L'amant

A very interesting story of the making of the film...

part I


part II


part III


part IV


part V


part VI

It is unnatural to seek poetry that brings tears. It is unnatural to replace the somber moments of truth and fatigue enveloping as one’s head rests on a pillow with morose desperate thoughts. Yet tonight, I can feel the saddest poem as Neruda writes it, and I shed the saddest tears.

A Song of Despair

The memory of you emerges from the night around me.
The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea.

Deserted like the dwarves at dawn.
It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one!

Cold flower heads are raining over my heart.
Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked.

In you the wars and the flights accumulated.
From you the wings of the song birds rose.

You swallowed everything, like distance.
Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank!

It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss.
The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse.

Pilot's dread, fury of blind driver,
turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank!

In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded.
Lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire,
sadness stunned you, in you everything sank!

I made the wall of shadow draw back,
beyond desire and act, I walked on.

Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost,
I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you.

Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness.
and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar.

There was the black solitude of the islands,
and there, woman of love, your arms took me in.

There was thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit.
There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle.

Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain me
in the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms!

How terrible and brief my desire was to you!
How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid.

Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs,
still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds.

Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs,
oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies.

Oh the mad coupling of hope and force
in which we merged and despaired.

And the tenderness, light as water and as flour.
And the word scarcely begun on the lips.

This was my destiny and in it was my voyage of my longing,
and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank!

Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you,
what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not drowned!

From billow to billow you still called and sang.
Standing like a sailor in the prow of a vessel.

You still flowered in songs, you still brike the currents.
Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well.

Pale blind diver, luckless slinger,
lost discoverer, in you everything sank!

It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour
which the night fastens to all the timetables.

The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore.
Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate.

Deserted like the wharves at dawn.
Only tremulous shadow twists in my hands.

Oh farther than everything. Oh farther than everything.

It is the hour of departure. Oh abandoned one!

~Pablo Neruda

My tears flow, oh, how my tears flow, as I read this.

Y las estrellas brillan y la luna se sienta en su silla...

{And the stars shine and the moon sits on its chair...}

When I grow up, I want to be…

A singular singularity.

Enjoy this. Apologies for the sparse updates to the non-existent audience; life seems to happen along the way...

I had strange dreams of you, and happiness, light emotions, running from one another, playing games, laughter… only to find myself waking up terrified of my own subconscious.

Andy Warhol, Sordid Affairs within the Art Community and Absolutely Astonishing Information

Personally, pop art has never appealed to me, and the revised definitions of avant-garde stemming from that period are dubious to say the least. I do acknowledge the significance of Rauschenberg, Lichtenstein and others, but nevertheless, my opinion remains. Naturally, I should address Andy Warhol if I am to discuss pop art as a movement, mass production of art as an ideal, artistic license as a questionable concept and/or a fleeting memory, etcetera.

These series of videos are a BBC documentary called Imagine: Andy Warhol Denied. I found the documentary not only shocking and very informative, but rather now I have some further evidence to support my disdain of Andy Warhol, the pop art movement, and the whole idea of appealing to a mass audience of gaping fools, or what is now commonly referred to as popular culture. Perhaps your interpretation of the documentary will slightly differ from my own…

Enjoy,

part I


part II


part III


part IV


part V


part VI


part VII

One evening...

turbulent cathedrals and castles casting tall shadows
grandly elaborate tympanums
symphonic, rhythmic and powerful

perpetuating

I have never been so struck by the work of a single photographer to grant the title of ‘favourite’ to any such artist. Nevertheless, I believe that I recently discovered such a photographer: Helmut Newton. Perhaps is it the erotic undertones of the photographs or, as wikipedia puts it, the sado-masochistic and fetishistic subtexts that are of such particular interest to me. What I find most appealing is that the pieces are usually somewhat surreal, and always elegant – even if it is in the starkest of manners.

Below are a several other photographs,

If I have made, my lady, intricate
imperfect various things chiefly which wrong
your eyes (frailer than most deep dreams are frail)
songs less firm than your body's whitest song
upon my mind - if I have failed to snare
the glance too shy - if through my singing slips
the very skilful strangeness of your smile
the keen primeval silence of your hair

- let the world say "his most wise music stole
nothing from death" -
. you will only create
(who are so perfectly alive) my shame:
lady whose profound and fragile lips
the sweet small clumsy feet of April came

into the ragged meadow of my soul.


E. E. Cummings

"Trees are much like human beings and enjoy each other's company. Only a few love to be alone."

Jens Jensen

A beautiful photomanipulation

I love Love, and the child of Love, the love-child. I am in love with Love. Love is the centre of my life. Love acts, and Love sings. Love is the Most Beautiful Lady, and has a dark ambiguous cunt. I am the child of Love, and her master. Love fills my days with boredom, and gives my nights moments of rapture. Love is laying me waste, but I want her devastation. I love Love when she combs her red-gold hair, and when she whispers shameful phrases in the dark. I love her when I am sick, and she ministers to me. I love her when she presses the golden swan to her slim body; and when she broods tenderly over the Christ child. I love her when she sits naked on a rock, her hair in strands from the sea water, her left hand resting palm-upward on her sturdy thighs – whether to give or to take, we don’t know.

D. M. Thomas, Ararat

As the shore meets your inspiration
the visible horizon slowly falls to truth,
and I equate your ecstasy with the pleasure of the night