay. Liliane Giraudon is one of the most interesting contemporary French fiction writers in (not only) my opinion. Her work is little known in the English speaking world, mostly or only because only two of her books have been translated, and both were published by a small (but very good) press. Anyway, today I spotlight one of those books, ‘Fur’, which is highly recommended to you. Check it out see if you might want to join her fanbase. See you on Thursday.

 

‘Stephen Dwoskin, born in New York on 15 January 1939, is one of the most visually rich and emotionally intense filmmakers in British cinema. After working as a graphic designer and art director for CBS and Epic Records, he made two short films, Asleep and American Dream, in 1961 and became part of the bohemian world of New York ‘underground’ filmmakers. In 1964 he moved to London on a Fulbright Fellowship to research British design, and in 1966 set up the London Film Makers Co-op with two other New Yorkers, Andy Meyer and Simon Hartog.

‘Working as a painter, designer and photographer, Dwoskin established his reputation as a filmmaker with a series of short films which won him the Solvay Prize at the Knokke Experimental Film Festival in 1967-8. His films were characterised by an obsessively intense scrutiny of the (mostly female) figures in front of his static or slowly moving camera, and an attention to image textures, printing processes and hypnotic soundtracks. Whereas most of his contemporaries in the world of avant-garde cinema espoused a modernist aesthetic focusing on the properties of the medium, Dwoskin explored the relations of desire that can be woven between the camera’s way of looking, the subject’s wish to be seen, the filmmaker’s irrevocable ‘separation’ from what he wants to see and show, and the viewer’s relation to this intricate network of imbricated desires.

‘In films such as Moment (1970), Chinese Checkers (1965) and Alone (1963), he allows shadowy narratives to be surmised by the viewer as s/he is gradually caught in the workings of a cinematic apparatus conceived not so much as a technological device than as a way of activating and playing with the desire to look. With these films, and others such as the emotionally overwhelming feature films Times For (1971), Dyn Amo (1972) and Behindert (1974), he drew as much attention to the viewer’s desire to become captivated by the filmed image as he did to the performer’s fascination in being captivated within the camera’s field of vision. The films often extend their engagement with performance to letting the actors improvise and ‘stage’ their own images, as in Central Bazaar (1976), or to near-dramatic narratives, as in The Silent Cry (1977) and Tod und Teufel (1973; an adaptation of a Wedekind play).

‘From the ’90s onwards, Dwoskin embarked on a series of autobiographical films turning the camera on himself and the spaces and people around him. Trying to Kiss the Moon (1994), an autobiographical film-poem, contains poignant home movie footage of his life in the US prior to the childhood polio attack which forced him to rely on crutches and eventually confined him to a wheelchair. It was followed by personal (Behindert) and historical (Face of Our Fear, 1992; Pain Is…, 1997) explorations of disability, made in the context of trying to secure full human rights for disabled people. After suffering bouts of severe illness, he made three profoundly moving video-films, Intoxicated by my Illness (2001-02), Some Friends and Another Time (both 2002), all pervaded by an unsettling sense of death’s proximity, which imbues each image and sound with an almost painful intensity.

‘In London, Dwoskin taught new generations of filmmakers at the Royal College of Art (1973-83) and at the London College of Printing (1983-87). He was active in various cultural institutions throughout his career, and published a personal account of the American and British avant-garde film worlds, Film Is, in 1975, and a book of his surreal and witty photomontages, Ha Ha! (La solution imaginaire) in 1993.’ — Quinzaine

 

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Stills

 

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Further

Stephen Dwoskin Site
PROJECT DWOSKIN @ Twitter
SD @ LUX
PACK 3 DVD STEPHEN DWOSKIN @ Re:Voir
Book: ‘Inside Out – Le cinéma de Stephen Dwoskin’
SD @ MUBI
Stephen Dwoskin – 14 films box 1/3 @ Experimental Cinema
The Legacies of Stephen Dwoskin
The Legacies of Stephen Dwoskin’s Personal Cinema
Podcast: They Shot Pictures Ep #09: Stephen Dwoskin
Where Have You Gone, Stephen Dwoskin?
Films and Videos by Stephen Dwoskin
SD @ Letterboxd
SD @ UbuWeb
The Many Hindrances of STEPHEN DWOSKIN
The Hungry Cinema of Stephen Dwoskin
A case study of Stephen Dwoskin’s digital archive
Allan Sutherland talks to film-maker Stephen Dwoskin about his career
Raymond Durgnat interviews Stephen Dwoskin (1984)
Interview with Stephen Dwoskin with Rozemin Keshvani
STEPHEN DWOSKIN (1939–2012)

