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September 21, 2017

Peter Gidal Exhibition

Peter Gidal: Condition of Illusion
22 September to 11 November 2017

80WSE Gallery, NYU Steinhart School
80 Washington Sq East, New York, NY 10003, USA
Free and open to the public on Tuesday-Saturday, from 11-6pm.

Condition of Illusion is Peter Gidal’s first solo exhibition (British b. 1946). An important theorist and writer, as well as a filmmaker since the late 1960s, Gidal’s work has been shown around the world including cinematic retrospectives at the Institute of Contemporary Arts in London in 1983, Paris’ Centre Pompidou in 1996 and 2015, as well as at Docpoint, Helsinki and at the Cinematek, Brussels in 2016.

Gidal has been one of the main proponents of Structural/Materialist Film and has long been associated with the London Film-Makers’ Co-operative (LFMC), which was founded in 1966 as an independent filmmaking organization. The LFMC’s formation was announced by a telegram sent to Jonas Mekas, a founder of the New York Film Co-operative, which declared an intention to “SHOOT SHOOT SHOOT SHOOT SHOOT STOP NEVER STOP.”

Despite these early connections, Gidal published correspondence with American film and art critic Annette Michelson in Artforum clarifying the separateness from North American structural filmmaking of the time.[1] Some of this was based on the rigorous opposition of structural/materialism to empiricism and depoliticized formalism. Gidal continually published polemical and theoretical essays which had their effects on experimental film practice, theory and writing, though never confusing intention and language with film’s own determinants and the processes of making, moment for moment. The split between perception and knowledge was always crucial.

This exhibition, a retrospective, is comprised of 16mm films, photographs, and text-based work, from 1968 to 2013 alongside new and unseen material. Never a mapping of theory onto the work, it follows the first anthology of his literary output, Flare Out: Aesthetics 1966-2016, edited by Mark Webber (The Visible Press, London, 2016). The wide range of topics includes film theory, leftist politics, Samuel Beckett, Thérèse Oulton, Gerhard Richter and Warhol; while discussions of his own films are largely absent. For the late artist and curator Ian White the problem with Gidal’s work becomes “how to describe the films themselves as they are precisely not about description, but about process, about something being produced not reproduced: not representational (although they do show recognisable things, sometimes) but anti-representational, anti-narrative—structural.” In a recent review of Flare Out: Aesthetics 1966-2016, Noam M. Elcott, draws from White’s remarks and concludes as to this distance from the pleasure of narrative techniques and resistance to the capital structures through which cinema might be otherwise understood: “Gidal and London Film Makers Co-Op (LFMC) forced aconfrontation with the politics and poetics of media infrastructure—a confrontation that is ever more urgently needed.”

The exhibition begins with Gidal’s installation Volcano, whichfollows upon the concerns that he has had for more than 30 years, namely the problems of representation/unrecognition in a representational medium. A series of ten large format photographs of cooled and fissured lava will be shown alongside the half-hour, silent 16mm film, shot on a volcano on Big Island in Hawaii (2003). This will be the first time that Gidal has presented work in still photography.At the center of this exhibition a compilation of four short films shown one after another in their original 16mm format—Key (1968, 10 min), Clouds (1969, 10 min), Hall (1969, 10 min) and not far at all (2013, 15 min). This begins with Gidal’s arrival in London in 1968 and ends with his most recent film produced in 2013, the offcuts of which became CODA1 and CODA2, wherein Gidal’s soundtrack consists of three lines from a 1000 word story written by Gidal in 1971, that had been cut up and read (unbeknownst to him) by William Burroughs, later on an LP and CD Break Through In Grey Room.

