Search results for "image "

Telling grief II

Author: joe

Tuesday, 27 March, 2012 - 22:34

From a lounge

Eventually it occurred to me that the problem lay in my attitude to representation. Somehow I was short-circuiting several thoughts: one, that an image of something represents the entire extent of its referent; a second, that an image of something is never an adequation of its referent; and a third thought, that, to the contrary, an image is just a slit in the fabric of reality, allowing the viewer in this world to prise their way into the world of the referent.

I think back and imagine myself looking at a sheet of A4, on which an aunt has printed some old family portraits. There is my father as a boy, amongst his siblings. There he is as a young man, long locks and an art-school waistcoat. Even with his boy-looks and tank-top short-trousers pulled-down socks, I can see the features and lines I know and love so well, the line of the jaw, the direct look, the eyebrows, the ears - the older face that hangs in my memory is all there somehow, unripe and waiting. I can imagine him before and after the still frame, though with an incongruously deep voice, turning to a sister and prodding the soft flesh of their upper arm, tongue grinning between teeth; or scrunching his shoulders up around his ears in a comic villain pose. He was frozen in just that pose in a photo from his wedding day, a jaunty, wry look on his face as though he were stealing a prize.

The images are openings into that world. I can see round the corners, watch movements play out: I can see how he walked on out of that freeze-frame, hear how he talked to the wedding guest with his head cocked on one side, scooped up a thrilled child in his arms; or as boy, see how he wriggled with impatience as the photographer prepared, or jumped up after the deed and ran out of the room chasing his brother. Of course the picture is an artificial and ephemeral fragment, just a flake of a sloughed off skin of time; but it is a metonymic record, connected to a real moment whose veracity I can taste, whose world I can sense, and whose bursting inexhaustibility is tangible. If only I could so fully inhabit the laws of physics, so attune to the workings of time and space, perhaps I could follow the path, molecule by molecule, causal link by causal link, back to that moment in the fullness of its presence.

So much for the photograph as a memento: an opening onto a world, into which I could leap. This is a photograph at which I look, as I can look at any - a snapshot of a stranger is also that much pregnant with a hidden, discoverable universe. I do not need to know the face or recognise the place: my imagination has already worked the details out before I'm even conscious of them, and start to dimly realise the scene out of frame, the events after shot, the state of mind, the ambiguous presence, the great swell of time. But against all this is the photograph I should be able to take. The image I should somehow produce must have the entirety of this world inside it, and placed there by me! It mist be adequate to the task of suggesting to the unknown, non-specific viewer, all the nuance and interconnected wholeness of the world from which it comes. What hope can there be of producing such an image?

I suddenly see that this unbearably heavy pressure is that of the author of the narrative, the one who must trust that the words written are just the right weaving together of threads, just the delicately correct choices of what to write in and what to leave unannounced but suggested by the lacunae, the gaps which themselves are the very spaces into which the narratee is invited, and which provide the room in which the imaginary fleshing out and habitation of the storyworld occurs. Who would want to be that author, the one who must commemorate adequately the life of the one they have lost? Who would ever feel they can articulate the loss? What memorial image or line of words would ever be adequate? Who wouldn't feel that their efforts failed to do justice, and didn't diminish the dead? Nothing I can say will ever be enough - and so perhaps the only thing to say is ... nothing

Categories: memorial, bereavement, narrative, representation, grief, image,
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Surface

Author: joe

Wednesday, 24 November, 2010 - 23:51

- on the excess in the image-world.

... there is an absolute gulf between Heidegger's readiness-to-hand and presence-at-hand. No real passage between them is possible, since the tool as a brutal subterranean energy and as a shining, tangible surface are utterly incommensurable ... it should be clear that every entity is ready-to-hand ... in the primary sense of "in the act of being", of unleashing itself upon the environment ... All of reality ... lies in a state of "metabolism" between the unchecked fury of tool-beings and the alluring facades through which we alone encounter them. (The Theory of Objects in Heidegger and Whitehead)
 
I always find myself deployed amidst a specific geography of objects, each of them withdrawing from view into a dark primal integrity that neither our theories nor our practices can ever exhaust. (A Fresh Look at Zuhandenheit)
 
If an object is always a vast surplus beyond its relations of the moment, it has to be asked how those as-yet unexpressed qualities are stored up for the future ... I am convinced that objects far exceed their interactions with other objects, and the question is what this excess is, and where it is. (The Revival of Metaphysics in Continental Philosophy)
 
