NEW 2007_3 by Paul Kahn

2007

Poetry / poésie Translation / traduction Reports / reportage Photography / Photographie Contemporary Art / art contemporain English Français

IN THIS ISSUE: Etel Adnan Milan Grygar Gary Snyder Eric Suchère Norman Fischer

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Experience of time | L’experience du temps

Magazine

Issue 3 2007 Experience of Time | L'experience du temps

Etel Adnan All simultaneous times all places of the imagination all forms of expression are NEW. Editorial address Kahn+Associates 90, rue des Archives, 75003 Paris

Norman Fischer 12

Cover Design Piotr Kaczmarek Website www.new-mag.com Subscription 22€ Eu¤ro / $30 USD for 2 issues (two years)

Dépôt légal : septembre 2007 ISSN : 1776-9353 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any means without written permission from the publisher. © all images: the authors; © all texts: the authors; © all translations: the authors; © 2007 of this publication : Kahn+Associates S.A.R.L.

Four Poems: I Hate November; All Saints; The Picture of My Enemy; Well Miska Knapek

Photographs of Time. Lapses in Time. Tuula Närhinen

Production Editor Eva-Lotta Lamm

Cover Photo Miska Knapek

from A River I Couldn't Find

Pavel Řezníček (English translation: James Naughton, Štěpán Kolář)

Design Consultant Krzysztof Lenk

Skyscapes & Seasons James Koller (traduction française : Odile Firmin & Mike Green)

Editor Paul Kahn Contributing Editors James Koller Florent Fajole Dominique Negel Laurence Bossé

A Season

There are no photographs of the wind Eric Suchère (English translation: Carrie Noland)

...un autre mois... N° 99-108

Gilles Plazy (English translation: Dori & Jake Lamar) 84

rimbaud en silence / rimbaud in silence D. Tuman interviewed by Michael Gervers

They were everywhere: a conversation about archeology in Mongolia today John Brandi

102

Walking with Frank O’Hara and Po Chü-I Gary Snyder (traduction française : Olivier Delbard)

104

Glacier Bay East Arm, Muir Inlet Florent Fajole (English translation: Paul Kahn & Dominique Negel)

124

Garder le silence. Milan Grygar / Keeping the Silence. Milan Grygar (photographs by Josef Prošek & Štěpán Grygar)

128

Tactile Drawings

142

Rosemary Clooney Died Today

Michael Rothenberg

Joanne Kyger 144

Night Palace

IN THIS ISSUE:

Experience of time

Please visit: www.new-mag.com for further information about and work by new contributors. On the internet we connect you to their publications, audio and video recordings of performances, current exhibitions, and other events that will evolve over time.

At the end of 2006, Etel Adnan completed a new work inspired by “Night Palace”, a poem by Joanne Kyger which you will find at the end of this issue. Adnan’s response, which she titled “A Season”, is a meditation on memory, war, place, and the passing of time. As the first pole on which to balance this third issue of new, her text offered many points of connection. I began to receive work that spoke about the experience of time, its daily passage, our response to its rhythms and cycles, the way in which we bring it into being in the form of hours, days, months, seasons, and years. Adnan introduced me to Gilles Plazy, artist and author of books on many painters. His verse meditation on Rimbaud is translated into English by Dorli and Jake Lamar. A friend had given Norman Fischer a tiny notebook, small enough to fit into the palm of a hand, divided into sections for four seasons. He spent a year filling it with a poem. In the process, he read parts to me quietly as we waited in a computer store for a repair to be completed, then performed a selection at the Berkeley new reading hosted by Poetry Flash. Michael Rothenberg also joined the Berkeley event. His poem on the death of P hilip Whalen reached me last year, when new 2 had been completed. Rothenberg has recently edited major collections by Whalen, Kyger, David Meltzer and Edward Dorn. His own poetry, prose and song writing is the subject of a long retrospective essay in Jacket 33. I met Miska Knapek in Helsinki, where he attended my workshop on informa-

tion architecture at Media Lab. Knapek introduced me to a photography technique that is both ingenious and informative. In the months that followed, he provided more images of and inventions from the growing and shrinking Scandinavian daylight. Fischer's “Skyscapes”, the textual residue of the view from an airplane window, and Knapek’s strips of airplane sky time are corollaries in word and image. Carrie Noland called my attention to the formal and exacting work of Eric Suchère. A few days later I came across his translation of the poems of Jack Spicer, C’est mon vocabulaire qui m’a fait ça (Le Bleu du Ciel, 2006) as well as his Fixe, désole en hiver (Les Petits M atins, 2005). Since 1997, Suchère produces a monthly post card, an image on one side and a text on the other. Results from the project are presented on his website, including translations into English, Italian and Dutch. Noland selected a series which Suchère describes as a response to Michelangelo Antonioni’s L’Éclipse (1962). The week the translations were completed, Antonioni passed away. Gary Snyder sent “a little piece on Glacier Bay (Alaska) kayaking” that records a trip in 1989 with his late wife, Carole Koda, which has been translated into French by Olivier Delbard. Amid the details of the day, the weather and the breakfast menu, Snyder presents a vision of land, sea and ice sliding and falling, the edge of a cycle of mountains and rivers. “You know,” he said to me, as if no one else should overhear it, “we really shouldn't have been out there. It was very dangerous.” We were both introduced to | 3_ 2007

Pavel Řezníček at the Prague Writers Festival, hosted by Michael March. Milan Kundera, in his introduction to the French edition of Řezníček's novel, Le plafond (Gallimard, 1986) characterizes his work as “anti-snobbish, popular, plebeian surrealism: it is surrealism of the bistro.” This proved to be a fine introduction to a remarkable man whose writing blends a special kind of fantasy and fury. These poems were selected from the translations done by James Naughton, who performed with Řezníček at the festival. Řezníček added another translation by the late Štěpán Kolář not found in his collected poems. Florent Fajole showed me the drawings of Milan Grygar in photocopies from art publications. Grygar's pioneering performance works, which began in the 1960s, emphasizes the sonic, tactile, and temporal dimensions of drawing. Still active in Prague where his work is well represented in several museums, Grygar received me in his studio and presented his drawings, paintings, and books spanning forty years. The photos selected by Fajole and the artist’s son, Štěpán Grygar, represent drawing as a performance in time. We are adding an audio and film recording of a performance's sonic dimension to the new website. Fajole and Guillermo Daghero coordinate the collection Dispositifs for Le clou dans le fer in Reims. Dominique Negel introduced me to Tuula Närhinen’s work after encountering it at the Kiasma Museum of Contemporary Art in Helsinki. “There are no photographs of the wind” is our selection from a broader collection of Närhinen’s work | 3_ 2007

that can be described as scientific in approach. She often develops her own methodology and instruments, as well as the final artifacts. The windtracer photographs and drawings have been extended into a permanent public installation in the meeting rooms of the Finnish Parliament House, where each room is paneled with wood from a different native species. James Koller's most recent poetry continues his “road work”, a record of his movements across North America and Europe. Koller put me in touch with John Brandi, another traveler who delighted us both with his recent poem. Brandi's books include Water Shining Beyond The Fields (Tres Chicas Books, 2006), a travel journal of southeast Asia, and poems, In What Disappears (White Pine Press, 2003) . I renewed my friendship with Michael Gervers, a medievalist who directs the Central and Inner Asian Studies Center at University of Toronto, at a conference in Mongolia. Gervers was visiting archeology sites and later interviewed D. Tumen when she visited him in Toronto. Tumen is the Chair of the Department of Anthropology and Archaeology at the National University of Mongolia. Eva-Lotta Lamm has once again provided balance, harmony, and excellent production values to this third issue. The appearance of each issue owes a great deal to her enormous design talents. I also want to offer a special thanks to Piotr Kaczmarek for his new projection of the northern hemisphere that graces our back cover.

You may suppose that time is only passing away, and not understand that time never arrives. Although understanding itself is time, understanding does not depend on its own arrival. This quotation from the Japanese Zen Buddhist master Eihei Dōgen is from his essay Uji (The Time-Being), written in the winter of 1240. It is entirely new each time it appears.

P.K. Paris, August 2007 3

Etel Adnan

A Season for Joanne Kyger

There are imperceptible writings. Language’s triangular shape is applied to vision: a rush of Being. Pressure is applied on time, bending it. The curvature is imparted to one’s soul trying to escape from the abyss while dreading to fall even lower. Greece comes to the rescue. Doors are sliding and preventing the future’s return. This morning a woman disappeared in the sun’s obliquity. Much later the moon appeared. There’s regularity to the presence of things, the numinous flowering of this spring, but uncertainty about the lack of will in this piece of wood. A deer, facing a car’s headlights, is a reminder of existence. Being is invisible to all the senses, why are the senses then excluded from the promise of thinking? Or are they? Is adhering to one’s skin life’s sole purpose? Undular movements pit themselves against the body’s bewildered surface, there, where death is structural. When the drought reaches the valley, stories replace the river. As Earth doesn’t expand, power does, and it may get out of hand. By consuming itself it will consume this turbulent planet, even its volcanoes. Does one leave in one’s room a shape emptied of its body? Its mind? Is mind more ubiquitous than flesh? If so, they’re not homogenous, but alien to each other, though interdependent. Is reality to be trusted? There are gaps into which we either fall to die or to start living. In a season of migration movies are preferred to books. Luminosity is a different language, the result of a confluence of methods used by Nature. A reel played backwards, that’s the future. Wherever one looks one finds that space is filled with the past along with steep cliffs, big fires. The moon escaped the disaster, the future will not. Poisons connect with their destination in beautiful plants. A lawyer loses his argument. The voyage is delayed. Bodies are born from bodies. It’s more dangerous to disbelieve one’s senses than to keep God on the back-burner. There’s moss on the windowsill, even in warm weather. The erasure of one facet of the mind and the emergence of the next could con-

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cern the pleasure to kill. Love is flood. Flash!: Zeus, enamored, tumbling through Space. Ancient rivers drift into ancient memories. They create watery fields the way music transforms breathing air into a subject of contemplation for the ears. Flat lands. One drop of water added to another can make an angel appear. The moon tears apart the illuminated clouds and reigns alone. O the Syrian desert mounted by its young emperors in the steel days of Rome! Its salt has melted in the Euphrates. Further north the spring has planted miles of orchards. Frantic flowers whisper to the wind. Birds use corridors of air within the air for their flight. Their shadows come from the soul. It is necessary not to stay still; the voyage is family. I want to walk in mountainous countries. Some nations are sitting and crying in front of screens larger than their borders. Their brains are starting to fall apart. I listen. Of course, all this is perceived as silence, in the midst of storms, under heaven’s explosion. History doesn’t drive on camels anymore but it’s still eating dust. Communication lines, since, are buried deep under the skin. Fog is pouring over history, and not lifting. Disorder is chronic, surrender, erotic by essence. Victims are dangerous in their revenge. Can one break memory the way one breaks stone with stone? Is memory’s function to first break down, by its own means, then pick up the pieces and reassemble them together, but clumsily, never in the way they used to be? Is a fractured mind just fractured, or is it multiplied? Would a brain, collapsed but re-sewn, enjoy again the spring of California’s northern frontier and know that only music can ever represent the penetration of one’s eyes by flowering trees? … As if pain were a metaphor for pleasure. Saying this, the book is closed. To run water in gutters and feed the blue jays on berries is Nature’s perfect balancing act. It would be preposterous to use theories for climbing California’s rust-colored mountains. Love is not a game for lovers. Going through destruction, bodies break either like glass or soft cake. | 3_ 2007

