vk.com/ruckwarts_von_nah Количество участников: 3809
Название группы
re von nah
Описание
Дервиш не должен обижать пленников мирского, надо быть с ними милостивым и добрым, читая за них мольбу о хорошем (ду’а-йи хайр) - Да освободит Истинный - Всеславный и Всемогущий - их от того, в чём они пребывают.
(Abū Ḥāmed Muḥammad al-Ghazālī)
Тип сообщества
Публичная страница
Тип деятельности
Публичная страница
Записи сообщества:
re von nah 6 сент. 2019 в 23:48
Root Hog or Die, 1978 **
“I’m growin’ old and feeble / my sight is getting dim / my work upon this earth is nearly done / ol’ massa has departed, I soon will follow him / my friends have crossed the river one by one.”
As the old man recounts the past, it’s unclear if he’s talking about his childhood specifically or an indistinct span of his life. But it clearly isn’t recent. Things, after all, are different now. He talks of how they lived self-sufficiently, making everything: pork, beef, potatoes – just a plow, some sugar and a jug of molasses they bought. “There was no welfare business then,” he says. “It was either root, hog or die.” The phrase used as the title of this film is from an old custom of letting pigs roam in the forest to fend for themselves, but in this case has come to apply to farmers trying to hack it in the countryside. There seem to be three options (scrounge, feast or starve), whose possible number could vary from year to year.
<...>
Of course their words aren’t completely realist, and the people interviewed aren’t immune to received tautologies about their lifestyle. There’s a lot of neatening up of the image, since they are representing and, as the platform allows, advocating for the culture and work ethic that surrounds it. “We’re timeless people and we don’t try to do things by 8 to 5, we do it as we go along,” says Curt, of Ashfield. “We pay no attention to the time or the clock or anything, we just do what’s gotta be done when it’s gotta be done.” Fulton boils down the conversations that he has with people (like sap into syrup) into the choicest, most representational sentences. “We make it a peaceful sort of a friendly job,” continues the farmer, “and we like to work, and, consequently we don’t ever suffer from it.” They make it sound easy, because, to them, it is. Ease comes with what is natural to someone. The thought of not working – of having all their food brought in from elsewhere, their energy piped in, their days filled with idle amusement – is too awful to contemplate, and absurd, anyhow.
“They were doing a lot of hand work back then,” says Norman, of Bernardston – like many of the interviewees, referring to an barely-articulated past. “They hulled the corn by hand.” He speaks in a nasal, New England drawl, each phrase ending in a barely-audible quaver. While his is the most distinctive-sounding voice in the film, all of their accents are hard-edged, containing within them the cold and the protestant gentility of the region. Norman talks about his great-grandfather, who, in his teenage years “drove team on the Erie Canal.” Someone who ventured that far from their native area is still talked about to this day for having lived such an unusual life away from home. The film is full of priceless recollections of rural life. Lin of Ashfield remembers a woman who claimed not to be an eavesdropper on the telephone line, but the sound of her cuckoo clock (the only one in town) would always give her away.
<...>
“New England was pretty crowded before the Civil War,” one farmer says. “You could get a farm, 260 acres, in Iowa, just for going out… a lot of people from around here migrated out there too. Too small, to hilly, stony… didn’t pay.” Small, hilly, stony – we see those aspects of New England. But in spite of this, we find people in love with a very unlovable land, in a way that only lifelong intimacy could explain. Unstoppably, though, the number of farms is dwindling – the abandoned ones are overgrown or used by summering people from towns and cities. This isn’t a new phenomenon, but a century-long one. It takes a long lifetime to even perceive the changes to the overall scenery, but the changes have been immense, deep and irrevocable. One man says that, if his sons weren’t inheriting a farm, there would be no way that they could afford to buy one of their own. Small farms, he says go for 150 – 200,000 dollars. “Just to buy a herd would break the average person.” If any of them were to give it up, they couldn’t go back.