 

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Extras

Stephen Dwoskin (1981) by Gérard Courant

Short Time (Stephen Dwoskin & Véronique Goël, 2006)

Extrait d’un entretien avec Stephen Dwoskin

 

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Interview

 

Decadrages Do you think it is legitimate to speak of different periods of your cinema, which can be a (chronological) way of ordering the corpus following three or four main axes? Approximately, we could say there is a first period, as you filmed (femine) models, and a second one, as you turn your camera against your own self. In between, there is experimentations on literate adaptations and an alternative to linear narration. And after the first phase until now, there is also documentary films. What do you think of that delineation?

Steve Dwoskin I’m thinking about your idea of “different periods” of my work. Basically your summary is correct though I think your ‘first period’ and ‘second period’ are more connected. The first I am the camera (and camera as ‘actor’) and the second is the same but I become both the camera unseen and seen. The flow and point of view, however, remain the same–there is only a slight (but big) shift….

Decadrages There is a sense maybe to apprehend your first short films, from 1961 to 1970, as a coeherent whole in term of processes and of shooting. To be more precise: Asleep (1961), American Dream (1961), Alone (1963), Naissant (1964), Chinese Checkers (1965), Dirty (1965), Soliloquy (1964/1967), Take Me (1968), Me, Myself and I (1968), Moment (1969) and Trixi (1970) all put face to face the man with the camera and feminine models (as Kulechov intends it: not an actor, but a model). But with different kinds of relations, which can imply as well binary as triangular interactions. Can you tell me a word about your general approach, which brings into play a dynamic of glances that Paul Willemen did theorise as a fourth look? And can you precise what are for you the ways of differenciating beetween those short films? Maybe by taking on account your relationship with your models, and the indications you give to them before shooting…

Steve Dwoskin Regarding the early films, let me say that the process was, at first, exploratory. Films such as Asleep and American were pretty much experiments to see how I could work with the camera and the element of time. I was moving from a more static practice painting, photography and graphics) so it was firstly necessary to expand my vocabulary and make the camera ‘eye’ my ‘eye’. With films like Alone, there begins my long relationship with the subject as both what is seen, what looks back and sees. The relationship with my ‘models’ (as you put it) had no theoretical beginnings. They were quite clearly ‘a relationship’ with another and the films became both a reflection of this relationship in that the ‘models’ also relate back to me. (A dialogue of sorts.) Also the films (in different ways) took on the position of being witness to, and part of that relationship. My intention was to explore the process of these kind of concentrated relationships as they develop through a period of time, much like following a thought, or spending some time with someone (or oneself). They were to follow a feeling about those kinds of moments (or periods) rather than a narrative as such. The conclusion (in the films) were never known while the films were being shot.

Why woman–I’m always asked–I think I merely filmed the ‘dialogue’ with that which I ‘desired’ to have a dialogue with. All the films of this period have high degree (greater or lesser) of sexual implications. It was not to make a voyeuristic relationship with the ‘model’ but to create an ‘actual’ relationship of participation (this is important)–it was to be involved–and triggered the way the camera participates and the way that the ‘model’ acknowledges the presence of the camera (and the person using the camera). This acknowledgement is the key shift from voyeur (the English sense of voyeur) to participant.

In Alone or Moment the look is often a glance, in Trixi or Take Me it is almost a continuous stare. In a film like Me, Myself and I the presence of the camera is by the consciousness of avoidance. Equally, in all these films the ‘themes’ are about relationships (with each other, with the self ; with the self, the camera and the other–which becomes the viewer !) (I think it’s this [these] combinations that brings into play a “dynamic of glances” that Paul Willemen (and Laura Mulvey) theorised as a fourth look!) I must say that all these early films were also part of a larger exploration’ with me and cinema–in order for me to find a personal language with the medium–to expand upon and utilise elsewhere and with other themes.

I should say that the early films were a critical part of my personal concern of how to ‘deal’ with the self–the inner space of the self–as one does in ones own mind when one is alone. I was very moved by the writings of James Joyce (particularly Ulysses) and with such parts as Molly Bloom’s soliloquy (my film Soliloquy was directly inspired by this). I was moved to considered how to turn the sense of words into images–to speak with the eyes, sort of–but mostly how to turn the internal process of thinking into visual representation.