ETEL ADNAN | A Season

Shiny red peppers! Green peppers! Women walk between tomatoes and leeks, in a season of war; that’s not unusual. It’s rather like swimming in the summer. Things move fast in a world of silence and disruption. In the morning, pushing dreams aside, it’s good to take a walk down alleys of linden trees, vegetable gardens, Fish are jumping when a heat-wave sails through a bleak luminescence. Sounds made by passer-bys. (Lorca fell to bullets.) The ocean, beyond the hills, embodies a unilateral decision made by geography. Its intensity is alleviated by its beauty. Active principles keep Earth rolling on schedule. The center will remain central. Clouds are war’s first casualties. Laurels are spread on beds where lovers will spend their nights. It’s a time when the description of paradise leads the mind to instability, insurrection. The sky looms big in shallow pools on broken streets. A four-year old Iraqi boy has been amputated of his two arms after an American air raid blew up his quarter. When he woke up he asked: “when will I get them back?” The oak tree is growing with anxiety and the olive tree with the anticipation of rain. The mountain behind is listening to thunder. Mind and weather fuse, in the mind’s owner and in the weather. The land is obsessed with rivers, floods and heat. Memory is helpless: mind cannot control it. No object can compete with a sound’s intimacy. Anarchy, in our veins, creates fever, confusion, though we remember that owls don’t bark. One wave, one hour at a time. Then wind blows on sheets of air, raising spray and foam. A gale blinds the view. A treacherous span of water disrupts the traffic. “Detour”, says the road. In stormy seasons, time stretches, reaches over to transcendence. Fish swim uninterruptedly. Mountain-lions hunt, with an anger that makes them thirsty, thirsting for air. Cinema impresses the impressionable. A customer comes for what he knows not to be there: this is called seeking illusions. Through tunnels, matter, jealously, follows images. Being is the fourth dimension, and mind, too. Therefore Being equals mind and vice-versa. What about the other dimensions? NonBeing is the invincible force that pushes Being up-the-hill. The same with sorrow. A film in its entirety forms a single image. As oceanic as longing. Writing: the body’s imprint on wet sand. Spring is element of thinking; perfect tool. Poetry is a question of speed and time, speed and time. For insomniacs, mind – while all things are excluded – plays games with itself. Then language, in those 6

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nights, reveals itself as being our essential self. In dreams, we fly as fast as we think, and we’re rather happy. Time passes from right to left. Planets intrude on the sky. A rain of daffodils appeases the drought. A ghost moves from room to room, keeps hearts pounding. Any noise slides on walls the way light transports itself from its source to this environment. A woman goes to the cliff, and waits, standing, and nonvisibility envelops her totally. In solitude let things be predictable. A walk through the forest brings out sounds, scents and visions of fern. The encounter creates desire. The deer are running down, bringing along their offspring. In the night trees look taller, the redwoods in particular. This forest is another continent. And what do the police say when they realize that suicidal women could be beautiful? (they eat fish-and-chips). They notice that the century’s first half is the whole cut in two. With a knife. Circling an event on paper. In streets. At oblivion’s center. Breaking the circle brings terror, as the radio announces. Shut the radio! Let light come from the other hemisphere. This garden’s circumference is inconsequential. It doesn’t threaten travelers. We need to find out where the body was lying, in that absence, that distance. In comes wilderness, i.e. the heart’s, in these days, these latitudes. She destroyed the spring to be had. Description of the loss: bottles lined up, with left-over wine in them. Sometimes, sweet poison. An eye for an eye. Love’s impossibility multiplied by mirrors. A woman bartender. Everything waiting for a nonevent. News about the weather posted from early in the morning. There was nothing else to fill the brain with. The current did pass, but was diverted at twilight. The flight of a fly was heard. That was all. It recurred. A season for Dionysus, baby-god born with speech impediment. Owing existence to the Orient. His ancestry born in blood. Every sunset reproduces his birth. Look at the sky! His language: dance in the imperative tense. From the Tragic Times there’s nothing left. Someone ate fish in the kitchen. The young god got raped by demented women, his lost virginity echoed by mountains blanketed with snow. Zeus was aging. His grandchild was dying. When the world and the mind face each other with ultimate intensity, they cancel out. With its electrical system broken down, the body doesn’t qualify anymore for a name. One can then water the garden with wine. Dionysus passed the torch on to Orpheus. On a fatal morn| 3_ 2007

ETEL ADNAN | A Season

ing. The sea blackened, split. There are dimensions that we ignore although they emit sounds and they flicker. Invisible equations rain, and birds dread that tempest. The coast is an open shore. The season is stubborn. During some nights thick with scents and sounds, redwoods bend, speak, wave or express their bewilderment. These magnificent athletes mark their grounds with the performance of unsuspected ceremonies, rites, in their unknown modes of being. The ocean’s soundwaves are heard on the moon. Ravaged by darkness, the moon is dangerous. The spring has hit her periphery. Down on earth, savage seas are moving toward their middle under melancholy’s heavy banners. Dis asters are not acceptable. The hidden is inbuilt in thinking. Nature’s daily presentation of diversity distracts one from the non-essential. Light shows its impatience by creating shadows. We project our longings on the horizon’s precarious line, and separate words from the objects they’re meant to represent. The moon doesn’t speak any of our languages. To contemplate an empty sky until it gets lit with stars, then ask the imagination to seek other realms of emptiness. Spring mediates love for the sake of wet leaves, bobcats… In stricken areas, it wears its best attires. Master of velocity, light bores into the tree trunks of these woods. Blue moon over green waters. The beach’s impenetrable beauty lends its transparency to the soul in order to institute Being, in a joint creation. Life concentrates on the mind’s surface: it either accelerates time, or discontinues it. The storm is wiping out visibility. Matter skids out of itself. In this annihilation, only the forest survives, and the streams that are running through. Chaos in dormant dwellings. The Night Palace stands tall by the ocean. We need to explore that reality. Green emergence. The mountain oversees turbulent waters that carry erosion. Tragedies borrow their blood from such places. No ways to reach the top other than on disturbed and crooked roads. Here, one says the hell with the future! On the mesa they do away with nebulous desires. The sun, as it rises, consumes the foothills as well as the will, leaving a trail of haze. This human race is driving space vehicles into more wilderness: Prometheus of a new kind, not chained but let loose for a doom differed, the voyage being the prize.

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An angel falls in the thick of the night to witness war, confusion and pain. He lingers until the late hours for a walk among the planet’s rose bushes. He encounters deer jumping fences across hills lost in mist. As far as he can see, whales follow their route to the North. Smooth pebbles lie on the beach. The sky writes tales on mercurial lines; they mean resonance. A woman plunges in her expectations; her longing is hard to bear. Planes land smoothly; white sails go sailing. Storms are peripatetic creatures of the weather. Open land, open sea. Trains cross reservations and whistle, clouds pick up their pace and follow. Hot streams within the ocean bring to it instability. In the high season, rains fall horizontally while tamarisk, scattered by dry river-beds, thrives on the ranch. The area is an undeclared factory of hallucinatory herbs. The spirit blows over a moon drunk with gentian and sage. Matter is indeed a wandering substance. The mind feels a fatal attraction for the impossible; it turns the body into a tool, and a destination. Nature doesn’t do things. It’s not available for any kind of trade. Before sinking, the sun deposits a filament of fire on the ocean’s edge. A battle is raging. One army’s aim is to humiliate the other. Nature, though, will remain relevant: it’s Being’s outer image, Being’s outer Being. Time is a dramatic performance. Where Lorca died a cactus grew. Along the road there was a short-lived jubilation. Ecstasy is lightning, and love, apparition, therefore disappearance. When the creek swelled the deer, suddenly, camouflaged their terror. The car survived the crash. The brain didn’t. Be the wind, the folly that floods the fields with wine. Dionysus is blinded by the sun setting in his eyes. Sitting next to him at a table, Cavafy yearns for young men. Wears garlands. He says the air is clear. He writes it down. Defeat drowns with the defeated, like fish. The ocean is an enormous plantation that produces, instead of rice, sardines, algae… It breathes and gives breath. Its anger beneficially clears the spirit. Eucalyptus doesn’t grow for the shade it provides but for sheer pleasure. Plane trees spend their nights on the county’s lower meadows. During the winter their branches burn in the wood-stoves. Silence falls gradually. Sleep becomes another form of awareness. Gold-crown sparrows, finding an air draft, greet their happiness with chirps. They participate in the earth’s vigor. By night’s fall their energies are dissipated. That’s when some people mix wine with beer. They dream of their tribe of origin. | 3_ 2007

ETEL ADNAN | A Season

Small towns suit the full moon. In the bars, loud music increases the natural weariness of the customers. The season is undamaged but there’s danger in the grass. An apprehension of things to come. That woman doesn’t shoot heroin, being natur ally high. Fate is cruel and its damage irreparable. When the storm gathers momentum, the three ravens that are my neighbors fly down from the pine tree and walk in the middle of the street. One is limping. The cold wind shakes everything out of its comfort. It’s time to leave, to catch a train. Women enter their bed with their lover and feel their loneliness. There’s mystery to their flesh. On Saturn’s moons a watery substance has been found. This night is not a night although it’s not a day. To think is not to contemplate, it’s to witness. We have to deal with the events that happen in the Palace’s danger zone… By the dusty alley’s end, the ocean unfolds its unlimited space. That cliff is poetry’s jumping board. Words are cracked open, reused in bits and pieces. There’s much agitation. Spring unattached itself from its elements. It has become Being. Orbiter 2 is sent to Mars. Human eyes will scan that new space by proxy, with cold instruments. Vivid greens, in the garden, are emerging from the snow, light snow, and sounds are filtering through the door. It’s Schubert seeking shelter. The season, in February, is stirring under the ground’s skin. Trees are not extensions of the self but pure phenomena. Their time does not intersect with ours. They travel differently. They are cyclical, and envied for that. Their lives are not part of our tragic continuum; they have a lightness, a closeness to water, air or fire, all of their own. Accompanied by its train of clouds, the sky enters, and settles in the room. We will share the night. We trust the mountain to remain in one piece while we sleep. In the morning the light will be of the same silver that makes black-and-white photography shine. The mind travels at the speed of light. Probably faster. The theorem is short. Objects bring out life’s infinity. For Being, everything is a phenomenon; therefore it can’t think itself. Thoughts are also phenomena in relation to it, and in themselves. They’re splendid events. Spring is dangerous, like love. And love survives the lovers. There are no horses around, unless the sun be one. The eucalyptus is building a hedge for the moon so that the latter would know at which door to knock. Not the Great Wall of China. Ocean hypnotizes. The Aztecs knew two things above