This deliberate and uneasy reproduction of language is also present in a new installation extracted from three different works. His film Condition of Illusion (1975, 32 min) includes sections from Samuel Beckett’s The Unnamable and a quote from the end of Louis Althusser’s On the Materialist Dialectic, which also appears in his 1975 seminal text “The Theory and Definition of Structural/Materialist Film” neither necessarily coming before or after the other. In part it reads: “A ‘theory’which does not question the end whose by-product it is remains a prisoner of this end and of the ‘realities’ which have imposed it as an end.” The quotations that he uses in Assumption (1997, 1 min) have been slowed until readable, while all the images have been removed from Upside Down Feature (1967–1972, 62 min) including Man Ray’s photos of the dust on Duchamp’s Large Glass. Only the text elements will be shown here from Beckett’s essay on Proust, flashing (dimly) one word at a time; when after two-thirds of the text, presented upside down andbackward, switches to “straightforward” reading, the ideological difficulty of the norm becomes a relativist’s dream or at least question.

This sequence of rooms concludes with another unseen series of photographs that have been enlarged from images detailed in an album belonging to Gidal’s photographer uncle in 1930, created after a visit to Copenhagen, and forms the content of Gidal’s 1977 film, Kopenhagen/1930. George Gidal worked at the origins of modern photojournalism for Münchener Illustrierte, Vue, and AIZ: Arbeiter Illustrierte Zeitung. He died in a crash soon after he produced these images. Gidal inherited the contact prints with their Vertovian/Eisensteinian sequencing, numerically reordered “cinematically”—including handwritten German script commentary. In Kopenhagen/1930, there is a notable departure in attitude from Gidal’s earlier works, using here still images with frequent hints to the narrative film that could have been. In addition to the works on display in Condition of Illusion, Gidal’s iconic work Room Film 1973 (1973, 55 min) will be screened on select Wednesday evenings.

Gidal’s work is influential to several generations of film artists and writers, from those he taught advanced film theory at the Royal College of Art in London between 1971 and 1983, as well as those working there in Environmental Media, to a more recent generation. Writer and artist Tom McCarthy described Gidal’s practice as follows: “It’s upside down, inside out, negative, reversed – as though Gidal had cranked all the navigational tools of his medium to their absolute zero, and in so doing, groped his way towards a spot that’s not on any map, some true, magnetic north of cinema itself. The viewer, held in this liminal space, this threshold, is by turns (or simultaneously) mesmerized, disoriented, captivated, frustrated and delighted.”

[1] Annette Michelson, Peter Gidal, and Jonas Mekas. “Foreword in Three Letters,” Artforum, September 1971

Peter Gidal (British) was born in 1946 and grew up in Switzerland. He studied theatre, psychology and philosophy, at Brandeis University, the University of Munich, and the Royal College of Art in London. Only his first film Room—Double take (1967) was made in Massachusetts, while all the rest in London.

Books by Peter Gidal include Understanding Beckett: A Study of Monologue and Gesture in the Work of Samuel Beckett (Macmillan, 1986), Andy Warhol: Films and Paintings (Studio Vista/Dutton, 1971), Structural Film Anthology (BFI, London 1976), Materialist Film (Routledge, 1989), and Andy Warhol: Blow Job (Afterall Books, 2008), as well as an anthology containing fifty years of Gidal’s writings, Flare Out: Aesthetics 1966–2016 (Visible Press, 2016).

Gidal’s films have been screened in two dozen countries, with in-depth programs at the Tate Gallery, London; the Museum of Modern Art, New York; the Royal Belgian Film Archive and Cinematheque; Documenta; the Riga Avant Garde Festival, Doku Festival in Finland, and Arte Inglese Oggi, among others. Gidal was awarded the 1974 Prix de la Recherche, Toulon, and the Prix de l’Age d’Or in Brussels in 2016, as well as the Lifetime Achievement Award at the 2016 Ljubljana Biennial of Graphic Arts. He co-founded the Independent Film-makers’ Association in 1975, and taught postgraduate advanced film theory at the Royal College of Art, London, for twelve years until 1983.

Condition of Illusion is curated by Nicola Lees, director and curator of 80WSE Gallery with assistance from Jessica Barker, Ben Hatcher and Hugh O’Rourke.

