a 1958 documentary

Kodak Factory

a flickr set by Richelle

Kodak

Tacita Dean films a factory

DIY Film

analog coating goes garage

a shot from a firearm that is aimed and fired quickly

a photograph that is taken in a short moment of opportunity

a type of shot used in ice hockey

a distributed computer algorithm which copies a self-consistent image of an entire network to stable storage

a set of computer files and directories kept in storage as they appeared some time in the past

a single by American drag performer RuPaul

the only nuclear reactor powered satellite launched by the United States

an abbreviation used by US police department for first investigation about a person or fugitive. It stands for: sex, nationality, age, personality, skin, height, outer (clothing), tattoos

identity theft collages

Craig Cully

realism, self-authored narratives, and the awkward intimacies of inter-personal relationships

Lauren Simonutti

8 rooms, 7 mirrors, 6 clocks, 2 minds& 199 panes of glass — the clapperboards link to video of the artist talking about her work

I’m afraid of power. It makes me nervous. In real life, I identify with the victim, that is why I went into art. In my art, I am the murderer. I feel for the ordeal of the murderer, the man who has to live with his conscience.

The process is to go from passive to active. As an artist I am a powerful person. In real life, I feel like the mouse behind the radiator.

It is mind over matter. You transcend real life in your art.

- Louise Bourgeois from Self Expression is Sacred and Fatal

October. Here in this dank, unfamiliar kitchen
I study my father’s embarrassed young man’s face.
Sheepish grin, he holds in one hand a string
of spiny yellow perch, in the other
a bottle of Carlsberg beer.

In jeans and flannel shirt, he leans
against the front fender of a 1934 Ford.
He would like to pose brave and hearty for his posterity,
wear his old hat cocked over his ear.
All his life my father wanted to be bold.

But the eyes give him away, and the hands
that limply offer the string of dead perch
and the bottle of beer. Father, I love you,
yet how can I say thank you, I who can’t hold my liquor either
and don’t even know the places to fish.

- Raymond Carver

How did I do it?

I don’t know. All right, I don’t know. I made it. Conscientiously, from day to day. This line, that piece of music, one had to enrich it, to hook voices on either side of it, define its boundaries. There were so many voices. I had to choose. Everyone talked about her, wanted her. Anna-Marie Guardi. And about him. I had to choose among the voices. It wasn’t possible to represent or use them all. The reception was enormous at first. Then the numbers diminished. People spoke less. And when less was said, the park stood out more. Alleys were formed, dark, always dark toward the tennis courts and toward the gray buildings, the offices of the French Embassy. On the one side, the Ganges carried along the yellow earth of the rice paddies. Day and night. It was abominably hot in Paris in August. It was in August. I was preoccupied with questions of money. Hounded even as I worked. I have been making films without a salary since 1969. I am going to talk about this film. Don’t be impatient, let me get rid of my annoyance, purify myself of wasted words. So I hated money, and the world. And the heat. And myself for being so stupid, for having always been that way, yes. Don’t interrupt. I hated. This film that no one would see. No one sees my films. Why make them? Voices torment me. Another voice speaks to me when I wake up, saying, get out of here, get out of France, drop the whole thing. The voices waited to be heard. I no longer expected anything. At this point, I begin to come out of it, to see myself facing the film. I am doing it. Yes, facing the film. I am doing it. Each day, from morning until night. For three months.

- Marguerite Duras

Duras as Philosopher : a lecture by Marcus Steinweg