Louise of Bernardston says, “to have withstood this many years and not had to stop – it’s been gratifying.” She continues: “I think some people don’t get any thrill out of having to pull hard to make both ends meet –but I find it fascinating. Good thing I do.” And she walks away from the camera to continue her work. Louise speaks as someone who chose farming rather than being born into it, although, as with everyone else, we get a few memories rather than a life summary. She has more of a Brahminish vibe that seems apart from the generations-deep types, and talks about the life in more abstract terms. “Fascinating” might be something relative that she has affixed to her views on the farm, but to even have views at all, to know and not prefer a reality that is separate from it at all, sets her somewhat apart.
We see simple machines at work, set into motion by the complex machine known as the human body. Fulton films men as they roll a tree trunk up some planks using hooked harpoons whose name might be lost to the ages. There is a sudden feeling of similarity with rural life all over the world, of these methods and models long predating the coming of agricultural settlers to this place. There’s this idea that comes up throughout the film of people building on the work of the others, starting from the simple fact of using soil that has been turned over and enriched by anonymous generations of farmers before them. “If you find stone walls around the land you can make up your mind that it can be turned into mowing… those old timers worked 24 hours a day for a quarter.” In a sense, technology is just that; the wheel is rarely invented, and almost all work is done on a long chain of discoveries and improvements.
<...>
Not only is life on the farm constantly in flux, constantly being negotiated, but it never was nor will be eternal. Speaking to all of these aging farmers, the rather obvious question of how they have prepared for old age isn’t directly addressed in the film. They are old, and there is no preparation for it. One can only hope to die quickly, so as not to have a prolonged period of being infirm or unable to work. The end of work, to them, is something worse than death. Work is the only purpose, and without it, even a moment of life is not worthwhile. We see a cattle auction, something that – one of the farmers remarks – is often a melancholy occasion, because someone selling their cow or bull signifies a major transition in their life, either transitioning to another type of work or having become too old to keep farming. Fulton finishes the film by coming full circle, back to winter. We see a harvester machine sitting, dormant, in the slowly amassing snow. Perhaps it is destined to stay there and rust, becoming a part of the land, like the ruined stone walls crisscrossing the forest.
https://voicethrower.wordpress.com/2018/10/22/root-hog-or-die/
“I’m growin’ old and feeble / my sight is getting dim / my work upon this earth is nearly done / ol’ massa has departed, I soon will follow him / my friends have crossed the river one by one.”
As the old man recounts the past, it’s unclear if he’s talking about his childhood specifically or an indistinct span of his life. But it clearly isn’t recent. Things, after all, are different now. He talks of how they lived self-sufficiently, making everything: pork, beef, potatoes – just a plow, some sugar and a jug of molasses they bought. “There was no welfare business then,” he says. “It was either root, hog or die.” The phrase used as the title of this film is from an old custom of letting pigs roam in the forest to fend for themselves, but in this case has come to apply to farmers trying to hack it in the countryside. There seem to be three options (scrounge, feast or starve), whose possible number could vary from year to year.
<...>
Of course their words aren’t completely realist, and the people interviewed aren’t immune to received tautologies about their lifestyle. There’s a lot of neatening up of the image, since they are representing and, as the platform allows, advocating for the culture and work ethic that surrounds it. “We’re timeless people and we don’t try to do things by 8 to 5, we do it as we go along,” says Curt, of Ashfield. “We pay no attention to the time or the clock or anything, we just do what’s gotta be done when it’s gotta be done.” Fulton boils down the conversations that he has with people (like sap into syrup) into the choicest, most representational sentences. “We make it a peaceful sort of a friendly job,” continues the farmer, “and we like to work, and, consequently we don’t ever suffer from it.” They make it sound easy, because, to them, it is. Ease comes with what is natural to someone. The thought of not working – of having all their food brought in from elsewhere, their energy piped in, their days filled with idle amusement – is too awful to contemplate, and absurd, anyhow.
“They were doing a lot of hand work back then,” says Norman, of Bernardston – like many of the interviewees, referring to an barely-articulated past. “They hulled the corn by hand.” He speaks in a nasal, New England drawl, each phrase ending in a barely-audible quaver. While his is the most distinctive-sounding voice in the film, all of their accents are hard-edged, containing within them the cold and the protestant gentility of the region. Norman talks about his great-grandfather, who, in his teenage years “drove team on the Erie Canal.” Someone who ventured that far from their native area is still talked about to this day for having lived such an unusual life away from home. The film is full of priceless recollections of rural life. Lin of Ashfield remembers a woman who claimed not to be an eavesdropper on the telephone line, but the sound of her cuckoo clock (the only one in town) would always give her away.