Decadrages The process of dialogic and intersubjective interaction is a key notion to apprehend your work. I would say you do postulate a differenciation between two different planes. On the one hand, there is the experimentation on the filmic medium and its temporal dimension: how to frame a subject, to keep the intensity of the flowing time, and how to evolve from a static image to a linking of moving shots. On the other hand, you speak of a sphere of private relationship: there is a seen subject which turns back his glance and stare at you (the camera), i. e. at the audience. In other words, this relationship fissures the Hollywood representation of the subject-object : instead of a voyeurist gaze, you institute an interaction between the filmic and profilmic instances, involving an improvisation. Can we say there is an intrinsic relationship between the search of an accurate framing of the feminine subject and the exposition of an intersubjective experience you share with the model? And how do you evaluate the relation between your own immobility and the relative mobility of the filmed) subject?

Steve Dwoskin A thought occurs to me (I’m not sure how relevant it is to your question)–I transpose through (film ; the camera ; the montage) what I have and what I feel onto and with that which I do not have and that which I desire. The basis of the dialogue!

The question of ‘framing’ (and the pursuit of the frame) is the ‘look’–the look of the face and how the ‘face’ directs the body movement (towards and away) and through the eyes–the idea of the eyes being the extension of the ‘mind’–the expression of the inner subjectivity as it manifests itself externally–through the expression of the face–and the ‘gaze’ from the / by eyes. The camera also, is an extension of the eye – looking and capturing spontaneously as it relates, responds, feels about the other (the model’s response, mood, feeling)…

This is my ‘narrative’ so to speak. The surrounding situations (or environments for the action) is merely a backdrop for this pursuit–or this aim and intention. For me–to find a way to express how someone including myself) feels inside–to present it externally through the film as a reflection (or mirror) of this feeling or series of feelings or the changing evolution of one feeling into another feeling. (Feeling being a more complex array of inner moods, fears, desires, etc. The film–especially because of time and confrontation–is an attempt to extract–display–present–question–translate this complex inner network into the reflective potential of the moving image).

The mobility problem–physically limiting but the mind, the eye, and the look replaces the physical limitations by becoming very mobile inwardly; subjectively–and becomes another kind of ‘mental’ mobility. I suppose I replace one kind obvious physicality with another kind.

Decadrages Tod und Teufel thematises in a way the difficulties of communication and of relationships between male and female relatives. Can we say that the film, through the play, presents itself as a reflexive process on your own filmmaking?

Steve Dwoskin I would say Tod und Teufel only, in part, thematically (in general terms) represents a more external (situation) rather than a reflective process–mainly in my early films. Less so now as I’m more concerned (or, in addition to) the self reflective voice (the internal space) more likely found in (thematically) Beckett’s, Tsvetavea’s or Joyce’s writing / and in my own interpretation of ‘sur-realism’.

Decadrages Can you tell me more about your own interpretation of surrealism?

Steve Dwoskin I have a notion of Surrealism in that it has allowed me a kind of freedom. The way I have always ‘seen’ surrealism is that allows ‘normal’ contradictions to be put together and by doing so both ‘explains’ the contradictions while demonstrating them as contradictions. It also deals with ‘extremes’ that become relocated into a kind of ‘norm’. Alfred Jarry’s ‘Pataphysics’–placing an imaginary process on to a real process (this is an over-simplified explanation) is behind much of my thinking. Jarry’s idea, of course, is behind of surrealist thought. Artaud, Bataille, Duchamp, Bellmer, Aragon, Man Ray, etc.–and that ‘school’ of thought and way of processing work in that it is a way of re-looking and re-thinking without confinement. This kind of thinking has inspired me as way of processing my own ‘ideas’ since it constantly alters the ‘rules of engagement’ or removes the ‘rules’ altogether. It also plays with absurdity. I find life absurd and so surrealistic processing gives sense to the absurd. At the same time it somehow captures (or gives) a core meaning to that absurdity saying ‘it is reality’–I could dress this explanation up better verbally–I’m not a writer. Then, too, film-making is a surreal process.

Decadrages When you speak of ‘putting together’ things which do represent normally “contradictions”, are you thinking of a kind of collage or montage? How does this process relate to your own photomontages, Ha Ha! ou la solution imaginaire? Furthermore, is there a direct relationship with your way of understanding surrealism and Further and Particular 1988)?

