Bilingues & Artistes Issue 14
Black & White
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• “Le seul véritable voyage, le seul bain de jouvence, ce ne serait pas d’aller vers de nouveaux paysages, mais d’avoir d’autres yeux.” - Marcel Proust • Photograph by Ryuji Chua, Ter*IB
“Fifty Stipes of Grey” Photograph by Emma Foltzer, 4*2
Black & White - Issue 14 A Word from the Editors Black and White. We chose this theme because we wanted to go back to basics, back to the original. What is more original than the very beginnings of the photographic age? Today we use anything as cameras, our tablets, our smart phones - everything it seems besides actual film cameras. This isn’t bad, we’re moving into an age where art can exist with one touch of your finger. But to return to age where cacophonies of color don’t blur your vision every moment - well, who wouldn’t?
Yours sincerly, Sophie and Aïli
Contributors Photography:
Thomas Sittler - Cover and p.4 Ryuji Chua - p.2 & p.6-7 Josephine Martin - p.5 Emma Foltzer - p. 2 Prints/Paintings: Samuel Leter - p.3 Gabriel Nahmani - p.5 Poetry: Carloline Pilat - p.3 Amelie Iselin - p.3 Aïli Izsak - p.5 Short Story: Sophie Benson p. 6
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Sortons Sortons ce soir De ce monde enfermé Où rien ne montre sa joie de vivre Un sourire est si difficile La rue bat au rythme D’un homme déchainé Un amour caché Sous le masque l’un protecteur Guerrier, froid et distinct Celui qui a Réponse à tout
The rays of sun tear through the veil of darkness
Under the blazing sun, secrets lay bare,
The Chink in the Curtains
Or crawl under shadowy rocks for safety.
By Amelie Iselin, 1*IB
They penetrate the chink in the curtains And pry open sealed lids that attempt to resist in vain. They skim across the world, rousing and stirring The comatose beings, that slumber in denial.
That envelops the dormant world. The raging onslaught between duos Is muted and suppressed. Letting only a slight touch reveal what happens In the refuge and privacy of the blindness. Only a link of fingers or brush of hands The protection of blackness rests in the mind, At the end of the tunnel, looming closer, Show what happens underground-
Hynm of the Road By Caroline Pilat, 1*IB
L’un part seul Sachant le l’autre le rejoindra Ensemble ils combattent Mais l’espérance de l’un n’égale pas celui de l’autre Qui poursuit la route après leur bifurcation Jusqu’à l’épuisement Jusqu’à la fin honorable Car mourir seul ne vaut plus rien La scène est la vie, tout à un sens - a priori Quand elle ne t’a pas suivi Les constellations ne valent plus rien dire Qui sait ce qui relie les étoiles À part l’imagination des hommes
Et des femmes, seules dans la nuit Qui tendent la main et touchent la lumière La sagesse de la Terre qui s’étend vers le ciel L’existence des ancêtres Et des âmes à venir SAMART STENCILS: Nelson Mandela (60x40) Spike Lee(40x40) By Samuel Leter, 3*1
Through the chink in the curtains. Like a welcoming beacon of light As a promise of repose or liberation. Yet when the artificial brightness is finally muffled, The fire is rekindled by the sharpening of senses. Emotions run free, breaking through the iron-grip And a new animal is born under the moon, Set free to soar limitlessly through the somber cloak. The secrets reemerge and seep out into the dark, Shielded from the blistering heat of its penetrating gaze. Of suffocating daytime rules. By the gloom of the ancient canopy, There can be no sin in sight.
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Photograph and text by Thomas Sittler
On bullshit “Color is bullshit”. Cartier Bresson’s genius was surely photography, but it seems he had a way with words, too. But wait, I’m being disingenuous, taking Cartier’s words out of context. I’ll be honest and give you the full quote. It reads “William, color is bullshit”, and apparently Cartier was talking to William Eggleston. In a 2011 interview for V Magazine, the American photographer recalls the strange encounter. You know, I had a meeting with [Cartier], one in particular, it was at this party in Lyon. Big event, you know. I was seated with him and a couple of women. You’ll never guess what he said to me. “William, color is bullshit.” End of conversation. Not another word. And I didn’t say anything back. What can one say? I mean, I felt like saying I’ve wasted a lot of time. As this happened, I’ll tell you, I noticed across the room this really beautiful young lady, who turned out to be crazy. So I just got up, left the table, introduced myself, and I spent the rest of the evening talking to her, and she never told me color was bullshit. It’s a funny anecdote, but Cartier’s traditionalism was no joke. He was against any darkroom manipulation, and even regarded cropping as dishonest. He was known to insist that his prints include the first few millimeters of the unexposed negative around the image, resulting in a black border. Now, I’m all for black and white, even if it means hipsterish Instagram filters. Perhaps because shades of gray are a reminder that photography is not about reproducing the real world in accurate, lifelike Technicolor, but rather the production of a contrived object, a piece of art through which meaning is conveyed. But Cartier’s phrase, with hindsight, seems about as gauche and intolerant as Henry Ford’s philistine dismissal of history as “more or less bunk”. Indeed, as statements about art go, “X is bullshit” is a rather dangerous kind, if you consider that many of the 20th century’s most celebrated artists have become famous by turning on their head the rules of those before them. (Picasso and Pollock spring to mind, but your personal 20th century favorite probably qualifies too). If one’s goal is to avoid sounding dated, these statements should be treated rather like the word “unprecedented” in journalism. As I remember once reading on a journalist’s blog, “unprecedented” is a banned word. This is because as soon as you dare to describe something as such, you can be certain that some academic somewhere will write in and say “actually, there is a precedent…”, and that you will be made to look like you didn’t do your research. Art is somewhat similar. If you say something is bullshit (and you are famous), you can be sure that people after you will create whole new branches of art just to prove you wrong. And this, if not accuracy, may ultimately be the beauty of jibes like “color is bullshit”.