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all: that human predators would disembark one day and that mind produces light. The hidden face of the moon and the hidden one of Being… In where is the difference? A room is built to accommodate windows. A deck. Branches. Sleet. Language interferes, separates plants from animals, O original sin! Voices come from the outside and drill channels till the brain. We were meant to create signs, not ideas. Trial balloons. Hot sand and surf. They blame their failure on the season’s precocity, the moon’s early rise. The eye and the “I”, same sound and probably same thing. That’s why, in a single room there are many exits for the soul. We move in order to stop the thinking, let something else take over. In moving there’s rest. Humidity provides rain for the oak trees of the National Park. Their manifest destiny is to be oak trees. They remember those who walk by them. They drink from the ditch. A dismal prison was attacked by a powerful country. A glass of water on a table. Some yards away, a plum tree. The mountain, still there, watching. The recurrence of the waves is taken for granted. Their sound, too. We marvel at this: that an apple is an apple. All evidence is tragic. It’s also inbuilt in seasons. In crevasses, gullies, troughs, there’s youthful energy. Tides transfixed by the clarity of the atmosphere on illuminated mornings. It’s suddenly very cold: shells on the beach, driftwood, traces of salt in the foam. Cameras register atmospheric events such as the rustling of the forest, the drizzle, the fog. During the night of the equinox the downpour broke the levees. The earth shook everything around. Maps had to be drawn anew. When spring starts to turn into old wine the air gets to be wet and the mind exuberant. Messages arrive from the forest’s edge about the state of the water system. The breeze climbs high on the hills and the war returns to the front page. The ocean remains motionless in the midst of its storms. It’s late at night. In a matter of a few hours a motion picture has covered the lives of a bunch of people. In the same lapse of time the air has hardly stirred, the trees have hardly grown and the animals in the surrounding farms have not turned in their sleep. The season is passing by.

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Norman Fischer

Skyscapes

Tan circles Edged in green Rhyme with White etched Cloud clusters Above Identical Slowly moving Shadows Black below Repeated In ranks On bright expanse In rust hills Smooth small Lakes Rhyme * Sharp Brown Ridges Knife-blades Black in soft Coiled shadow As jaguars * Jagged Black hills Elongated upheavals Rise in plain of Squares Green and brown

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Sandpits, smudged Mauve horizon * Cloud-banks With even dividing spaces Between * Gauzy smudged Cloud scraps Running columns Of sand or snow Mineral-smeared Waste expanse Then Green, tan, Mauve circles * Puckered run Of ridges to Taller random mounds Road-knives cut toward Pale blue lake * Sharp shadows Cut peaks Relentlessly lit * Road-cuts A tan square Forced ridges Move slowly Toward edge *

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Hunched hills, Leaf-vein gullies Chunks Against bulwarks *

NORMAN FISCHER | Skyscapes

Desert ridges Move slow Sand shows Beneath dark scrub Congregated epic peaks As crowns or scepters * Sharp hills swirl Wind-swept sandy plain Five tan circles Three aligned, One behind, One beyond, East of them * Cascading wind-swept Sand-smudge Without life Hill-knobs Sharp-ridged Shadow-creased Peaks * Branching Snaking sand-wash Stuttered sand-patch Sand-road cuts Sharp angles Merging Gully-swirls Leaning bunched Hillocks 14

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Bordered in Soft silt earth Scored with etched Gullies * Three Shapeless Blue-gray Rhymed Cloud-scraps Close As if Formerly one Float in pale Blue sky then Dissolve In it * Possible dark Vegetation Desolately alive On humped Earth-mounds In Sand-ocean * Straight Track Cuts mauve Expanse Toward indefinite Destination Cut away * Swirled terraces In dark crater Rhymed tan mounds | 3_ 2007

Inscribed around In distance Few distinctions Looming ridges Sandy hills, gullies * NORMAN FISCHER | Skyscapes

Green pink yellow Blue mounds Crevices, dark gray Rock-hills Tracks Cut through * Shadow below Hill-knob Above white Stone, flat blue Shapeless Slowly moving Lake * Red circle With tan center Lion-shaded Sand-pit Beside * Comma-shaped White Sand-pit Below dark Hills â&#x20AC;&#x201C; horizon smudged Pale green to White Mauve clouds Slowly moving

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* Swarm of dark dots Shrubs On sand-plain Combed, Scraped circularly With ridges and sand-patches Beyond green-blue Sand-edged lake Etched islands Red ridges beyond * One distinct Round soft Cloud Below Above Elongated Snow-patches Five small Black lakes Sharp shadows of Peaks Small green trees Cascade In gullies between * Humped stone peaks Rhyming toward horizon Smudged light green With bright white marks Smoke of fires slowly moving * Canyon lake Sand-fringed Below cloud-smudge Two fish-shaped

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Black lakes Lying At rakish angles White airplane Falling rapidly East Below NORMAN FISCHER | Skyscapes

* Steep canyons, deep gullies Tug against Each other Snake direction-shifts Toward river Below quickly moving Cloud column * Golden hills bright Green trees in gullies Curved, straight, streets Housetops, treetops Car-peppered highways Building-tops, playingFields criss-crossed Arteries, white plane falling To the East Quickly Below Deep brown Haze lies still Beyond final hills At horizon Blue Sky with long white Unmoving cloud Wide green Expanse of bay blackEdged silver car-peppered Bridge Cuts straight Across Insect-like 18

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Airplane-shadow On ever-closer White-tipped Water Rippled Regularly Five white sailboats Two close two Further Beyond them glossy Water and Tall white cityscape Pushed up into haze Tall brown hills Beyond

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Seasons

1. Spring March NORMAN FISCHER | Seasons

rain falls; this is not an exclusive truth

thought-like? All the ground receives rain as thought is

still, the sky being white not

uncomplaining – ground absorbs rain as mind absorbs thought –

with cloud but being nothing other

slightly moving cypress treetop

than cloud seems to melt the hills

in rain’s air – is this absorption?

rain is not the sky’s weeping or seeping nor is rain

•

sweeping across the landscape – rain’s speed paints the air does rain’s marginal repetitive nature make it more like thought than dirt is 20

drops fall slant-wise right to left as in Hebrew or Arabic script often in misty gusts though drops drip in even lines from roof-edge drops’ totality drumming on solid | 3_ 2007

April objects like a roof or filigreed things like trees make sounds, alarming sounds whose intensity thrills, occupying much emotional space sound of rain isn’t that rather is rain’s kiss or brutal shove drops batter or caress according to wind & object’s yielding or resistance

Bright, bright, bright cloud whose etched edges against sky’s blue

ranks of lights under bright sky touching down to water’s surface

rounded softly over hills in billows unmoving & calm –

birds soar by the hospital or bridge’s stanchion

water & light dazzles – Spring clocks tick this time’s last hours, ah the garden’s mounds of receiving plants thyme, lavender where bees suck when sun so far away from here warms all things new •

now there is less or there may be more of rain’s strong

round red car’s tail lamps before me on highway

falling absorption of rain in rain without stint or meaning

one of these, two, & there are many as brakes apply

• | 3_ 2007

in the wet ground still herons all white where ground’s green stand rapt waiting for nothing at all this happens each spring day, frogs peep in pond at Green Gulch below zendo deck a unison or cars’ rumbled whoosh on avenues going by, what to pretend to be true or new: 21

that’s spring all over again sad, cruel, April month

NORMAN FISCHER | Seasons

where’s the world been or going? Can you step off even for a moment so as to see what can be seen only outside the picture – what can’t be spoken of of that one must remain silent

toward the sky, how futile their aspiration! how much trouble they make for me & themselves – they do not care – or the air, warm or chilled rising or plunging down (I can feel it) cares? I think not –

•

who cares? I care? I could care I could not care, less

Faure’s slow, sad quartet as these four lines

or more but it’s spring April’s annual brief

crawl across mind’s page, slowly die into their own

adventure, Buddha’s born, Jesus dies, then doesn’t, his

spring, oh how the grasses do grow with an alarming

eternal everlasting life available to all believers

persistence & strength where one doesn’t want them: the driveway

through a simple firm act of imagination

everywhere they do press upward

human response to warm air & plants’ utter sincerity

so we cry out “Praise Ya,” or words to the effect, some broken prayer in patched-up words stuck-on meanings spring-time mud of the soul’s mistakes Easter, Easter lily, or calla lily, calla lily exotic lady of the hillside beneath the pines by the thistles that will live on no matter how much I try to prevent it Ah, spring, what will not die – even you who are handmaiden of an old star will cease one day (or is your return implied in time & does time die?) Recognize my face as object seen by eye & spring will not die nor flower fade so long as rain will fall anywhere at all •

| 3_ 2007

May Naitobi’s azaleas reflected in lake not like moon in water or face in mirror, one is all, all, all waves in water’s gentle perturbation as sparrow touches her wing to water’s soft edge, golden carp crap but this does only enhance pure Japanese wistful life, cherry blossoms falling into lake are eventually debris, bottom-scum, some stuck in pine boughs as if pines bore blossoms delicate pink silent still tradition-encrusted beautiful cherry blossoms, when’s the festival, where do I get my ticket?

western red cedar, Doug fir western hemlock tall above it all, pruned in the Tokyo style

| 3_ 2007

Why myself not another

•

writing these ghost words, this pilfered bounty

Ah Buddha, take me away, away where I belong:

will not yet save anyone from certain uncertainty –

the airport, beyond earth imagined surround where nothing lives

all day birds peep – towhee’s pierced piping, hummer’s mumbled chatter,

that’s not going or waiting to go away or back

jay’s indignant squawk & with wide soft wing heron glides down among

•

tall grasses so innocent, silly & still

June although because of my ignorance I will never become a Buddha I vow to bring others across because I am a priest • why these clouds, not

•

some others?