Steve Dwoskin Collage or montage (or editing) is, in effect, a ‘putting together’ and in a general sort of way a surrealistic’ process. Whatever is ‘put together’ (or connected) begins to make a ‘statement’ or creates relationships. In that way one can put together two apparently different images and thus make them relate to each other. (You can put two different colours together and they then make a unique relationship as well!) These connections give a new meaning beyond what each individual piece, on their own, represent. One piece may on their own be a contradiction from the other, but by putting them together they no longer represent a contradiction. A new ‘logic’ (a new narrative) is formed. In Ha, Ha! this is a very fundamental process. Regarding Further and Particular–yes, this is a direct application of surrealism in that it tries to assemble ideas from both Jarry and Bataille. I think it is too much a literal application. I prefer how I used surrealistic notions in some of the later work like Visitors (2004) or the recent film Oblivion (2005) where the sense of surrealism lies behind the making rather than a literal interpretation…

Decadrages Further and Particular, as well as Oblivion, asks the question of the adaptation of literary texts. How did you consider your own way of transposition? Furthermore, these texts take part in a deviant branch of surrealism (Jarry appears as a model for the later surrealists, Bataille follows his own line and founds his group, and Aragon represents the political axis of the movement). What is your relation to them?

Steve Dwoskin The main connection between the authors is that they provide a kind of ‘vocabulary of thinking’ (for me) that deal with the ‘borders’ in areas such as personal behaviour and sexuality–and the extremes in these areas (and in opposition to the ‘conventional’ ways of expressing them) plus the point of view of those ‘isolated’ from the acceptable’–and that seems to capture my own feelings. My own life has been forced into being ‘outside’ the expected ‘norm’ so I find that their perceptions give sense to my own. I’ve not been particularly concerned with what ‘schools’ of surrealism these authors have been connected to. What they have provided for me is this kind of sensibility (and vocabulary of ‘thinking’ and ‘expressing’) that inspires me. I have tried to ‘translate’ or ‘harness’ this vocabulary with my own visual concerns. It is more about the ‘moods’ or under-narratives’ they put into a verbal form that I try to represent in a visual form, but with my own narrative, so to speak! I don’t usually try to adapt’ their narrative (though Further and Particular may be close to that) but try to translate that kind of thinking into my personal ‘story’ (that usually about me – as in Oblivion. It’s a kind of ‘kinship’!). I should point out–and this is important–it is not only the surrealists but other writers such as Beckett (my film Another Time, 2002) and Joyce (Times For, Soliloquy) that have inspired me because for whatever reason they all deal with ways of expressing the interior space of the self. This, above all, is the main drive of all my work. I’m not a ‘story-teller’. I’m a ‘reflector’ of this interior space. These writers have helped me find a ‘form’ to express in images what they do so well in words. Perhaps, to answer your question more directly: it’s the ‘poetics’ of their writing I try to adapt (or metaphor) and not their stories and I do this less consciously and less literally than it might appear.

Decadrages What strikes me is your constant search of an under-narrative–by focussing on details (i.e. close-up, unframing, etc.). Sort of what happens beyond the facts. You did link interiority with alterity, speaking of a border between personnal (sexual) behaviour and external (societal) normality. Can you precise by which means you do reflect an inner space, your own and that of the people who face the camera? And how do you position yourself in front of the question of the limits and their surpassing, which are central for Artaud and Bataille? Maybe I am irrelevant. But I cannot prevent linking the writing of a stream of consciousness (notably with Ulysses but also in a sense with Beckett) with the notion of an inner speech which dubs (adds to) the film. What do you think of that connection?

Steve Dwoskin For me it is to make films to free myself and audiences to find film as it should be, and not as it is. It is also to make films that explore and express the self. To express the self is also to expose the self, but at the same time to allow a dialogue with others. It is not only a dialogue but a process of investigation and reflection for all. To do this film making has to (in my opinion) be honest and revealing. It has to let the viewer be able to engage with their own selves and their own feelings. The films, therefore have to open up with the elusive and the intimate space to permit the viewer to enter or reflect upon it. It therefore can be a space where the viewer, like the film-maker, introduces their own form of ‘narrative’, a ‘narrative’ that is not necessarily conclusive nor resolved ; a process that is not made as a distracting story. For me then, films become like a mirror, as my films are. They are made as a process that is reflective (often meditative) and at the same becoming a reflector. This forces a type (or style) of film making that is outside or beyond the barriers of conventional ‘storytelling’ (and beyond even ‘voyeurism’). What happens between to viewer the film also happens (in the opposite direction) during the making between the ‘performer’, myself and the camera!