August 23, 2019

Afterimage Book Launch / Kristina Talking Pictures

Kristina Talking Pictures

Yvonne Rainer, Kristina Talking Pictures, 1976, 90 min
Introduced by Simon Field and Mark Webber

To celebrate the launch of The Afterimage Reader, the Edinburgh International Film Festival and The Visible Press present a special screening of Yvonne Rainer’s rarely seen 1976 film Kristina Talking Pictures, with an introduction by Afterimage editor Simon Field.

From 1970 to 1987, the independent journal Afterimage explored radical cinema, publishing writings by filmmakers and prominent critics. Twelve thematic issues featured contributions by Jean-Luc Godard, Peter Wollen, Derek Jarman, Yvonne Rainer and others. The new publication The Afterimage Reader brings together many of the journal’s most essential texts.

In Kristina Talking Pictures, Rainer continued her artistic preoccupation with the contradictions between public and private personas with a story of a lion tamer from Budapest who goes to New York in search of a new life as a choreographer.

Born in San Francisco in 1934, Yvonne Rainer trained as a modern dancer in New York from 1957 and began to choreograph her own work in 1960. She was one of the founders of the Judson Dance Theatre in 1962, the beginning of a movement that proved to be a vital force in modern dance. In 1972 Rainer made her first feature-length film, Lives of Performers, closely followed by a Film About a Woman Who ... (1974). From the beginning of her film career, Rainer inspired audiences to think about what they saw, interweaving the real and fictional, the personal and political, the concrete and abstract in imaginative, unpredictable ways. In 1986 the Village Voice called Rainer “The most influential American avant-garde filmmaker of the past dozen years, with an impact as evident in London or Berlin as in New York.”

Copies of The Afterimage Reader will be available for purchase at the event.

May 20, 2019

Telling Invents Told – Book Launch

Telling Invents Told will be launched at Nottingham Contemporary on 6 July 2019 in the context of the major survey exhibition Dissident Lines. Join us for a live reading and in-conversation with Lis Rhodes, Aura Satz and the book’s editor María Palacios Cruz.

Aura Satz is Moving Image Tutor and Reader in Fine Art (Sound and Moving Image) on the Contemporary Art Practice programme at the Royal College of Art. Satz’s practice encompasses film, sound, performance and sculpture. Her work has been performed, screened and exhibited nationally and internationally, including Tate Modern; Tate Britain; Hayward Gallery; BFI Southbank; Whitechapel Gallery; Baltic Centre for Contemporary Art; Sydney Biennale; Oberhausen Short Film Festival; the Rotterdam Film Festival; the New York Film Festival; and Anthology Film Archives, among others. In 2012, she was shortlisted for the Samsung Art+ Award and the Jarman Award.

Lis Rhodes: Dissident Lines at Nottingham Contemporary, 25 May to 1 September 2019. Lis Rhodes is a pioneer of experimental filmmaking and a major figure in the history of artists working with film in Britain. Enabled by the Freelands Award 2017, Dissident Lines is Rhodes’ first-ever survey, and will span almost 50 years of work. This is the first time that Nottingham Contemporary has ever dedicated all of its galleries to a retrospective. The exhibition will span Rhodes’ entire career, from iconic pieces such as Dresden Dynamo (1971) and Light Music (1975-77) to a specially commissioned new work.

March 19, 2018

Thom Andersen Retrospective in La Coruña

Thom Andersen Retrospective
4–12 April 2018 at CGAI, La Coruña, Spain

For the complete schedule see the CGAI website.

“The cinema must restore our belief in the world (…) before or beyond words”
(Gilles Deleuze)

Unha das expresións máis estrañas da cultura contemporánea é a cinefilia no seu sentido mais puro: o amor ao cine. A cinefilia é algo que se vive, que se transmite, que se trata co extremo coidado das cousas fráxiles. Os filmes bos salvan a vida dos cinéfilos, repoñen unha certa bondade intrínseca do mundo. Se non fose polos filmes, polas clases ou polas palabras, polo menos Thom Andersen sería un cinéfilo, alguén que non distingue no mundo o cine do non-cine.