<...>
“New England was pretty crowded before the Civil War,” one farmer says. “You could get a farm, 260 acres, in Iowa, just for going out… a lot of people from around here migrated out there too. Too small, to hilly, stony… didn’t pay.” Small, hilly, stony – we see those aspects of New England. But in spite of this, we find people in love with a very unlovable land, in a way that only lifelong intimacy could explain. Unstoppably, though, the number of farms is dwindling – the abandoned ones are overgrown or used by summering people from towns and cities. This isn’t a new phenomenon, but a century-long one. It takes a long lifetime to even perceive the changes to the overall scenery, but the changes have been immense, deep and irrevocable. One man says that, if his sons weren’t inheriting a farm, there would be no way that they could afford to buy one of their own. Small farms, he says go for 150 – 200,000 dollars. “Just to buy a herd would break the average person.” If any of them were to give it up, they couldn’t go back.
Louise of Bernardston says, “to have withstood this many years and not had to stop – it’s been gratifying.” She continues: “I think some people don’t get any thrill out of having to pull hard to make both ends meet –but I find it fascinating. Good thing I do.” And she walks away from the camera to continue her work. Louise speaks as someone who chose farming rather than being born into it, although, as with everyone else, we get a few memories rather than a life summary. She has more of a Brahminish vibe that seems apart from the generations-deep types, and talks about the life in more abstract terms. “Fascinating” might be something relative that she has affixed to her views on the farm, but to even have views at all, to know and not prefer a reality that is separate from it at all, sets her somewhat apart.
We see simple machines at work, set into motion by the complex machine known as the human body. Fulton films men as they roll a tree trunk up some planks using hooked harpoons whose name might be lost to the ages. There is a sudden feeling of similarity with rural life all over the world, of these methods and models long predating the coming of agricultural settlers to this place. There’s this idea that comes up throughout the film of people building on the work of the others, starting from the simple fact of using soil that has been turned over and enriched by anonymous generations of farmers before them. “If you find stone walls around the land you can make up your mind that it can be turned into mowing… those old timers worked 24 hours a day for a quarter.” In a sense, technology is just that; the wheel is rarely invented, and almost all work is done on a long chain of discoveries and improvements.
<...>
Not only is life on the farm constantly in flux, constantly being negotiated, but it never was nor will be eternal. Speaking to all of these aging farmers, the rather obvious question of how they have prepared for old age isn’t directly addressed in the film. They are old, and there is no preparation for it. One can only hope to die quickly, so as not to have a prolonged period of being infirm or unable to work. The end of work, to them, is something worse than death. Work is the only purpose, and without it, even a moment of life is not worthwhile. We see a cattle auction, something that – one of the farmers remarks – is often a melancholy occasion, because someone selling their cow or bull signifies a major transition in their life, either transitioning to another type of work or having become too old to keep farming. Fulton finishes the film by coming full circle, back to winter. We see a harvester machine sitting, dormant, in the slowly amassing snow. Perhaps it is destined to stay there and rust, becoming a part of the land, like the ruined stone walls crisscrossing the forest.
https://voicethrower.wordpress.com/2018/10/22/root-hog-or-die/
re von nah 30 авг. 2019 в 23:18
La vallée close, 1995
No lo sé. El vacío. Seguramente el misterio. Y de entrada, un camino que no lleva a ninguna parte. Es decir, que concluye en un acantilado bajo el cual se encuentra el resurgimiento. Un agujero del que sale agua. No siempre, depende de las estaciones. Uno debe caminar bastante rato, subiendo un poco, y llegamos a una gruta. El trayecto se termina ahí. Para mí, comenzaba mucho antes de llegar al camino de piedras que lleva a la fuente. Consistía en tomar la carretera que lleva de Avignon al pueblo de Fontaine-de-Vaucluse, en estar ya en el camino si el valle entero en el que está enterrado el pueblo, y que se cierra en la oscuridad de la gruta fuera, en una escala mayor, la propia gruta donde me alojaría durante un tiempo, pasando de un hotel a otro. Al llegar ahí, ya sentía el vacío del resurgimiento, incluso aunque se viera en el paisaje, como se ve en la superficie plana de un cuadro, el camino que todavía había que seguir para llegar hasta el borde de la gruta. El valle cerrado era para mí ese lugar en el que se perdía la distancia, sin perspectiva y a través de una profundidad sin límites. Un cuadro en el que se podían situar, a ambos lados de las orillas de la Sorgue, las figuras de La tempestad de Giorgione. Encontrarme ahí era como entrar yo mismo en el cuadro.