I think that the idea of ‘limits’ and ‘surpassing’ them are unique to Bataille or Artaud, though they do a precise stand on this. Surpassing the sexual ‘limits’ go even further with de Sade, of course, but I think most decent artists attempt to surpass the limits if one assumes that the idea of ‘limits’ represent the oppressive rituals of an existing convention; or the personal ‘limits’ of ones ‘inabilities’ and the wish to expand them (or explore them ; or confront them!) For me confronting and trying to ‘surpass’ the ‘limits’ is a way of making a declaration (or shouting at) the solemnity of the formal rituals of ‘convention’ (confinement) and to think / see / go beyond that kind of ‘oppression’.

I think that your connection is relevant. The inner voice (speech) certainly adds to the film.

Decadrages Can we make a connection between your films and the writing of a stream of counsiousness, as did Gertrude Stein practice it? Brakhage, for instance, did promote her writing as a model.

Steve Dwoskin For me, the closest connection to a ‘stream of consciousness’ in my film to writing would be Joyce’s soliloquy’s. It’s more like a process of ‘associations’ or the way conversations’ occur. I’ve never really managed to take to Gertrude Stein’s writing so I cannot make comment on her way.

 

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Some of Stephen Dwoskin’s films

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Naissant (1964-67)
‘Of all the stars of the New York underground, Stephen Dwoskin called Beverly Grant – also seen in films by Jack Smith and Ron Rice – ‘the most chameleon of the lot’. Whereas others ‘played themselves, she lived her parts to the fullest not only in the film but in her daily life‘. Here she plays a girl alone in bed – the same bed as in Dwoskin’s Alone – this time with something more troubling on her mind, though only the title hints at what it might be.

‘Naissant is notable for marking Gavin Bryars’s soundtrack debut. At the time it was recorded, in early 1967, the 23-year-old Bryars had recently left the experimental Joseph Holbrooke Trio, and this is one of few surviving recordings of him on double bass from that time.’ — Henry K. Miller

the entirety

 

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Chinese Checkers (1965)
‘His Oriental predator is at first clothed in black, her ‘victim’ in white; slowly the costumes change, the victim acquiring a veil of mourning, until finally – as if to underline the ambiguity and interchangeability of their respective roles – the colours are reversed altogether. Still more interesting is the way in which, as the game becomes more ambiguous, Dwoskin adds fresh layers of make-up to his characters’ faces, until they become almost caricature masks of their original selves.’ — Letterboxd

the entirety

 

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Dirty (1971)
‘Dirty is remarkable for its sensuousness, created partly by the use of rephotography which enables the filmmaker a second stage of response to the two girls he was filming, partly by the caressing style of camera movement and partly by the gradual increase of dirt on the film itself, increasing the tactile connotations generated by rephotography. The spontaneity of Dwoskin’s response to the girls’ sensual play is matched by the spontaneity of his response to the film of their play.’ — John Du Cane

Watch the entirety here

 

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Dyn Amo (1972)
‘What happens when the use of pop music is neither celebratory nor liberating? When it is the soundtrack to emotional pain and social oppression, and may be said to contribute to, or even generate such pain and oppression?

‘In the opening reel of Dyn amo – one of the most extraordinary yet most unwatchable works in the history of cinema – Stephen Dwoskin proposes just that. In a grimy Soho strip club, a stripper (Jenny Runacre) goes through the motions of her act to three pop songs – The Rolling Stones’ “The Under Assistant West Coast Promotion Man” (1965), Marvin Gaye’s “Can I Get a Witness?” (1963), and Phil Spector’s “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah” (1962), performed by Bob B. Soxx & the Blue Jeans. These scenes are intercut with the opening credits, scored to Gavin Bryars’ menacing, minimalist drone.

