Chapter 2.1
While watching the film “The Royal Tenenbaums” I couldn’t help but notice the rich injection or depiction of common objects, or “stuff”. The word “stuff” here covers not only objects, but settings, those that are particular to a character or narrative thread, unassuming but yet with a presence that eclipses the mere happenstance of its existence. While most good filmmakers take great care to construct a visual scene, this was seemingly made with what I felt was a similar mindset that a realist (figurative) painter might take in deciding how to adapt the real world to his/her uses. Wes Anderson’s (director) construction of the scenes was not dependent on what was present, but took what was present in an almost casual manner, and upped its visual veracity to the point that it became what one could say is presenting ‘reality in the guise of illusion’.
The realist painter must make the decision to render something, and while the framework of the painting might be what exists in actuality (the scene), it’s not what constrains or necessarily what dictates the final image. It is the decision to do something or not to do something that creates the potency of a realist painting… it is the reliance on what is essentially a lie that makes the viewer question. This is why I think that film-making and painting are actually closer in spirit than painting and photography. They both attempt to show reality through the guise of illusion, whereas photography presents illusion in the guise of reality.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Ponderings about what it feels like...
Chapter 2.0: A New Beginning (the Pregnant City)
What passes through the mind of a street-wanderer? In the monstrous dream, the great hallucination. A Shakespearian masterpiece. A noble metropolis, a childish Babel.
Evening. The need to follow, the need to find, to come upon unexpectadly. The quick glance skyward, the briefest look downward; the sidewalk curb. The lines of the street, of the crosswalk. They provide balance and a sense of order, however they are unstable. The pavement cracks, small at first then larger and deeper. A hint of green creeps up out of one of the cracks, but the eyes can't stay on the green. The eyes must look up, ahead, since the sound is louder. A bloated crackling sound.
Once more the curb.
A stop for rest, even though the wander must continue. Under it all, a wave-like roar from the subterranean depths of the sleepless city, breathing. A turn, blind light. turn back, a sight. A man's face, then a woman's face, unmoving. They come towards you but are without velocity. They emit sound, more sound than the people walking by.
:for appendix: [The danger of standing too long in one place near a sidewalk curb is that there is the distinct possibility of being bounced around by the throng, the river. It is best to always keep moving]
The light grows and dulls, becomes a hazy blob. Suddenly all is dark, but only for a fraction of time. Time has no real meaning here, as a second is as unmeasurable as is a minute. In the distance an escape, but to what end? No end.
Refocus on the stage. All the players are set, and the feeling is of top billing. This is false, it is only a cameo role. Hundreds, thousands, millions of cameos. A bright flash, and then a bump. That moment of instability is quite horrible. There. a small stone on the pavement... gone. Eyes briefly capture the foot that kicked it without knowing. In the distance a siren echos, The sound bounces off the glass, lingers in the mind, and then returns to the glass. Again, and again. horns everywhere. Incessant mumbling. A stare straight into someone's eyes, cold stare, unemotional, anonymous. Here, it will always be so, the environment is dependent on it to thrive, to evolve. The noise gathers, rises, a clatter, a shout to the right, nearly miss walking into a child. Someone else does it instead. To the left, the left, an opening, a haven.
Silence. There is noise all about, but a pure stillness exists now. This is a stillness that is understandable through experiential translation. Turning from the lights... then, I. You. A reflection.
What passes through the mind of a street-wanderer? In the monstrous dream, the great hallucination. A Shakespearian masterpiece. A noble metropolis, a childish Babel.
Evening. The need to follow, the need to find, to come upon unexpectadly. The quick glance skyward, the briefest look downward; the sidewalk curb. The lines of the street, of the crosswalk. They provide balance and a sense of order, however they are unstable. The pavement cracks, small at first then larger and deeper. A hint of green creeps up out of one of the cracks, but the eyes can't stay on the green. The eyes must look up, ahead, since the sound is louder. A bloated crackling sound.
Once more the curb.
A stop for rest, even though the wander must continue. Under it all, a wave-like roar from the subterranean depths of the sleepless city, breathing. A turn, blind light. turn back, a sight. A man's face, then a woman's face, unmoving. They come towards you but are without velocity. They emit sound, more sound than the people walking by.
:for appendix: [The danger of standing too long in one place near a sidewalk curb is that there is the distinct possibility of being bounced around by the throng, the river. It is best to always keep moving]
The light grows and dulls, becomes a hazy blob. Suddenly all is dark, but only for a fraction of time. Time has no real meaning here, as a second is as unmeasurable as is a minute. In the distance an escape, but to what end? No end.
Refocus on the stage. All the players are set, and the feeling is of top billing. This is false, it is only a cameo role. Hundreds, thousands, millions of cameos. A bright flash, and then a bump. That moment of instability is quite horrible. There. a small stone on the pavement... gone. Eyes briefly capture the foot that kicked it without knowing. In the distance a siren echos, The sound bounces off the glass, lingers in the mind, and then returns to the glass. Again, and again. horns everywhere. Incessant mumbling. A stare straight into someone's eyes, cold stare, unemotional, anonymous. Here, it will always be so, the environment is dependent on it to thrive, to evolve. The noise gathers, rises, a clatter, a shout to the right, nearly miss walking into a child. Someone else does it instead. To the left, the left, an opening, a haven.
Silence. There is noise all about, but a pure stillness exists now. This is a stillness that is understandable through experiential translation. Turning from the lights... then, I. You. A reflection.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Ponderings about updating...
Fear not gentle readers! The Bohemian will return shortly with new content, and an updated look! Stay tuned!
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