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For the man I met in 1964 Every bottle of absinthe stares and I am tempted to stay within the warm nest of their rejection. Pictured naked every person who’s here, who died and somewhere inside the pulp is my home. I had buried neither money nor name If I carry photographs of her fragile like laughter in the emptied bars it is that I have found my way back. 1974 Junior, Acrylic on Wood, Gabriel Nahmini, Ter*IB
Memory A sip of wine is left about your mouth Softly I can open my lips like a chest inhaling we float. The cherry trees stretch The white sea catches me takes me someplace far in my memory we float Sometimes I think I’ve lived before.
Aïli Izsak-Niimura
Sans Titre, Joséphine Martin, 1* 5 - B&A - Issue 14 - Black & White
Come On “Come on, it will be fun!” He pulls me closer, wrapping his arms around me like a comforting blanket. I sigh against his chest, breathing his words in. “Come on, live a little!” He whispers into my hair, his lips brushing the top of my head. I laugh, and bury myself in his embrace. It is a terrible idea, but I can’t do anything about it. From the moment we became “us”, I knew that we were going to be inseparable. He is my everything now; my dreams are of our future. He is always there for me, and I will always be there for him. I know that if the time came – which it never will, an impossibility so terrible I cannot bear to think of it – and we must go our separate ways, I will be the one who leaves first. He gently wrenches himself away from me. He smiles down at me, his dark brown eyes playfully searching my face for any sign of discordance. I smile reassuringly at him. “Are we going to do this or not?” I retort. A sudden surge of confidence overwhelms me. With him, anything is possible. Here, on the outskirts of the city park, in summer’s damp darkness, we are ready. His face seems explodes with joy. He grabs my hand, and begins to run. We run, but that sort of run where you can go for ages and not worry about anything. The wind is against us, but we are laughing, and cannot feel it. The sky above is black, peppered with grains of stars. Clear and bright, the moon shines down on us, approving of our nocturnal activities. Our destination is the old amusement park. I 6 - B&A - Issue 14 - Black & White
I haven’t been back there since I was little. I remember faintly the taste of a warm day and hot dogs, but I also remember the grime under our fingers and the tang of iron that accompanied ice cream from the rusty spoon that served it. We pass through the little expanse of fake trees and shrubbery that surrounds the park, and I feel a chill run down my spine, and a shiver up my arms. There it is, in all its broken glory. The rusted sign screeching the entrance in fading neon lights entrances us, and I squeeze his hand. My confidence is faltering. The ball of excitement that wound itself in my stomach is slowly unraveling itself into worry. He squeezes back, a reassuring gesture to show his love. It will be all right. I let him tug me around the fence of the park, supposedly he knows where the secret entrance is, where hundreds of other rebellious teenagers have snuck in for a night of unforgettable experience. There it is, a break in the chain wire fence. He pulls it up for me, and I duck in. My shirt catches on the wire, and I let out a small shriek, my heart thumping. “Shh,” He giggles, and unhooks me. Shaking a little, I scramble to stand up, helping him through. We’re in, officially in. I cannot believe it. Relief bubbles up from within me and escapes my lips. A laugh, my laugh, pure and simple, echoes throughout the park, filling empty corners. Tired rides and vacant food stands lean wearily against each other, worn down and lifeless. The walkways are lined with cheap stuffed animals that are the dreams of small children and adolescent girls. “Win a teddy bear for me?” I teasingly wrap my arms around
his neck, leaning in for a kiss. When he doesn’t kiss me, I see that his eyes are staring straight ahead. They narrow for a second, as if he was trying to clear his vision. With a small sigh, I turn my head to find what he is searching for. All I see is the dark shadows of sleeping roller coasters. “Do you think anyone is here?” He asks. His eyebrows pull together. “I smell hot dogs.” “What? Don’t be silly.” He looks down at me. His face is blank; as if he did not register I was here. “Did you say something?” I roll my eyes, ignoring the slight quiver in his voice. “Don’t tell me you’re chickening out now!” I step away, beckoning to him with my finger. He shakes his head, his brown locks falling over his forehead like a small waterfall. He pushes them back, and then runs to me. He picks me up and spins me around. Our joined laughter brightens up the desolate park. When he puts me down, memories flood back. “Let’s go to the Carrousel!” I shout. I remember where it is, and it is I who pulls him along this time. We reach it, and I can’t help but climb onto the nearest wooden animal. The moonlight illuminates the carrousel, and horses gain their own demonic face. I don’t care; I know it’s just a trick of the light, or lack of. I close my eyes, feelings of contentment coursing through me. Something creaks, and my eyes open with a start. He has stayed in the same spot, not moving. His body seems paralyzed. The quiet is so loud, that all I can hear is his breathing. Short, shallow. Something is wrong. I get off the horse, and I walk towards him. His eyes are unmov-
ing, focused on something behind me. I can feel my breathing start to match his. I dare not look back. There is another creak. I clench my hands, nails digging into my palms to keep me from screaming. Short, shallow. Yet each breath feels like an eon. My heart feels like a wild animal, beating against my chest.
Thud. Again thud.
Tears edge from my eyes, pushing their way forward. In silence, they stream. I quicken my pace to join him. As I reach out, he turns and runs with all his might, leaving me behind. As I try to scream, I feel a hand cover my mouth. “Shh.” By Sophie Benson Photography by Ryuji Chua
Back Cover - Painting by Shiyoon Myoung, 4*6 “It will disappear” 7 - B&A - Issue 14 - Black & White
Ecole Active Bilingue Jeannine Manuel May 2014 8 - B&A - Issue 14 - Black & White