• in wind practically everything bends, easily yielding so spring’s fullness opens to time’s blowing by •

NORMAN FISCHER | Seasons

that we love imperfectly & do not know who or what

day’s yearning – soft-mouthed new deer have so much to eat!

matters not at all – love loves love

they walk trail or cross road surprised & high-spirited

so is right even though mistaken, as spring’s magic

•

works even when weeds grow strong disintegrating driveways • from the middle sea looks round but sea’s shape is neither round nor square, sea’s a jewel, a palace, womb combed by white-tipped waves • in high spring everything wants to grow, strains up haplessly – days so long evening keeps us outdoors for light calls & nothing rests even night’s coolness is a drawing up of strength for next

a flower, a rose, is not that if a name is not sweet, soft white paper flopping fruitful to the touch & leaning yellow, casual or desperately amorous flower parts splayed careless upon the center pad of upright offered stanchions on the dizzy theft of simple fragrant abundance as the prince’s concubines were so splayed in debauched nights – this innocent flower falters fate more, its unconcern a certain motive force misunderstood

completely in poems – now let us praise names for their unnaming so in looking all can be as unfamiliar returned to us again as before • spring’s final hours blood red or orange sun dies upon the Sound while birds chirp – trees black & noble stand without motion in their stirring complicated shapes spring is not the beginning of summer nor summer the end of spring, spring simply now ceases as if it had never been, summer arrives from nowhere

| 3_ 2007

2. Summer

& nothing turns into nothing there is no

nor any form of it like a hat removed from a

change – so I too passes from I day to day in & out

head baring a skull so the season’s

sudden swollen summer scent on the air lasting just

open-ended passing discloses being’s

a breath’s length washes over memory’s gate

delicate topparts – sun done dissolving

to splash me in youthful summers here in a new now,

darkness swallows earth

being’s odd emotional valence soon gone, maple

of season one door opens & another opens, closes, life perplexity what’s once done or been can’t be again

June

• | 3_ 2007

trees & ferns below water gurgling in a roadside plant-rich ditch

summer touches many places, each its own, everywhere myself

furious in defense below

are poems to be records, recollections, celebrations of such perennial themes

•

slow black crested herons watch river go by

NORMAN FISCHER | Seasons

& if we load the line with velcro rip, keyboard tap, do we kill illusion of meaning’s sweet desire substituting the low & weary? • that dark & roiling cloud edged acutely with perfectly radiant yellow light cannot be of this world

July mists across Japan Sea, mounds of feathered gentle mountains fading in distances, maybe not there? Floating world rice fields in blocks of shocking green cut by narrow brown roads so damp the air, white the sky so jammed together the steep roofs

• this place so full of wet green trees ferns, Eastern landscape whose

tamed by the wet air, clouds pressed into them soft as silk

thick woods’ snarled growth will die in fall, be buried in winter’s snow & calligraphic

•

• seeing Dogen’s original writing I marvel at his careful elegant strength on mounted scroll ink still dark after 800 years • pines & maples so beautifully made to order in Japan •

of village houses surrounded by rice fields below mountains above

leaflessness so unlike west’s open constant hills, Pacific sea

•

up curl roof ends in T’ang style, 500 arakans within Eiheiji’s upstairs sammon, four guardian kings

hateful things: to envy others & complain about one’s own lot; to speak badly about people; to be inquisitive about the most trivial matters & to resent & abuse people for not telling one; just about to be told some interesting piece of news

| 3_ 2007

when a baby cries • rain falls on Gion matsuri treasures wrapped in plastic as throngs roam streets following antique floats white-faced chigos high atop – flutes, drums, banners & scrolls ponderous wooden wheels that won’t corner • rains fall on Rinso-in garden so frogs croak happily – bamboo on hill above leans in the dampness quiet is rain’s sound room’s empty & quiet:

Fuji’s invisible head wrapped in gray mists – came close from far to see this summer nothingness

four with open beaks five beaks closed one bends down, looks up

•

one stands up, looks down

great dragon fish suspended in Eihei-ji sodo: not a fish, not a dragon

August • Nara deer peaceful-eyed beg for handout in the park, Buddhist homeless who sit down anywhere quiet & dignified to suffer their pictures to be snapped by far less self-possessed humans •

evening arrival • how odd & bracing in hushed green light of bamboo grove to hear clear loud uguisu’s call not in a Japanese poem

•

oh the willow tree on Ado river in Totomi where the hail comes down — oh the willow on Ado river!

visited John Dead yesterday, eyes open, body receding, fading as if dissolving into the bed like water evaporating, returning to the sorry cycle his eyes as when he was alive: so complete

•

nine cranes: eight face east one looks down

after sun & heat fog

• | 3_ 2007

after love & life death or dream & vice versa who violates these permeable

NORMAN FISCHER | Seasons

boundaries who lives or not in summer’s stasis

is made of everything’s less, so heat doesn’t matter wherever there’s water nearby

nothing that supports it” •

•

in late summer the rights of frost

vivid mountain

do not apply the fresh girl

thrust up into pale blue

with cupped eye shone closer by

sky & memory or a memory

whose late demeanor entombs my scale

of memory’s memory

nor cast by alert the new grace

this place its temple sounds

at night more sheets to cover

that made me

dream & saturate sight

O the me unmade

& I had no more eyes than that

•

such dear quiet as if

O the stars & suns

a darkness full of light

to rise or fall o’er the seas –

surrounds each all

watching them go thin & gold

“any something

where the water waves & will not

celebrates the

hold till darkness come to dangle in

• O Phil watching over me without approval or disapproval how summer shines on everyone warms even the coldest heart – a form of words as of weather makes meeting true • inscrutable & unconscious urges egg me on to all action I think I choose, O woeful impulse, born of a dark past in dreams words begin in living more

| 3_ 2007

& then the cold • September whose bad mood could it be skirts in the creamy sky summer’s

& words, more dear than any

all yous you &I am not another

image, bring things awake

•

to perplexity make all the old objects new •

sad end – more old ideas to trot

the going & gone by years

out more beginnings in the

just markers from a broth of life

great circle, light wakes this table

stories with now proper endings

| 3_ 2007

more bright days, once saw a fog lie upon the valley, furry ermine blanket but sun blazed it away by mid-day

September of my years

not now not then

what’s beneath the proud streets

•

not here not there

what you’d find if you blast & dig:

•

bones of those built upon,

September evokes a place NORMAN FISCHER | Seasons

in the mouth, month of long shadows & sorrows piled up bones in an open field in this month I reckon on things that could be said, could be known as rivers to snake toward the final sea how not so not so it all is this world-affirming life-creating stem of a plant on which cluster tiny white flowers for the season’s end

Sacramento: government streets abandoned under smoky bright sky sidewalks creamy with personless presence & in the big clear windows reflections of the palm trees that line the streets – all the minds occupied with power of the possible, imagined occurrences with borders drawn to belief & large advantage self-projected, false necessities always in tatters if you look •

•

built upon to forget the blood always spilled to arrive at now from yesterday • the anemone gloriously functions all its white flowers blaze in day’s mesmerizing light, here above the teeming always moving water I don’t wonder just see such slow deliberate swirling as silence below •

| 3_ 2007

shrill hawk whistle near the house shoulders hunched turns cold dark eye to the interloper & moves on into white mysterious sky

that it’s there eating seasonable plum seems so true to life thanks to eye & sun (eye that the sun made)

•

I say I see the Indonesian stool blaze yellow light

there is no purpose I can discern under the sun

they say that’s summer light, the last

•

delicious & apparent rays

so many days of fog then not can I even recall winter’s rains?

•

all the seasons in a life

3. Autumn September

is it so very long? summer lasts forever its end ends & where does summer move on to what white mysterious skies? touching the tabletop convinces

first moon of autumn, new year, see the people gather, they come from elsewhere to be together here to sing “this day the year is born, save us from ourselves” •

above the sea the best & brightest days come in autumn, the fog having other business here where we live in such mild weather can weather in a poem ever be merely itself? or does weather there always also go straight through to the heart? & is it only so there, in the poem? suppose the seasons’ sly rotation were also this swift arrow, speaking out into the light that is a sea, heart’s depths, unhuman world we feel as if it were all too real •

| 3_ 2007

October

NORMAN FISCHER | Seasons

words a stuttering each

thought or feeling

forced from the throat

but for themselves, words’

drawn forth pulled out

museic their

through world’s sad need

utter futile charm

each a pearl or pool

continuous

bright with cherished promise

human necessity skin &

as if to fly into the face

flesh air they breathe

of things that call for them

& castles they build

to complete the silence

in plain air

even little pieces

•

of words remnants not of

what do you or I or we make of it, anything

slant of autumn’s ancient light? I am weary of the harvest I desired all these ah-sofleshy apples that still not eaten rot & fade to earth – there’s something still on the edge of being’s candle a darkness cannot come to light but in my dream lights all the world makes of autumn’s ripeness a blaze of color, softness of form • how the trees as fuzz yellow or red

we do or are in this

| 3_ 2007

flit by auto’s window

who knows this or otherwise

the dead know nothing

with a feeling of the past, winter’s

knows autumn’s secret stirring

& in this provide the widest

coming? or the death I’ve been

deep among the fallen leaves

possible wisdom, the only

expecting so long covered now

•

truth in town,

in snow or crisp clear air? seasons make the man or wake him to the sorry state that is himself in passing yet each one’s glorious estate in temporary beauty exalts the possible demanding imperative that one’s life’s witnessed – can it be?

what’s that band of red slashed across brown hills? my foolish & endearing love of earth makes color cut the air • last of year’s flies buzz drunkenly in the mind going with purpose nowhere

still (they are so still) to ask of them help is in a way futile though no help otherwise would be as true •

until they fall on

in autumn pelicans in formation

plate, sill & counter

fly north over the blue

• | 3_ 2007

NORMAN FISCHER | Seasons

water their positions

it could rain sometime

relative to one another

getting ready to say something, to say this

ever shifting in subtle modulation

hidden in the words which

responding to wind or whim

hold so much feeling, so much that could be felt

or chance this happens

how high the moon etc. how long

in autumn also

life cruises on is it exactly

in other seasons but

forever? O holy & hardy night

now, here, within the poignant

I’m not saying any of this I’m so

early autumn morning

unsophisticated, I’m afraid, left here at the threshold

it is fall, fall of the pelican flight

on my own with no references

•

look! the path goes forth into the tall trees

dark sky – which is to say white sky, looks as if

under the white sky

today again sky’s white, fog pours over hilltop late fall & it’s still warm not a soft warmth a warmth with a barb in it, a cynical, menacing joke, weather’s crafty, planet’s dumb gestural flurry, to stir the heart & get its way – we’re her garment, her complaint, the simple flutter of her skirt as the sun in setting is her diadem, how now sing to earth or moon in twilight of the age when my eye can see beyond today to beginning & end & sky’s a delicate vulnerable air, not heaven’s vault in mind’s castle as it once was – well, in the house a pot & in the pot some stew we gather together to eat, to drink to say “you are the one we knew & know