<...>
Es La tempestad, confundida con el paisaje de Vaucluse. Este lugar es la ausencia de Laura, donde siempre vuelve el poeta. No falta nada. Es su propia obra. Eso es El cancionero. Es el lugar de la ausencia, de toda ausencia. Así es La Vallée close. La ausencia visible, en el negro luminoso de la gruta. Una imagen que no muestra nada ya que, en la ausencia, ya no vemos nada. Ya no es nada, no puede ser nada sino un cuadro.
Volver allí. Volver a tomar el camino que lleva a la fuente. Avanzar dando al espalda al valle habitado, con la vista limitada por el acantilado. Caminar en contra de la dirección de la corriente de la Sorgue, hasta desembocar en la pared rocosa que domina la gruta. Eso es el rigor: seguir la ascensión hasta la extremidad del camino donde se vuelve a cerrar la roca y ver, en la oscuridad, surgir la fuente. Volver a bajar siguiendo la corriente hasta el pueblo. Y volver de nuevo, a la mañana siguiente y los próximos días. Como si no tuviera un final. No estamos lejos de abandonar cuando la película se revela.
(Jean-Claude Rousseau va a guardar la foto. Vuelve).
http://www.elumiere.net/especiales/Rousseau/01_web/01_Rousseau.php
No lo sé. El vacío. Seguramente el misterio. Y de entrada, un camino que no lleva a ninguna parte. Es decir, que concluye en un acantilado bajo el cual se encuentra el resurgimiento. Un agujero del que sale agua. No siempre, depende de las estaciones. Uno debe caminar bastante rato, subiendo un poco, y llegamos a una gruta. El trayecto se termina ahí. Para mí, comenzaba mucho antes de llegar al camino de piedras que lleva a la fuente. Consistía en tomar la carretera que lleva de Avignon al pueblo de Fontaine-de-Vaucluse, en estar ya en el camino si el valle entero en el que está enterrado el pueblo, y que se cierra en la oscuridad de la gruta fuera, en una escala mayor, la propia gruta donde me alojaría durante un tiempo, pasando de un hotel a otro. Al llegar ahí, ya sentía el vacío del resurgimiento, incluso aunque se viera en el paisaje, como se ve en la superficie plana de un cuadro, el camino que todavía había que seguir para llegar hasta el borde de la gruta. El valle cerrado era para mí ese lugar en el que se perdía la distancia, sin perspectiva y a través de una profundidad sin límites. Un cuadro en el que se podían situar, a ambos lados de las orillas de la Sorgue, las figuras de La tempestad de Giorgione. Encontrarme ahí era como entrar yo mismo en el cuadro.
<...>
Es La tempestad, confundida con el paisaje de Vaucluse. Este lugar es la ausencia de Laura, donde siempre vuelve el poeta. No falta nada. Es su propia obra. Eso es El cancionero. Es el lugar de la ausencia, de toda ausencia. Así es La Vallée close. La ausencia visible, en el negro luminoso de la gruta. Una imagen que no muestra nada ya que, en la ausencia, ya no vemos nada. Ya no es nada, no puede ser nada sino un cuadro.
Volver allí. Volver a tomar el camino que lleva a la fuente. Avanzar dando al espalda al valle habitado, con la vista limitada por el acantilado. Caminar en contra de la dirección de la corriente de la Sorgue, hasta desembocar en la pared rocosa que domina la gruta. Eso es el rigor: seguir la ascensión hasta la extremidad del camino donde se vuelve a cerrar la roca y ver, en la oscuridad, surgir la fuente. Volver a bajar siguiendo la corriente hasta el pueblo. Y volver de nuevo, a la mañana siguiente y los próximos días. Como si no tuviera un final. No estamos lejos de abandonar cuando la película se revela.