Towards Speculative Realism by Graham Harman

I'm not attempting (or competent, not being a philosopher) to address the what and where of the excess of Harman's objects. I'm initially interested in Harman's way of characterising the presence of objects, and how different it is to Heidegger's attitude to Vorhandenheit. Where the latter denigrates the coming-to-presence of things in the world (as Harman notes, through the insistent epithet, 'mere'), the latter is always keen to celebrate it. Surfaces shine, sparkle and glitter; they are volatile, luminous, phosphorescent, radiant, resonant, dazzling; with faces, haloes, auras. This is not to say that he is less complimentary towards the withdrawing, strife-filled unleashing of the ready-to-hand, volcanic, turbulent, violent, primal tool-beings as they surge and thrust into the world.

Indeed this rich and exuberant world-surface constantly coming into action and awareness - the sensuous menagerie of the equally-footed animate and inanimate entities that jostle and strew the ground of the universe - seems to me to be just as excess-bearing as the long withdrawing surplus borne by the irreducible and unreachable inner core of real objects. That image world is right there, burning incessantly, coming about its business, hurtling out of the future rather than left over from the inertia of the past.

So I wonder then, what if we took the same steps with Harman's take on the "Heideggerian drama of revealed and concealed" as we took with Goffman's front and back personae: what the revealed hides is not a concealed substance, but its absence. Can we remove the 'effects' part of 'surface-effects', since there is now no causal agent hidden from view? Can the performance of the image be what facilitates the existence of the executant reality?

I realise of course that I'm veering away from Harman's specific arguments here, toward either Husserl's magical intentional objects which bleed sensual qualities without decohering, or toward re-instating a Kantian a priori apparatus which provides the form for the world's inhabitants to take up. But I'm not equipped to argue these points. Rather I just want to dispel hidden realities which betray their appearances, or illusory facades which belie some more authentic realm. Perhaps it is the same impulse which makes me recoil from the psychoanalytical requirement of a furniture of the mind - an unconscious which structures the conscious without permitting access to it. I don't want to bridge the abyss: I want to obviate the need for the bridge by unconjuring the abyss - closing the gap.

Thus I'm willing to concede I'm master of nothing, just as long as I can also say that friends who may turn out to be backstabbing machinators and sophists made themselves so not out of an inevitable and inscrutable essence, but because of the actions and interactions that they and I perform and enact - hence leaving the door open for such outcomes to be inverted: should we present alternative images, then we should unfold alternative executions in the world.

Categories: Graham Harman, Martin Heidegger, vorhandenheit, zuhandenheit, presence-at-hand, readiness-to-hand, surface, image, executant, world, being, gap,
Comments: 5

Butterfly

Author: joe

Thursday, 18 November, 2010 - 22:39

- on the fleeting image.

Let us attribute to our dreams, before reading, in a garden, the attention demanded by some white butterfly, this one that is everywhere at once, nowhere, it vanishes; but not before an acute and ingenious trifle, to which I reduce the subject, had, a moment ago, passed and repassed, insistently, before my astonished eyes.
 
The Book, Spiritual Instrument by Stephane Mallarmé

Mallarmé skating over a split ontology.

The world of revelation: things becoming present, the objects of attention, the visible surfaces. Far from being muffled, or doomed, or spent - worthless - the traces of the world to which we have access are dancing, butterfly-like, fleeting: astonishing. At once everywhere and nowhere, present-at-hand, and ready-to-hand - torn. The readiness is everywhere, the presence, nowhere. The image - insistent, acute, ingenious; the executant - dreaming, garden-grounded.

Despite this, the flashing, dancing life of the present, the image, the surface effects eternally divorced from their subterranean being - these are also passing, once - twice - repeating, but always passing, into trifles, disappearing, forgotten. There is no shame or tragedy in the constant fleeing and forgetting of the glittering, minded surfaces of things, despite the attendant, comforting melancholia of all those endings. Mourn, but also celebrate, the brevity of the vanishing flashes of presence.

Categories: Stephan Mallarmé, image, executant, fleeting, butterfly, presence-at-hand, readiness-to-hand, split,
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Image - World - Image

Author: joe

Friday, 06 November, 2009 - 20:39

The pinned stars in the sky are the reflections. The genuine stellar light shines and glints on the water.

The immaterial face in the mirror is the true identity. The flesh and blood before the glass is the hallucination.

The imaginary world is the only authentic experience. The material facts of existence are merely the simulacrum.

Categories: image, world, reflection, idealism,
Comments: 2