• 34

| 3_ 2007

the people who heard our story”

darkness more poignant & the city lights

•

in the distance, beyond the emotional hills

4. Winter December

December I am free of all natural things I can die but I cannot sin

open civilization to the heart’s quiet tenderness, a meal & then sleep

shortest, darkest day of the year early chill, frost on grasses, then rain, rain, rain next day sun

• I have touched the untouchable felt the impossible

each one wounded wounds one & then another in a domino effect

and know what can’t even be imagined

tumbling as far as the stars – so

have weighed in the palm of my hand

saw the victorious prince, such lovely

life’s impossibility... I can die happy

pattern, with awe like small lights

•

in the immense dark or blood-red spots

more rain, rain comes & goes elsewhere becoming snow – on the horizon this dawn sun blazes up then’s shuttered in a shroud of black cloud – at night the candles of several holy days make the seasonal | 3_ 2007

on a vast white napkin • hope in knowing simply seeing or loving, hope for what is, not might be

•

glorifies the sky caresses hills above which a few diffuse suggestions of cloud with no bird in sight, empty so hypnotic as all that’s empty is – air’s crisp, cold which makes the visual world even brighter trees greener, sea more blue – here’s now a hummingbird dashing by, now’s gone, inside’s warm, outside braces, sight can go either place, a mirror doubles the distance eyes can reach there are no flowers in the sky but the eye sees them anyway

Asia, Asia, aphasia a virgin birth

flavor & mood on this first day

heart to live spirit to press on

is possible? life without intimate inter-

•

“nature know no sick, her scars

action? others are one’s self, this NORMAN FISCHER | Seasons

oozing, ever ongoing circumlocution, does each further move improve things? is it always by that much distance closer to true? or do I dance in circular fashion, stopping only at the limit of space, a wall or final page of a book, day of a life that’s not an ending

course after delicate course of the Bracebridge dinner, wassail follows in a flaming cup old joyful days here again briefly, in makebelieve, always makebelieve, squire & dame, parson & bishop & the lord of misrule, role made full, the fool, by Ansel Adams in his youth in this soaring valley whose fame swelled with his brilliant career

•

maker of perfect pictures – & the

perfectly snowing so that

plum pudding

thin branches brightly are outlined in white

•

& a general tangle of them wherever sight can reach is the world’s

all heal, of rock or water or land”

January only rain in Canada after snow home to sun & sliver of moon Venus bright below today flat white hazy light touches hills sloping shapes to the sea all beautiful things cannot be painted in word or line or color but are some way there in mind’s eye touching heart’s predetermined feeling, no one’s plan or object

reading of the man whose health’s a

ruin, body assailed from inside

all the world’s activity rolls on

till mood grows dim it’s hard to find

or in on me ah it’s of me

| 3_ 2007

or is me or does me in or on

& only mine, be

•

what would you be, mine, yours,

February actual things here on the screen lets look at them, content to see what & how, much rain over the palms

theirs, it’s time, time nor last not first mine in white yours in red

& sea, then sun-washed cloud by the sand-stirred waves that can be heard

•

crashing as if inside the skull & without let up

where down the halls of history soldiers march

so that they contain the silence finally, or it

a sour note’s struck & a beat just off the beat

them, how conflict contains all we need or ever

makes our song stutter, rattle, tongue-tied

ask for, all things clash

ah this personal life, buttery sunlight on cool

•

waters, season’s plight, to be turned round & round

cake or tart in shape

March

of heart white-bordered

so to become smooth in year’s fervent repetitions –

red, be my valentine, be mine

before the Fall planet’s even keel made for eternal

spring, at least at the center of things where we, privileged, gazed, but afterward, when we dared to be more than we are which was misery’s cause, axis shifts so we could know winter’s sorrows & the passion of beginning & ending perfection’s tortured close & heart’s heaviness March – in like a vulture with teeth – in the north surprising snow then bitter cold at night a nearly full moon in sky’s exact center • moods like spells a drunken stupor trance I’m in I do not feel this or that, that it’s all so, that heart’s tugs are facts but they are not – terrible that war’s

| 3_ 2007

understood to make political sense, that anyone think to kill & maim actual living persons brings NORMAN FISCHER | Seasons

anyone any speck of benefit hence I vow to do battle with war & its many

reserved – better end here unborn – why is life given to be thus

lurch through time, wonder where it or I go

wrested from us? Who if we knew what we received would

•

either not accept life offered or soon beg to lay it down glad to be so dismissed in peace?”

though officials pronounce this winter still, bright March sun says now it’s spring

benefactors! let there be falling

•

& weeds’ dense tangle, such deep green

now like snow or rain all-absorbing peace, that even to

“Someone else’s business is boldly attached to this and there’s no time

on hill chokes off delicate cultivated thyme we’d hoped

protect what you think you have or are

for a reckoning, the carpet never stretches quite far enough;

would grow also announce spring’s coming vengeance,

there’s always a footfall on the stairs”

life’s killing virus destructive soul so

•

unruly, so incompatible with my wish & value

you would not think to kill or cause others to kill from this moment of time till time’s all done

washing dishes I’m no longer there, am here in someone else’s

that it be so – toward that

thought, come back, yet where, whose is thought & why

may all my words be pledged

return if there were an elsewhere other?

•

thought reaches, mixes, time says put, so thought wrenches,

“O miserable man! to what fall degraded, what wretched state

• winter’s end’s not spring’s beginning nor is spring’s onset winter’s time dissolved when it’s spring there’s only spring in winter there’s nothing but winter

| 3_ 2007

time’s no cloud approaching from the east it’s here & earth spins as it will now’s winter’s spring, absent spring’s best winter, if there were here in California a mythology of seasons

which when tuned produces spring’s sweet trills

could I not then on personal authority hereby

or winter’s stern rebukes? must then it be

declare spring’s official advent? could I not then too

that time’s seasons (or season’s times) are all a fiction,

declare eternal peace & a borderless kingdom

figment of our calendars but no this could not be

of lovingkindness? Yes I can & hereby do,

for trees, skies, & hearts too bespeak the seasons

for this is what poems are made of,

well it must be in poetry that seasons form

not of words, as I had hoped, but of

their shapes – there or in the gaps

sincere beneficial pronouncements

between what’s sensed, felt, on the skin,

made in secret on islands of air & thought

& what one thinks of it, thinks to feel

•

• the season’s stalled & no one knows where it can be found, how evoke its poignant presence amid the passing galleons • where are seasons to be found, how undertake a search? if in things or air how can they be found there when things & air persist as they are (though a little changed) throughout the many seasons & if in me then where discover that piece

| 3_ 2007

•

we walk uphill & down

days nearly longer now, longer daylight at day’s

no people pass, no car

end this year because the government says so –

hills are quiet as we go

below dolphins swim in choppy waters, here’s a grave or two

NORMAN FISCHER | Seasons

of old dear friends, benefactors whose lives we carry on as other ones will take ours up the trail ahead • days almost equal to nights, days & nights the same “equinox” soon to come, equal night, equal day, light & dark alike & balanced • rain in the day, rain all night wakes us suddenly

in the evening

as bright sky

sky moon’s sliver silver

brightens & blush

below Venus, bright dot

of brilliant light

in pearlgray

softens hills’

blush & next

edges but one

morning

thin cloud-

day of spring’s

scrap re-

advent

mains in the

still, out-

north how

spread clouds

human this

over hills

world is,

rimmed below

its human

in pink then

feeling brings

become bright

peace to hu-

gold as day

man mind however

comes full then gone

twisted it does

| 3_ 2007

become with its

round & round

flies, seasons

willful wars

•

die & live

& narrow sharp hooks of killing selfadvantage seasons renew all despite what people do or fail to do earth spins anyway, any old way, it lives until it dies, time spins on point

| 3_ 2007

this that’s done’s done by one or another whether or no it’s said in silence, so’s done here’s an ear hears, eye spies all’s over even before begun so time

James Koller

from A River I Couldn't Find

Autun On the first Wednesday of May they gathered in the great meadow, Mt Beuvray, looking down at their new town. There are ruins, two walls of a temple, unknown religious ceremonies, just out from what is left of the Roman wall, near the river Arroux. It seems like a nice town, she said. There are many nice towns in France. 26 Sept 04

Traduction française : Odile Firmin & Mike Green

Le premier mercredi de Mai, Ils se sont rassemblés dans le grand pré, Mt Beuvray, ils regardaient leur nouvelle ville en bas. Il y a des ruines, deux murs d’un temple, des cérémonies religieuses inconnues, au pied de ce qui reste du mur romain, près de la rivière Arroux. Ça a l’air d’une ville sympa, dit-elle. Il y a beaucoup de villes sympas en France.

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Four Poems

I Hate November November has a crooked mouth Hairs grow out of November’s ears November is the ugliest month of the year It fears the eagle that constantly circles around it It fears itself because November is an eagle With broken legs and broken wings November the farmer’s wagon overturned on the road With its load sprinkled out at the crossroads

Pavel Řezníček

From: Hrozba výtahu (Prague: Petrov, 2001). English translation: James Naughton

Someone hammers at the door It is a broken cigarette With sprinkled-out tobacco I hate November I hate people Hairs grow out of people’s ears People are the ugliest in November People fear the eagle that constantly circles around them in November People have a crooked mouth most in November November is a chipped tin washing basin On its bottom the Japanese wage war with people It doesn’t matter who they are They are November people People made of dried leaves of sprinkled-out tobacco People with torn blouses And with eyes of dough Which will soon be made into strudel and táč For the Gods that are harnessed to a pushcart Loaded with arms and legs with teeth From all the Novembers with their crooked mouths

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All Saints

PAVEL REZNICEK | Poems

The dead will get no schnitzel The dead must keep mum The dead must sit up and beg Whenever I chuck them a lump of sugar Full of junk from an old closet The dead have to simper at a paper kite in the sky Even if it is bringing them nothing other than blood sweat and tears All of this struck me as I was walking along on All Souls’ Day to Olšany My best friend Štěpán Kolář is there And our family grave in the seventh cemetery tenth section grave number 249 My neighbour a few rows along but in the same section Is the writer Karel Pecka And the unusual Baron von Wurm Interesting that Štěpán Kolář has in the vicinity of his grave Baron Villani On All Souls’ Day it was cold I was keen to get home from Olšany For schnitzels were awaiting me It was Saturday and lunch was awaiting To which as formerly Štěpán Kolář will never come again And I am going to eat his schnitzels But the kite for me upon which is written: Tears sweat and blood Will now be flown from his grave for me by him Da kann man nichts machen Really there is nothing to be done The dead must keep mum And I am going to eat their schnitzels