(Jean-Claude Rousseau va a guardar la foto. Vuelve).
http://www.elumiere.net/especiales/Rousseau/01_web/01_Rousseau.php
re von nah 10 авг. 2019 в 20:58
Love is the Only True Act of Resistance, 2018
A musical dream, a video love letter recorded all in VHS, an experimental travel diary which use cut ups of love songs on the Radio in Taiwan, a portrait about bodies, water, light and memory, and the organic colors and sensorial possibilities of the surreal landscapes in Taiwan.
A musical dream, a video love letter recorded all in VHS, an experimental travel diary which use cut ups of love songs on the Radio in Taiwan, a portrait about bodies, water, light and memory, and the organic colors and sensorial possibilities of the surreal landscapes in Taiwan.
re von nah 2 авг. 2019 в 21:20
Paleosol 80 South, 2013
Paleosol, 80 South documents the area of Mount Karkom in the south of Israel, a site which was identified by archeologist Emmanuel Anati as the biblical Mount Sinai following his discovery of ancient rock drawings and different ritualistic artefacts. The area, which was occupied in recent decades by the Israeli military and used as a training zone, is home to a variety of training facilities, whose appearance is reminiscent of monumental minimalist sculptures. The work fuses two powerful myths, the militaristic and biblical, by way of combining contemporary images of Mount Karkom, filmed using a Military thermal camera, with a voice over of Emmanuel Anati’s expedition diary entries. This imbues the landscape depicted with ambiguity: a concrete wall used as a target could be either a cult object, a futuristic artefact or a minimalistic public sculpture. In between these two myths appear Bedouin metal scavengers who forage for the remains of bomb shells and saw off pieces of radar stations, hoping to sell the metal to the highest bidder – their presence and action as if deflating these “grand narratives”.
http://www.amiryatziv.com/paleosol-80-south.html
Paleosol, 80 South documents the area of Mount Karkom in the south of Israel, a site which was identified by archeologist Emmanuel Anati as the biblical Mount Sinai following his discovery of ancient rock drawings and different ritualistic artefacts. The area, which was occupied in recent decades by the Israeli military and used as a training zone, is home to a variety of training facilities, whose appearance is reminiscent of monumental minimalist sculptures. The work fuses two powerful myths, the militaristic and biblical, by way of combining contemporary images of Mount Karkom, filmed using a Military thermal camera, with a voice over of Emmanuel Anati’s expedition diary entries. This imbues the landscape depicted with ambiguity: a concrete wall used as a target could be either a cult object, a futuristic artefact or a minimalistic public sculpture. In between these two myths appear Bedouin metal scavengers who forage for the remains of bomb shells and saw off pieces of radar stations, hoping to sell the metal to the highest bidder – their presence and action as if deflating these “grand narratives”.
http://www.amiryatziv.com/paleosol-80-south.html
re von nah 5 июля 2019 в 23:44
The Mind of Clay, 1985
Mani Kaul was commissioned by the Festival of India in 1985 to make a film about the art of clay pottery in India. His response was to wander in a tourist bus (with his film crew of twenty persons) up and down North India looking at the lives and longings of ancient communities of potters. Museum curators complained that Mani Kaul had not stopped in to film their exquisite pieces of one sort or another; but Kaul was not interested in a catalogue of fine things. He wanted rather to discover the myths and states of mind out of which pots were made and to render these states of mind through his own shaping of the medium of cinema. “I wanted,” Mani Kaul says, “to know the anguish of the potter through my own anguish as a filmmaker.” (Satti Khanna)
Mani Kaul was commissioned by the Festival of India in 1985 to make a film about the art of clay pottery in India. His response was to wander in a tourist bus (with his film crew of twenty persons) up and down North India looking at the lives and longings of ancient communities of potters. Museum curators complained that Mani Kaul had not stopped in to film their exquisite pieces of one sort or another; but Kaul was not interested in a catalogue of fine things. He wanted rather to discover the myths and states of mind out of which pots were made and to render these states of mind through his own shaping of the medium of cinema. “I wanted,” Mani Kaul says, “to know the anguish of the potter through my own anguish as a filmmaker.” (Satti Khanna)