Profesor da prestixiosa CalArts, escola de arte nos Ánxeles, Andersen, nado en Chicago no ano 1943, é un cineasta de afectos que compón unha filmografia non moi extensa, mais particularmente ben articulada e pensada con detalle. É talvez a súa faceta pedagóxica a que nos obriga, paseniño, a volver ollar para o cine ou para lugares de memoria (unha vez máis, non importa se eses lugares pertencen ás imaxes en movemento ou á realidade cotiá), descubrindo o que está detrás, a tensa política do mundo en cada rostro dunha estrela de Hollywood ou do mural comunitario perdido nunha calella dos Ánxeles. Formado na USC School of Cinematic Arts, dos Ánxeles, Thom Andersen fai os seus primeiros traballos académicos xa nos anos sesenta, coas curtametraxes Melting (1965), — ——- (1966–67) (tamén coñecida coma The Rock n Roll Movie) e Olivia’s Place (1966/74). É, porén, coa súa primeira longametraxe que o realizador produce o seu primeiro traballo con folgos, a analizar a arqueoloxía do cine nos traballos do fotógrafo, pioneiro e experimentador Eadweard Muybridge. Neste filme, Andersen mostra xa a súa agudeza na análise política das imaxes e da súa propia produción. Neste sentido, veremos, aquí e en filmes posteriores, a forma en que o seu traballo rescata as imaxes perdidas nos arquivos do tempo e olla para elas cunha nova mirada, comprometido nunha visión marxista do mundo: quen explora e quen é explorado. Por exemplo, com Red Hollywood, de 1996 (realizado con Noël Burch), Thom Andersen analiza os trazos comunistas de guionistas e realizadores que foron silenciados na historia do cine logo da caza de bruxas protagonizada polo senador Joseph McCarthy e da que resultou unha listaxe negra destes e doutros autores. Neste filme, o cineasta vai, pacientemente, desocultando esas imaxes e sons, vendo neles a marca da denuncia social e dun reverso total do cine de estrelas de Hollywood. É un filme de extrema pedagoxía (e foi editado tamén un libro homónimo) e lanza, definitivamente, o método de traballo que culminou na sua obra mestra: Los Angeles Plays Itself, filme que comezou por ser un conxunto de clases que Andersen impartía en CalArts.

Los Angeles Plays Itself é un vídeo-ensaio avant la lettre no que desmonta a representación do espazo no cine. Para Andersen, o espazo é un factor político porque implica unha relación do realizador co que é retratado. En Los Angeles, o cineasta mostra como a cidade é utilizada de forma caótica, anacrónica ou cómica, precisamente por ser a meca do cine e onde todos os estudios se atopan. Por iso mesmo, Andersen mostra os filmes verdadeiramente concordantes coa realidade do espazo, con aquilo que é mais fondamente identitario da cidade, en contraste con aqueles en que a cidade é un mero estudio para inventar outras realidades. O método será sempre o mesmo: extractos de filmes montados sobre unha voz en off cristalina, pedagóxica e mesmo irónica. É, así, a ironía unha das marcas do realizador, coma se só mirando desa forma fose posible afrontar a máquina industrial de Hollywood. A ironía é, moitas veces, asociada a unha asumida nostalxia – unha das marcas dun cinéfilo incorrixible: saber que o gran cine é raro e que o pasado encerra obras determinantes da historia da arte. Esa nostalxia, xunto a unha vertente mais política, está presente en Get Out of the Car, na que Andersen mostra como Os Ánxeles está nun proceso de agochamento do pasado. Curiosamente, esta curtametraxe é moi divertida – pelos apartes do propio Andersen – e a ironía está logo patente no seu título: Os Ánxeles – a cidade das grandes autoestradas – precisa volver mirar para si mesma, camiñar polas súas calellas e polas súas rúas.