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The Picture of My Enemy Decidedly he has no mask his only mark is a huge monocle blue as a plum caused by the fist of the ancient hunter Ötzi whom they found in a glacier on the border of Austria and Italy Maybe my enemy was Ötzi but he was born too soon by some five thousand years or so and so did not arrive in the right era to kill me or roll me in feathers and tar and set me alight I alleged to Franta Dryje in the pub Na Klikovce I had no enemies I lied (and now no longer know... consciously or unconsciously?) my enemies’ names are these... but let’s leave it be why make a fuss but no I have to say it (or should I just keep it to myself? and what would I gain by trumpeting the names of my enemies across the world?) but no I really will just keep it to myself the picture of my enemy like the Picture of Dorian Gray like the picture of Christ upon the Veil of Veronica like the picture of a statesman on fungal sporangium a sponge in the Bahamas somewhere someone again is mixing up puppet theatre with the slaughterhouse Caspar stained with the blood of under-aged spectators Grand Guignol across the mountainous horizon someone runs with a sack full of children’s heads and Kentucky Fried Chicken drumsticks my enemy is one metre eighty-two in height he is clean-shaven for whiskers is the privilege of laryngologists and the deaf-and-blind my enemy is a liar and a dirty thing his laundry is the laundry

| 3_ 2007

PAVEL REZNICEK | Poems

of cancer and its mate the squid and cancer fundamentally does not wash its feet and labia majora dirt splatters out of the squid as it does out of all those who lie about me alleging I love the hippopotamus made of flint and incense made out of sugars extracted from the wings of an Archaeopteryx it was I who shot the point of the rusty arrow into Ötzi’s right shoulder blade just like burning down an orphanage and in the end... why should I lie; my enemies are called: J.K, B.B. (but he’s now dead), J.E., J.J., J.B., P.H, R.N., J.O., and also cold feet... or Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite A piece of soap made of dried blood for my enemy, if you please!

Well English translation: Štěpán Kolář

No I will not work I don’t feel like work The red lanterns of railway stations Of your hares mannequins and chemists Some people woke up one morning and got it clear: I’m lime Or temperature measured on a moribund adder A racing sprinter Embroidering a fecalising laboratory with ornaments What are my hands doing What are my hands doing under me They are messing about in my typewriter like in a harness Of a decrepit horse They are fondling keyboards like the breasts of unforgettable Night Like the testicles of a cruiser Like the testicles of lanterns and the railway station Some people wake up in the morning and decide: I will be a successful pig “Change of meat always pleases the pig” Péret I will be canaille or lace on the chasuble | 3_ 2007

Or else rings under eyes Or an adder dragging everywhere with it A bag made of the skin of rings under man’s eyes He wakes up and says: I will be the skin of a theatre building Hunks of a theatre crammed together sleeping in a telephone box The lime of apothecaries The lime of furies The lime of applause I don’t feel like it Near the railway line A ball lightning met a dispatcher After they had shaken hands All that remained from the dispatcher was the skin of his tongue After all what can you do with a dispatcher? The lightning packed with singed meat with a stolen tongue in his cheeks With a Bethlehem in his lapel Is walking around gold fish After all what of him? I don’t feel like anything

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Miska Knapek

Photographs of Time. Lapses in Time

Opposite page: Eighty photos flying from Copenhagen to Helsinki , (horizontal version) digital photograph, courtesy of the artist.

How did you become interested in capturing time? The reasons are numerous, some more abstract, some more immediate. When I started university, I continued my interest in visual communication and went on to study graphic information design. That is, graphic design with a focus on information design. A major preoccupation of graphic information designers is creating representations of changes – of various kinds – over time. My introduction to interactive multimedia only strengthened these interests. With new media, the audience has the possibility to not only access time based material such as video and audio, but to also navigate their way through it in a path of their choosing. When encountering a video or audio file, the viewer typically knows little more about the clip than what it’s supposed to be about and its length. How, I wondered, could one represent – map – the material such that people could get an overview of the material, be more guided in their path through it, without having to go through it all. Essentially, I was interested in representing changes happening over time. Several experiments, producing various interfaces for audio and visual material, were made. Then life took a slightly different path and I ended up creating other kinds of representations, for a while. Yet later, my previous studies, involving experimental new media, finished. I moved back to the area where I had grown up, in eastern Denmark and southern Sweden. My father had put up my late childhood home for sale. The house and its surroundings had given me some of my happiest and most significant moments. I decided I wanted to “immortalize” the place somehow. The most characteristic aspect of the house, located in Denmark, is its view across Øresund, the water between Sweden and Denmark. This view became my focus. First I simply photographed the view for twenty-four hours, and put all the 240 small images onto a large print. Then, seeing the result, and thinking about it more, I came up with the idea of producing the twenty-four hour images I have since pursued. (Of course, I only knew that the house would be sold, not exactly when. So, given that I was to “guard” the house once a month, I kept bringing my photography gear, and photographed

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MISKA KNAPEK | Photographs of Time

the same motif, once a month until the house changed owners, about nine months later. ) To realize my twenty-four hour image concept, I needed to write my own software. It wasn’t until the software was finished that I first saw what my image-making concept really looked like. The first image knocked me off my feet. It was magic. Bitten by the desire to “produce magic”, I continued. As I did, I become increasingly aware and fascinated with all that the images express, the processes they reveal in nature as well as society.

Opposite page: Eighty photos flying from Copenhagen to Helsinki , (vertical version) digital photograph, courtesy of the artist. 50

What will you tell with your twenty-four hour pictures? The initial inspiration for making the twenty-four hour images was to immortalize a view from an emotionally significant location I was about to lose access to. But, as I’ve made more images and learned more about what this new way of seeing time and space can express, I’ve also come to appreciate it for other reasons dear to me. Since an early age, I’ve had a significant nature-interest. What I realized was that my time images make accessible, the way this “being” that nature is, changes through time. Humans’ capacity to remember events happening over longer stretches of time is limited. My images allow one to “see” movement – such as nature’s – over a longer period of time, to understand and appreciate it more. One sees clouds’ movements, how the wind has changed, how the sea’s flow has changed direction, how and when fog, rain sets in, and, not in the least for photographers, how the color of objects change with different cloudcovers. My decision to use the interval of twenty-four hours is a very conscious decision. It’s a fundamental cyclic unit of time for humankind. Making images spanning twenty-four hours allows the viewer to see a continuum of natural and human (more on that later), activity. As I mentioned above, I photographed the same view, roughly once a month for nine months. This allowed me to reach beyond the confines of the twenty-hour continuum, in terms of seeing nature’s movements. The results are quite interesting. My dream is to photograph a motif a year, to more totally depict the cyclical quality of nature. (Of course <grumble> with global warming, the weather keeps changing from year to year....so it’s difficult to capture something entirely repetitive). Having “discovered” what this way of representing motifs reveals of nature’s patterns, I realized it can do something similar for human activity. The twenty-four hour images show when people are active, when they wake, go to work, build, rest, come home, sleep, holiday, go out, and so on. The twenty-four hour images tell the story of human activity in a different way. They’re a new kind of narration. | 3_ 2007

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MISKA KNAPEK | Photographs of Time

Tell me briefly and easily your technique? How did you invent this technique? It’s funny, a year or two after having developed my technique I discovered other new media people and photographers doing similar things. The larger difference was that most others were using analogue techniques. The easiest way to explain my technique is to describe how it’s done using analogue technology. To make time images, let’s focus on the negative. It is principally the only aspect of a camera that differs between a still image camera and a ‘time camera’. Imagine that one has a negative that’s covered completely by a mask of some sort. This mask has a thin horizontal or vertical slice in it, and a mechanism to move this slice across the negative. This construction allows exposing different parts of the negative at different times. Imagine. At the beginning of the time interval one wants to capture, the slice is positioned at one end of the negative. The mechanism moves it such that the slice reaches—exactly—the other end of the negative, when the time-interval is over. Consequently, during the chosen time interval, all parts of the negative are exposed. This results is an image showing the motif over a span of time. In essence, all I do is what I described above, but digitally. I’ve written some software to do this. One of the most distinguishing differences between doing this using analogue and digital means, is the digital possibility to control the segment and movement of time across an image, as well as creating animations of all this changing. When I’ve made the software easy to use for anyone but a programmer, I look forward to releasing it, freely.

Opposite page: 25 May 2007, Helsinki from 14:00 -> 14:00, (vertical & horizontal versions) digital photograph, courtesy of the artist. 52

When you capture time with this system, do you really take photographs or video? It’s an interesting “digital vs. analogue philosophical” question. The short answer is that I capture still images—between fifteen and thirty seconds apart, over a longer period of time. Of course, video is nothing but still images captured and shown at 25 frames per second, so the difference is a relative one – I just take images a little less frequently than video. I use a still image camera because the camera equipment to produce high resolution images is far less expensive than video—not to mention portable. The important difference would be between analogue and digital media. Analogue media—such as photographic film—allow one to capture completely continuous moments, whereas digital media capture discrete moments in time. (interview questions by Johanna Korhonen)

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MISKA KNAPEK | Photographs of Time

above: 27 June 2007, 3000 images covering the 17-hour boat trip from Helsinki to Stockholm digital photograph, courtesy of the artist.

below: 25 May 2007, Helsinki from 14:00 -> 04:00, (horizontal & vertical versions) digital photograph, courtesy of the artist.

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Next page: 27 November 2006, University of Art & Design, Helsinki dusk, (horizontal version) digital photograph, courtesy of the artist.

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MISKA KNAPEK | Photographs of Time

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Tuula Närhinen

There are no photographs of the wind

TUULIPIIRTURIT:Väitetään, ettei tuulta voi valokuvata. Tuulen voi tuntea iholla ja havaita liikkeenä, mutta pysäytetyssä kuvassa se häviää näkyvistä. Tuulikokeissani pyrin rekisteröimään tuulen aikaansaaman liikkeen kuvaamalla pitkillä valotusajoilla kasveihin, puihin sekä meren aalloille asettuja pieniä keveitä lamppuja, jotka tuulessa heiluessaan piirtävät ohuen valojuovan filmille. Olen myös antanut eri puulajien sekä heinäkasvien itse toimia tuulipiirtureina kiinnittämällä niihin tussikynän ja tarjoamalla niille valkoista piirustuspaperia. Kiinnostukseni liikettä tallentaviin kuviin on saanut alkunsa ranskalaisen fysiologin Étienne-Jules Mareyn 1800-luvun lopulla suorittamista tieteellisistä kokeista, joissa hän käytti valokuvaa sekä erilaisia piirtureita apunaan analysoidessaan ihmisen havaintokyvyn ylittävien nopeiden liikkeiden vaiheita. WINDTRACERS: There are no photographs of the wind. Wind is perceived as movement or felt directly on the skin, but in a snapshot its effects disappear completely. In my series of experiments I try to record the motion of the wind with the help of a tiny light bulb attached to trees or plants. When photographed with long exposure times, the light bulb draws 58

a fine line on the surface of the film. I have also let the trees and plants themselves work as wind recorders by giving them a piece of white paper to draw on with a marker pen attached to their branches. A source of inspiration for my wind recordings have been the pictures of a French physiologist Étienne-Jules Marey, who in his scientific experiments

at the end of 19th century used photography and graphic recording devices for the analyze of human and animal locomotion | 3_ 2007

Picea abies

Betula sp.