‘The use of music in the first reel of Dyn amo is inspired by Kenneth Anger’s Scorpio Rising (1964), a film Dwoskin revered. Dyn amo shows the creative possibilities of Anger and the New York underground wilting in the basement of a London slaphouse during the leaden 1970s. Dyn amo has usually been read in terms of feminism, but Dwoskin often said that his films were actually about himself. Dyn amo is a cry for help from a New Yorker stranded in dispiriting London, where the dreams evoked by American pop music and underground film are muffled and ultimately drowned out.’ — Senses of Cinema

Trailer

 

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Girl (1972)
‘It is quite revealing how complex the simple form is. Shot one to one, a girl is confronted with nothing more than her thoughts. In the period of watching her (while she is looking at you) her expressions and movements turn into a ‘mirror’ for the viewer to experience his or herself. The experience is solely emotive between you and her, and occurs in “real” time.’ — Stephen Dwoskin

Watch the entirety here

 

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Tod und Teufel (1974)
‘Evolves around the rooms of a house as one of the main characters, Lisiska, is waiting and is studied in depth as she prepares herself for a meeting. The film attempts to display sexual barriers and misconceptions, and about the role-playing and the confusion around the whole question of sexual and sensual involvement. The essence is the confrontation with self-deception, lies and the real fear of contact with both sexes.’ — Letterboxd

Watch the entirety here

 

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Behindert (1974)
‘It is clear that Dwoskin the disabled film-maker, in his stubborn determination to hold the camera himself, even though he has to prop himself up on a pair of crutches that could have come straight out of a Jacques Callot engraving, and secure a medieval knight’s straps and greaves around his enfeebled legs, might be not only the model of that hindered camera but also the artist who is prevented from grasping everything and forced to search the portion of the visible to draw from it a metonymy of everything, thereby projecting a “built” world. Indeed, semioticians have postulated that, for “diegetisation” or story-telling to occur, a world must first be built, the medium must be hidden and a space inhabitable by a character must be generated. This is the aim of all of the “compensatory” processes used (from cutting to editing, moving equipment, lighting and even special effects). However implausible the resulting built world may be (dinosaurs, Martians, godfathers, gladiators, secret agents), it is nevertheless a world that humans can inhabit and thus a world that is possible! Pace the semioticians and their sense of humour, Dwoskin does the exact opposite: he explores the uninhabitability of the world through one who is denied all of its comforts and conveniences (including that of sitting down when invited to do so by a goodnatured soul), as well as through everyone else – whose hostility he will have noticed before anyone else – and, within that hostility, that rejection, that barrier, he develops the interstices of survival, the flights of fancy, the attention paid to the minutest details, the incipient gestures. Dwoskin inhabits this uninhabitable world, understanding that doing so requires feeling the three-dimensional nature of the medium, the very matter that makes up the mediation between him and others, him and that very world, not a world built by him (the celebrated romantic world of authors), but that world, which must be confronted in despair, because it is the only world there is, and because its folds and layers no doubt conceal what is essential for survival: sensuality, desire, pleasure, amazement, rapture.’ — François Albera

the entirety

 

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Central Bazaar (1976)
‘For this remarkable experimental film, the provocative avant-garde legend Stephen Dwoskin gathered together a group of strangers and filmed them as they explored their fantasies over a period of five days: a project that now sounds a little like TV’s Big Brother. The ceremonial gowns and make-up here not only evoke the eroticism of European horror movies but also highlight the film’s interplay between performance and intimacy. Jonas Mekas called it “theatre of life”.’ — re-voir

Excerpt

 

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Silent Cry (1977)
‘The Silent Cry is a fictionalised narrative film, based on documentary facts and extracts of one English girl’s memories and thoughts, all surrounded, and directed towards her particular dilemma. This dilemma can be summarized as her basic inability to have relationships, especially sustained relationships, and particularly with men. This is the total of her statement and the film. The construction and flow of the film follows the way she thinks – it is her point of view that is followed in the film. So all things are the way she remembers and dwells on them, and which are important to her.’ — S.D.

Watch the entirety here

 

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Shadows from Light (1983)
‘The singular vision of avant-garde filmmaker Stephen Dwoskin sheds new light on the work of British photographer Bill Brandt, focusing in particular on his connections with the Surrealist movement, his portraiture, and his nudes. The film was broadcast as part of Channel Four’s ground-breaking series Eleventh Hour (1982-88), devised to showcase independent and experimental films.’ — bfi

Watch the entirety here

 