A ruína, o pasado e aquilo que desaparece co tempo está presente tamén no filme máis portugués do cineasta: Reconversão, unha obra realizada en Portugal e sobre a obra do arquitecto portugués Eduardo Souto de Moura. Trocando o 16mm nostálxico de Get Out of the Car por unha técnica de timelapse inventada polo seu colaborador e cineasta Peter Bo Rappmund, en que o tempo parece suspenso, revélase como a obra de Souto de Moura é tanto construción coma ruína (é sintomático que unha das obras máis vibrantes deste documental sexa un edificio que o arquitecto proxectou sobre a ruína dun anterior proxecto seu).

O traballo de Thom Andersen pode ser comparado co dun arqueólogo que rescata as imaxes e lles dá novos sentidos, provocando unha revolta das propias imaxes, agora illadas e transcendidas das narrativas onde estaban inseridas. Iso é evidente en The Thoughts That Once We Had (2015), unha historia persoal do cine, que volve ao sentido pedagóxico-político de Los Angeles Plays Itself, mais agora nunha inclusión absoluta das imaxes en movemento e da súa historia. O filme é unha especie de gloria do cinéfilo, unha cobiza de ver o mundo a través destes filmes e con eles provocar unha ruptura co devir capitalista do futuro. Para iso, Andersen escribe no final deste filme: “To those who have nothing must be restored the cinema”. O cine como salvación do mundo é, pois, na cinefilia extrema de Thom Andersen, unha arma de revolución.

(Daniel Ribas, do catálogo de Posto/Post/Doc 2015)

A celebración do ciclo coincide coa recente publicación do libro de The Visible Press – Slow Writing: Thom Andersen on Cinema – editado polo prestixioso crítico especializado en cine experimental Mark Webber. Trátase dunha escolma de artigos do propio Andersen nos que reflexiona sobre o cine de vangarda, mais tamén sobre Hollywood ou autores internacionais como Yasujirō Ozu, Nicholas Ray ou Andy Warhol. Pódese atopar máis información sobre o volume no seguinte enderezo: http://thevisiblepress.com/product/slow-writing/

October 30, 2017

What’s Wrong with this Picture? Almost Everything

What’s Wrong with this Picture? Almost Everything

As a Jesus-fried guru of ontological-hysteric cinema, George Landow once asked, “What’s wrong with this picture?” Almost everything, in the case of The Desert People, a movie which will have its first—and probably last—Buffalo showing tonight at 8 p.m. at the Waterfront Community Center, 95 4th St., Buffalo, as part of a documentary film series sponsored by Media Study/Buffalo.

A frisson-inducing first impression is left by a rock ‘n’ roll muzak score so insipid it might have been composed by Mike Curb after an overdose of Elavil. This to accompany a series of highway tracking shots that stare over-insistently on the model name of the car the five main characters are riding in (Gran Torino) or lose sight of the car entirely and end up strobing over a broken white line. Against these charming distractions appear the titles superimposed in the manner of late Roger Corman or the Universal optical department in the days when every picture from that benighted studio looked like every other.

What follows this mindless credit sequence is nothing less than a biker movie about intellectuals—a genre with neither a past nor a future. Most of the film’s fifty or so minutes are occupied by five long monologues delivered by five mid-twentyish city-billies who have apparently just travelled together to the Papago Indian reservation in Southern Arizona where they spent five weeks. These monologues are punctuated by more highway shots, more benumbing rock ‘n’ roll, and brief sequences of desultory conversation among the five as they ride in their white Torino through those peculiar Southern Californian landscapes which seem to promise a murdered husband in every yucca-covered culvert.