Populus tremula

Pinus sylvestris

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TULLA NARHINEN | There are no photographs of the wind

SURF: Olen kameran avulla rekisteröinyt aaltojen liikkeitä heittämällä rantaveteen muovipullon, jonka sisään oli pujotettu pieni koeputkeen rakennettu taskulamppu. Pullo jäi keinumaan laineille veden varaan ja ajelehti vähitellen tuulen ja aaltojen painamana takaisin rantaan. Pitkillä valotusajoilla kuvattaessa lampun jättämä valojälki piirtyi teräväksi viivaksi usvana vellovaan aallokkoon tai hiljaa väreilevän järven pintaan. SURF: I tried to register water currents by throwing a bottle with a lamp inside to the water. Grasped by the wind and the waves the bottle started tossing up and down and little by little drifted to shore. Photographed with long exposure times, the small light bulb inside of a transparent soda bottle traces a fine line on the shiny surface of a calm sea or in the middle of the fog created by the waves lashing the rocky shore. The series of photographs is taken by the Baltic Sea on the Harakka Island near Helsinki.

Surf instrument

Sea instrument

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TULLA NARHINEN | There are no photographs of the wind

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Eric Suchère

...un autre mois... N° 99-108

Photographs by the author.

N° 99 (décembre 2005), Prolégomènes

English translation: Carrie Noland

Sur le noir l’inscrire générique, un déchaînement, une descente progressive après l’apparition rompue, un : se veut dramatique, par les, tous les clichés d’époque : les notes éparses, le discontinu expressif ponctuant, les dissonances éclairs, les décalages acides, les accords plaqués – on compte jusqu’à douze dans l’attente prévisible -, la reprise du tutti, suivi des mêmes – les douze – par les seules toniques en un rideau premier et en premier occulte. Une lampe, sa lumière, dit une situation est la nuit, compose moins qu’un décor, un début de contexte : des objets resserrés dans la vibration et mouvement rotatif du ventilateur perçu bien après coup, l’air mû d’artifice dans le contexte de rien qui ne bouge, n’avance, s’effondre et se résigne où elle, absorbée, expulse l’air reprend, dans le mouvement conjoint de l’air pulsé sur elle et de l’air qu’elle expulse où face au rideau, recompose un théâtre, d’un bruit pose un objet, se retourne vers le sol, à cet objet donné uniquement par le son, tient un cadre vide sur un cendrier plein, passe la main dans le cadre, prend le cendrier, le passe par, sort du cadre, déplace et compose en une nature morte, d’une main tient le cadre de dos et de la main pendante, caresse-effleure l’encolure d’un vase, regarde, sur le mur, un tableau, une topographie : la question essentielle des lieux, ses traversées. Sans un seul déplacement, uniquement par les sons, dans l’espace augmenté par la rythmique des pas, glisse au sol dans une vision 3D avec reflets projetés sur le sol réflecteur, entre les chaises et tables dans le sourd continu de ce ventilateur, entre les tables et chaises ou bien la nature morte par le canapé, à la fenêtre, jusqu’aux rideaux qu’entrouvre sur des arbres brouillés par son reflet à elle et elle disparaît en se laissant glisser, avance, repart, qu’elle se retourne soupire face au ventilateur, touche un objet quelconque, débarrasse une table, une nuque, une se retourne, où tous les objets placés dans la rythmique parfaite, décroît perspectiviste à l’autre angle où le ventilateur rotatif asynchrone, va vers une table, casse sciemment un objet en le faisant tomber, tout un mouvement à suivre pour voir dans la plongée : cendrier et cendres répandues sur le sol.

Depuis octobre 1997, un multiple est envoyé chaque mois, à un nombre fixe de correspondants, sous la forme d’une carte postale. Since October 1997, a multiple is sent each month, to a fixed number of correspondants, in the form of a post card. —E.S.

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No. 99 (December 2005), Prolegomena On black inscribe it generic, an unchaining, a progressive descent after broken apparition, one: striving for dramatic, by the, all clichĂŠs of the period: scattered notes, punctuating expressive discontinuities, lightning dissonance, acid gaps, sustained chords - one counts to twelve during a predictable pause -, reprise di tutti, followed by the same - count twelve - by the isolated keynotes coming first curtain and coming first obscured. A lamp, its light, says a situation is nighttime, composing less than a decor, just the hint of context: objects tightened in the vibration and rotating motion of the fan seen long after, the air rich with artifice in the context of nothing that moves, nor advances, collapses and resigns herself where she, absorbed, exhales air takes in, in the concerted

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movement of the pulsating air upon her and of the air that she exhales where facing curtain reconstitutes theatre, of a noise places an object, turns back toward the ground, to this object given only in sound, holds an empty frame on a full ashtray, passes hand in frame, takes the ashtray, passes it through, leaves the frame, moves and dissolves into a still life, of a hand holding the back of the frame and of the hand dangling, caress-strokes the neck of a vase, looks, on the wall, a painting, a topography: the essential question of places, their crossings. Without a single movement, only by sound, in the space enlarged by the rhythm of steps, slides to the ground in a 3D vision with reflections projected onto ground reflector, between chairs and tables in the continuous drone of this fan, between

tables and chairs or else the still life by the sofa, at the window, up to the curtain that opens onto trees blurred by her own reflection and she disappears allowing herself to slide, advance, take off again, that she turns back sighs face to fan, touches an object whatever, clears a table, a throat, one turns back where all the objects placed in perfect rhythm shrink perspectivally to the other corner where the rotating asynchronic fan, goes toward the table, breaks consciously an object by making it fall, all one movement to follow to see into the plunge: ashtray and ashes spread on the ground.

ERIC SUCHÈRE | ...un autre mois...

N° 100 (janvier 2006), Où elle Où elle : une descente d’escalier, du pas encore audible, passe : portail, grilles, disparaît. Elle : à la marche et la vue : château d’eau, lampadaires, espace en construction, talus, remblais, poussière, traverse — mini apocalypse. Où : balaye de son châle un objet invisible et demande dernière fois. Elle : tout au milieu la route, tout au milieu des pins avec la suite des gestes : s’arrêter, regarder les arbres, tendre la main ou tenir, s’éloigner, continuer, un dans le chemin, l’autre dans les herbes folles — mini chorégraphie. Incise qu’un enfant traverse une route, attire l’attention, passe devant, ralentit pour qu’il passe sa main dans les cheveux anodin au motif que ne souhaite que retenir, se retourne et propose. Où : le prend par le bras, ouvre un portail derrière pour quelques déplacements de la gauche vers la droite. Elle : contre un mur dit ne dira au revoir, renonce, dit qu’il téléphonera, renonce tend sa main au revoir, par le son de la grille, au bruit grinçant si net, que l’on ferme distincte, s’éloigne, disparaît — mini sortie théâtre. Où : vers sa porte d’entrée, se retourne vers, regarde vers un immobile qu’ils se fixent ou bien baissent les yeux, se retourne vers, passe : hall, baies vitrées, quelques marches. Elle : dans l’intérieur moderne, passe : balcon, fenêtre, fenêtre, s’arrête, regarde, le vent remue feuillages qu’elle regarde de la fenêtre : retour à un temps naturel, dans une pulsation naturelle, commence, est la fin d’une séquence, un début de mouvement, une reprise progressive.

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No. 100 (January 2006), Where She Where she: descending stairs, steps still audible, passing by: gate, fence, disappears. She: on foot full view: water tower, floor lamp, space in construction, bank, causeway, dust, crossing â&#x20AC;&#x201D; mini apocalpyse. Where: sweeps with her shawl an invisible object and asks last time. She: in the middle the road, in the middle the pines, trailing gestures: to stop, to look at trees, to reach out or hold, to retreat, to proceed, one in the road, the other in the mad grass â&#x20AC;&#x201D; mini choreography. Cut that a child crosses a road, attracts attention, passes in front, slows down to pass a hand through hair harmless, the theme: wanting to keep, turn back, and offer. Where: takes him by the arm, opens a gate behind to move from

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right to left. She: against a wall says will not say goodbye, gives up, says he will telephone, gives up extends his hand goodbye, to the sound of the fence, the grating sound so sharp, closing distinctly, moving away, out of sight â&#x20AC;&#x201D; mini exit performance. Where: toward the entrance, turns towards, looks towards one immobile that they stare at, or perhaps lower their eyes, turning towards, pass: hall, picture window, a few stairs. She: in the modern interior, passes: balcony window, window, stops, looks, the wind flutters the bushes that she sees from the window: return to a natural time, in a natural pulse, begins, is the end of a sequence, a beginning of movement, a gradual starting again.

ERIC SUCHÈRE | ...un autre mois...

N° 101 (février 2006), Qui se glisse Une rue qui s’anime. Un mouvement qui s’arrête. Les avertisseurs cessent : conséquence. Elle qui sort d’une voiture. Elle qui demande la patience. Elle qui pénètre monument, un hall qu’elle traverse, entre les piliers guette. Elle qui cherche reconnaît et entre là vraiment. Elle qui se faufile dans la confusion bruit, passe entre deux, place entre deux, vient, se faufile, d’un signe de la main, de chaque côté barrière, à elle devant l’homme au téléphone en main, se hisse, ausculte vers. Elle qui se glisse, semble un affolement diffus sans une cause perceptible. Le bruit ponctuant est un moteur est un arrêt théâtre où vit l’action dépense. Un homme qui se penche. Des hommes qui murmurent. Un qui se tient sur le seuil, le téléphone en main, demande de la patience dans le simulacre d’une conversation feinte. Un qui s’approche pour écouter murmures chuchotements. Un qui s’éclipse suivi de près par un. Un qui se faufile, agit dans la cohue. Un qui se demande ce qu’il fait, s’agite, accélère le désordre. Un homme indice qui note appliqué les valeurs mobiles : accélère temporel. Un qui explicite l’ensemble des mécanismes. Un qui va se ravise. Un qui passe entre deux, s’arrête, annonce, repart tandis qu’à son sourire les regarde passer, les suit calme des yeux, ralentit perceptible. Une seule sonnerie arrête, s’exécutent à un léger soupir, annonce autour de l’axe colonne, le concert arythmique, arrête double du battement régulier, du temps isochrone cœur. Rien ne bouge, précipite, donne le signal, la chute. Lui qui esquisse un mouvement de chaque côté, colonne, l’interpelle d’un bruit court, elle, en arrière pour voir qui où lui : « une minute de silence ici coûte des milliards ». Une minute est un temps réel.