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Ballet Black (1986)
‘Stephen Dwoskin’s Arts Council film tells the story of Ballet Negres, an innovative all-black dance troupe founded by Jamaican dancer Berto Pasuka and active in Europe from 1946 to 1952. Exploring the company through archive film and photographs, as well as a reunion of the original members after 35 years, it climaxes with a vibrant performance of Pasuka’s They Came by young black dancers. The film’s fragmented style and lack of traditional talking heads can be challenging, but its historic value and rhythmic blend of sound and image reward the persistent viewer.’ — Stephen Bourne

Excerpt

 

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Trying to Kiss the Moon (1994)
‘In Trying To Kiss The Moon, Stephen Dwoskin tells the double story on memory, bringing together the beauty of its documents and the sadness of its elusiveness. Extracts from Dwoskin’s own films are collaged with photographs and bits of home movies, still vitally alive with the moment they were taken. But their presence is painfully innocent; little did these images know. Dwoskin implies how they would be overtaken by time and become the signs of stories that are half remembered or cannot be told. The film is absorbing to anyone who has undergone this experience with documents of their own memories.

‘At the same time, the images are marked by Dwoskin’s own idiosyncratic style of film-making and his characteristic use of the camera. His film very often existed, in the first instance, as document: he would film a scene in order to see what would happen, allowing the people in front of the camera freedom to develop their actions and, most of all, the develop an active rapport with the camera. And, as his films are very often about his/the camera’s relation to women, the faces in the extracts look out of the screen inquiringly, or erotically, or angrily, into the lens and – as it now seems – into the future. The camera zooms and records in its hand-held instability the presence of the film-maker; it reframes and allows time to pass, so that the shot gradually turns into a portrait in which the author’s presence is also part of the image. There is, therefore, an acknowledgement of time and of the exchange of looks already there in the raw material; and this material, edited into a film with a further rhythm and significance, returns in this film with all the rawness of the moment when it was shot.’ — Laura Mulvey

the entirety

 

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Pain Is… (1997)
‘A fascinating companion piece to David Cronenberg’s Crash or Kirby Dick’s Sick, Pain Is… combines interviews, archival footage and Dwoskin’s thoughtful voice-over to arrive at a scrupulous anatomy of pain (encompassing disease, dental work and sadomasochism). The interviews range from those who suffer from chronic pain to those who find pleasure in wilfully inflicting pain. Dwoskin doesn’t belabour the distinction, choosing instead to search for underlying meanings. Without getting into tortured semiotics, he examines the language of pain and wonders, amongst other things, if it is possible “to make an image of pain”.’ — Dennis Lim

the entirety

 

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Another Time (2002)
‘A film about a man, an unseen man, perhaps immobile or displaced, trapped in solitude, filling the intervals with reflection and desire. He resides in the tension of a modest, detached space fixed with the memories of another time, with other people passing, some invading, and with the women who will not stay nor leave. In this space the obscure edges between what is what was overlap. Time fuses into a silence that is not a silence at all, but the question “am I here”?’ — film affinity

Excerpt

 

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Lost Dreams (2003)
‘Often implicating the viewer in a voyeuristic situation, Dwoskin uses the camera as an extension of the eye – looking and capturing spontaneously as it relates, responds, feels about the other (the model), the eyes being the extension of the ‘mind’. In this film, these staged meetings take place in retrospect.’ — IFFR

Watch the entirety here

 

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Ascolta! (2008)
‘Liu, crying, sings “Signore, ascolta!” Liu can bear it no more. She sinks to the ground, exhausted and sobbing. Puccini makes tears of joy and of sadness. Ascolta! was inspired by Puccini”s opera Turandot.’ — Valérie Maës

Excerpt

 

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Age Is… (2012)
‘AGE IS… is a new feature meditating on the subjective experience and cultural concepts of ageing. The film is an ode to the texture, the beauty, the singularity of aging faces and silhouettes, a hypnotic poem in the « Dwoskinian » meaning of the term which is long ob- servations of very tiny details. A gesture, a pause, a look, a moment. Throughout his films intimacy has always played the leading role and this is also true for “Age is…”, all the faces being those of close friends, of their relatives and sometimes even of Stephen himself.’ — re-voir

Trailer

 

 