During the monologues, the camera always manages to station itself too close or too far away from the speakers, and they are forced to unburden themselves of their experiences with the Indians in incomprehensibly distracting—or, at best, irrelevant—settings that could have suggested themselves as appropriate only to the most psychotic location scout. The first desert person to make his appearance, a scholarly sort who might be a fledged anthropologist, is filmed while he stands on the sidewalk abutting a commercial district street that might belong to a small town as easily as to the semi-urban shopping-center extensions of a metropolis. His attempt to relate what he has learned of Papago culture is compromised by several embarrassing revelations—he is finally led by the momentum of his words to confess that the Indians wouldn’t tell him any of their legends because he missed the folklore season.

The scene drifts to one of those sandstone and Plexiglas restauranterias which represent California’s most archetypal contribution to Western civilization and are now beyond the farthest reaches of descriptive prose. Here we meet the first of the two female people who sojourned with the Papagos, a pristined beauty with straight center-parted blonde hair and turquoise bracelet, nursing a cup of coffee in a back booth. A middle-class existentialist, she could pass as a Godard heroine whose brain had been rotted by too much transcendental meditation. But however profound her reticence, she is continuously upstaged by the insidious rapport between the green vinyl upholstery of this anomieous coffee shop and the reversal color stock, which is imbued with a fateful predilection for the rancid end of the spectrum. But she is treated with more sympathy than the other woman in the film—a journalist from an East Coast feminist mag, who must deliver her monologue in a composition dominated entirely by the foreshortened hood of her rented Chrysler. A composition perhaps appropriate for an old-fashioned macho automobile commercial, hardly so for a discourse on feminist consciousness among Papago women.

And the fourth speaker is placed in front of what appears to be a large hotel. Yellow taxis load and unload in the background, and a figure in an incongruous grenadier’s uniform complete with plumed hat keeps this traffic moving with over-expansive arm gestures. Finally we meet the fifth traveller, himself a Papago Indian now living away from the reservation, who served as guide to the others. He speaks of the necessity and difficulty of preserving the Papago culture, first in English, then in Spanish, and finally in the language of the Papagos. This soliloquy is characterized in the publicity handout as “very moving and emotional.” Perhaps, if you understand the Papago dialect. As he speaks, he is standing in what appears to be a sand-barren desert with perhaps a dry lake as a boundary—but why is that lifeguard tower lurking over there in distance?

I have been asked not to reveal the ending of the film, so I will only say that it is, indeed, schematic enough to be ruined by the telling. And I will add that the special form of oblivion reserved for desert people is so appropriately off the wall that this ruination would be a loss.

The perpetuator of this devious violation of cinematic proprieties is David Lamelas, who according to the sparse information made available by Media Study/Buffalo, is an Argentinian artist who has emigrated to the land of the lotus eaters and bitten the hand that soothes him. His talent is negligible. With The Desert People he has realized the movie Tom Laughlin might have given us were he a punk rocker instead of a billy-come-lately hippy. And not even Michelangelo (Antonioni) has captured so astutely as David the special banality of the Southern California landscape, which here appears as a single superhighway in search of some place (any place) to go.

Rounding out the program at the Waterfront Center are three one- or two-reelers which pose equally vexing questions about the intimacy between film and reality: I, An Actress by George Kuchar, the founder of the lumpen Hollywood sensibility which John Waters has made commercially viable; Accident from the National Film Board of Canada, a quite chilling reconstruction of a glider plane crash; and Werner Herzog’s Precautions Against Fanatics, which got the benefit of the doubt from me just for its title. I understand it was made by the same Werner Herzog who directed such worthy films as Aguirre, the Wrath of God, and Stroszek (which will be unspooled later this term in the Squire Conference Theatre). This is an “early work,” but had Herzog produced nothing else, his place in the history of the practical joke—if not the cinema—would be assured.

All in all, these movies make up a program that can be recommended to lovers of the eccentric, if to no one else. At the least, they demonstrate that oddball sorts can make films for less serious purposes than the solicitation of compassion for victims of UFO sightings.

Originally published in The Spectrum, an independent student paper of SUNY Buffalo, to promote a screening organised by Thom Andersen at Media/Study Buffalo in February 1978. The essay appeared under the pseudonym Aurora Floyd.