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p.s. Hey. ** Molly Rima Hoopes, Hi, Molly! How cool to see you here. Yes, meat as far as the eye could see. Crazy! xo, Dennis. ** David, Hi. Uh, I think ‘MiM’ was their second album. I remember thinking it wasn’t good, and I pretty much bailed on them after that. Nah, you’d be amazed how uneventful I can be. ** David Ehrenstein, He’s certainly one of them. ** Tosh Berman, Hi. As I’m sure you know, I haven’t eaten meat since I was 15. A producer meeting on a Sunday! That’s a dedicated potential producer right there. I hope the meeting went well. How was the feedback? ** Ian, Hi. Oh, man, I’m so, so sorry about the loss of your friend. I lost a good friend and collaborator late last year, also way too young, and I’m still kind of in total shock about it. Stay strong. I hope you’re doing as okay as you can be. Love, Dennis. ** Bill, Hi. I was surprised too. I just wondered one day if ‘meat’ was a potential thematic for those posts I like to do, and I went in search, expecting a puny bunch, but … what do you know? All of that red was nice somehow. That’s too bad: ‘Witchfinder General’ is not a bad title. Oh, well, the year is very, very young. ** Dominik, Hi, D!!!! Happy New Year to you! I’ll put @strange_ creature_ collages in my search engine, thank you, although instagram doesn’t let non-members have more than a tiny peek inside, which is one of the reasons I don’t have an account there. Elitists! (or something). I tried to remember when I read that molten lead thing if I had ever had that particular fantasy, and don’t think I ever have, strangely enough, ha ha. Although I do think something like that happens in ‘120 Days of Sodom’. Love hearing your Love out about the ‘molten lava’ thing and getting a boner at the idea and saying, ‘Okay, if I can do poppers’, and feeling totally normal, G. ** geymm, Hi. Yes, in that sense, ‘The Sluts’ could be categorised as non-fiction. HNY to you too! Ha ha, no, if anything that post was a challenge to myself because just the idea of meat makes me feel a little ill, much less looking at it. I figured it might make every viewer a little squirrely, whatever their diet. I hope you didn’t throw up! ** David Fishkind, Hi, David! Oh, thank you! I did read the piece you sent to me before and admire it very much. Sorry I didn’t manage to tell you so. I can be a little slow on the communication front. I greatly look forward to the new piece. Everyone, David Fishkind is a superb writer, and he has just published … and here I quote … “another installment in my quartet of tales. “The Children of Zoar” is about opioids, foster care, private education, pedophilia, incest, surveillance, the digital divide, the legal system, secrets, and flying and takes place 2 or 3 or 6 years from now.” I read an earlier installment, and it was fantastic, so I urge you to join me in checking out this new one. It’s here. Your reading list of last year is very impressive, and thank you for including my things. There are a lot of books in that list that I love a whole lot. Thanks much for coming in here and for the generous share. Take care. ** _Black_Acrylic, You’re scaring me, man, ha ha, but for real. ** T, Hi, T, and a HNY! I don’t think I’ve ever fainted. Huh. It does suck massively about the producer, yes, and thanks for the commiserating. He wants another month to try to get funds, but it’s basically pointless, and I’m sure he’s just stalling. So, yes, Zac and I are now actively looking for a new producer for our film. And we’re very angry. We totally got taken by that guy. It’s infuriating, but onwards we go because we have no choice. It seems highly possible that I might shout ‘nyah nyah nyah nyah nyah’ at some point today. If I can remember, I’ll turn my phone’s movie making function towards my face and prove it. I hope your day is like that thing that happens in the movies when one character is at the airport and sees their long lost wife or kid or whoever in the distance and gets a look of insane joy on their face and runs at the long lost beloved full speed with their arms open wide. ** Steve Erickson, I seriously doubt it. It would be nice if art had that power, but … Your laptop is such a brat! Really, at least from afar, it seems like the most obnoxious laptop ever. ** Brian, Hey, Brian. I’m think it’s partially that lurid red color. Well, in combo with the subject matter, of course. Oh, jeez, now your aunt? So I assume you’re masked 24/7 at the moment? Fingers very crossed. Thanks about the interview. It was fun to do, and I’m glad if that came across. On NYE I watched a documentary about Ricky Powell, the early HipHop and Beastie Boys photographer. It was a standard fare doc on the form front, but it was quite interesting. I like ‘White Ribbon’ a lot. It might be my favorite Haneke, possibly. So, how is your first week the big ’22 looking so far? Have a swell first portion, i.e. day of it. ** Okay. I’m letting the blog concentrate on the films of the fascinating British director Stephen Dwoskin today. I hope it makes you lean forward, peer, read, scroll, click, watch, and thereby achieve some form of satisfaction. See you tomorrow.