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No. 101 (February 2006), Who slips in A street that awakens. A movement that stops. The warnings cease: consequence. She who gets out of a car. She who requires patience. She who approaches, monument, a hall that she crosses, waiting between pillars. She who searches recognizes and enters there for real. She who sneaks into the noise confusion, passes between, stands between, comes, sneaks in, with a sign of her hand, from each side of barrier, to her before the man telephone in hand, pulls herself up, looks towards up and down. She who slips in, seems a diffuse perturbation without perceptible cause. The percussive noise is a motor is a stop theatre where lives the action spent. A man who leans over. Men who murmur. One who remains on the threshold, telephone in hand, asking for

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patience in the simulacrum of a conversation feigned. One who approaches to hear whispers murmurs. One who is eclipsed followed soon after by another. One who sneaks in, stirs the crowd. One who wonders what he’s doing, struggles, accelerates the disorder. A man sign who notices carefully the moving values: accelerate temporal. One who reveals the entire mechanism. One who goes changes his mind. One who passes between, stops, points out, takes off again while to his smiling watches them pass, follows with calm eyes, he who slows perceptibly down. A sole bell stops ringing, both letting out a small sigh, loud speaker from the middle column, the a-rhythmic concert, stop double of regular beating, of time beating isochrone heart.

Nothing moves, rushes, gives the signal, the fall. He who sketches a movement on each side, column, addresses her abruptly, she, behind to see who where him: “here one minute of silence costs millions.” One minute is a real time.

ERIC SUCHÈRE | ...un autre mois...

N° 102 (mars 2006), Dans le décor Dans la nuit, le hall éclairé d’un immeuble, d’une fenêtre qui s’allume, d’une fenêtre sur pièce sombre, d’une lumière qu’on allume, de ce cadre fenêtre, est de dos, de dos à la fenêtre, par un geste de la main vers quelque chose dehors. Une sonnerie, des bruits de pas ou un mouvement léger qui ouvre une porte, qui rentre, d’un passage sur un mur et d’une pièce à l’autre jusqu’à chambre, arrive dans la pièce, dépose un objet, morceau de pierre, fleur fossile que pose entre les livres, revient, effleure ou touche toutes les lignes de fleur. Hors de la chambre allume, du tiroir, clous et marteau, retourne dans, accroche la fleur, elle, juste à côté l’affiche. Désigne une photographie autre, détaille une peau tandis que revient aux livres, effleure, caresse un pied de table basse, avance sur une photographie de la main qui feuillette, des images passées sur le livre feuilleté, regarde toutes accrochées sur le mur, se retourne, arrête devant, dit dans un mouvement, passe à son image, relie aux photographies montrant, sur lesquelles un regard passe, s’arrête, va et se retourne sur l’alignement de photographies, pendant que l’autre vite rallume la lampe dans un bruit métallique. Dans le bruit très distinct de tiges métalliques ballottées par le vent est un cliquetis : debout inquiète ou comme tout à son regard fixe comme le bruit s’amplifie au mouvement balançant, face reculons sans un seul mouvement aux poteaux métalliques toujours dans le mouvement avec toujours le bruit à reculons encore, considère, représente une femme comme Diane chasseresse à la facture classique, approche, disparaît, apparaît immobile à l’air vague ou perdue, lève un instant la tête au bruit double à triple de porte vitrée, ventilateur et tiges donne ville ou objets en seuls personnages.

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No. 102 (March 2006), In the Decor Nighttime, the lit hall of a building, from a window that lights up, from a window on dark room, from a light that turns on, from this window frame, is of her back, of her back to the window, with a gesture of the hand toward something outside. An alarm, the noise of steps or a slight movement who opens a door, who enters, from a passage on a wall and from one room to the next until the bedroom, arrives in the room, deposits an object, piece of stone, flower fossil that places among books, returns, grazes lightly or touches all the lines of the flower. Beyond the bedroom turns on, from the drawer, nail and hammer, returning hooks the flower, she, just beside the poster. Chooses a photo another, points out skin while coming back to books,

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grazes, caresses a coffee table leg, advances from a photograph to the hand that flips through pages, from the images glimpsed on the flipped-through book, looks at all of them attached to the wall, turns around, stops in front, says in a movement, proceeds to her image, focuses on photos showing, over which the eyes wander, stops, goes and comes back along the row of photos, while the other quickly relights the lamp with a metallic click. In the very distinct click of the metal rod buffeted by the wind is a rattling: standing restless or as if everything froze with his glance as the noise grows stronger with the swinging movement, face retreating without a single movement to the metal poles always in the movement with always the noise retreating

more, considers, represents a woman like Diana the Hunter in classic pose, approaches, disappears, appears immobile like someone lost in thought or lost, lifts for a moment the head as the noise from the glass door doubles triples, fan and rod giving city or objects as lone beings.â&#x20AC;Ż

ERIC SUCHÈRE | ...un autre mois...

N° 103 (avril 2006), Arrêts à faible intensité Juste un objet à la faible lumière et une voix qui appelle elle, de chez elle, elle, à sa fenêtre pour voir de sa fenêtre, l’appelle, se déplace, encadre apeurée à l’idée des bruits en bas, cherche ou regarde ou appelle, elle, debout sur le côté pour voir sans être vue, à l’appel, elle, un peu plus un peu s’enfonce, s’appuie contre le mur de derrière le rideau qu’elle écarte de la main, de la fenêtre vers, jette un gravier, cliquetis encore à l’écho des poteaux balancés, s’avance vers, jette au sol les graviers, secoue la porte vitrée encore à l’écho de la porte fermée tandis qu’elle, à sa fenêtre, passe devant très rapide, s’arrête et repart en arrière au moindre bruit grincement, demande, s’arrête en suspension – chaque élément dit une prémonition formelle ou thématique à l’annonce de la guerre, du probable de la guerre. Que regarde figée un qui atterrit remonte, d’elle se retourne, s’arrête, va quand, dans l’herbe, roule, décolle, se tient, se fige à, regarde, observe, un, au bruit de fond audible, bribes de conversations, murmure ou bien regarde en l’air au bruit passage de quatre, suit le mouvement des yeux, baisse les yeux, repart vers, est une ambiance plutôt, vers la musique va, pour rentrer ou, s’arrête sur le seuil, de deux, un d’un regard dessous, détourne, regarde, s’arrête à elle qui, sur le seuil, fait mine d’avancer à, des mimiques à musique, du bonjour courtois à son bonjour à elle sur le seuil toujours, se retourne et repart, aux deux, murmure à peine audible, distingue à peine saisit, à elle assise enfin est une pause s’arrête – il est question de topographie par indices, de représentations multiples de la ville, de sa transformation, de son état latent.

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No. 103 (April 2006), Weak Halts Just an object in wan light and a voice that calls her, from her place, she, at her window to see from her window, calls him, moves to the side, framed fearful at the thought of noises below, searches or looks or calls, she, standing on the side to see without being seen, at the call, she, a little more retreats more into a corner, leans against the wall behind the curtain that she pulls with her hand, from the window toward, throws a pebble, clinking again echoing the swinging poles, advances toward, tosses the pebbles to the ground, shakes the glass door again echoing the shut door while she, at her window, passes rapidly in front stops and takes off again in reverse at the least noise creaking, asks, stops suspended - each element

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speaks a premonition formal or thematic at the announcement of war, or likely war. What she looks at fixated one who arrives ascends, from her turns away, stops, goes when, in the grass, rolls, detaches, holds, fixates on, looks, observes, one, at the audible background noise, bits of conversation, murmurs or looks up in the air at the sound of four, follows the movement of the eyes, looks down, takes off again towards, is an ambiance rather, toward the music goes, to go in where, stops on the threshold, of two, one looking up from under, turns away, looks, stops at her who, on the threshold, seems about to advance toward, mimicries of music, from a courteous hello to her hello to her on the threshold still, turns back

and leaves, to both of them, murmuring barely audible, distinguishing barely seized, to her sitting finally is a pause stops - itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s about topography by clues, about multiple views of the city, of its transformation, of its latent state.

ERIC SUCHÈRE | ...un autre mois...

N° 104 (mai 2006), Dérivations L’extérieur, la grille, les colonnes, entre les deux colonnes passent comme l’un dit qu’il fait chaud, sort de sa poche un objet miniature, ventilateur réduit qui est comme rasoir, refuse se voir offrir, propose d’offrir à l’autre, ventilateur en main tout au début l’action à la sonnerie commence. Un ventilateur fait écho, par la vibration, au rasoir électrique : est une question motrice. L’intérieur, cabines téléphoniques, des bancs, une balustrade, comme l’une dit, nécessite un peu d’air frais tout en mimant la brise, le brassage par la main de l’air frais qui lui manque, le palpe quant à lui s’évente tout en téléphonant. Avec lui l’activation est non mécanique, manuelle : refus du ventilateur de poche et utilisation optimale de son carnet, c’est ce qui le distingue de l’autre. Au mouvement vrai rapide de tous les ordres notés calme par un homme impassible, lent, penché à son cahier à tout autour les ordres, aux bras qui s’agitent, à l’état surexcité, aux mouvements plus rapides, aux échanges hurlements, aux murmures à l’un, aux mouvements bousculades. La question est du mouvement ou de l’arrêt du temps, d’un temps qui s’accélère, s’emballe, se précipite, du trop tôt ou trop tard comme la chute multiplie, ne se rattrape plus. Une pendule date et heure, une sonnerie retentit, une annonce la cohue, des hommes s’épongent le front, des hommes en viennent aux mains à l’un qui semble blessé, les autres fixent le tableau. Le tableau des valeurs mobiles figé aux hommes qui s’agitent sous, se passionnent, est une figure divine, une stase par le temps sur, est une figure du temps, un décompte mécanique qu’on ne peut éluder. L’extérieur, une table, à elle qui derrière lui, se tient, se hausse pour, observe ce qu’il écrit ou en fait qu’il dessine, que le serveur occulte, qu’il arrache du carnet pour laisser sur la table dont elle s’empare alors, regarde dans tous les sens, qu’elle s’étonne de ce geste. Aux fleurs dessinées répondent les fleurs fossiles achetées la veille sur le même lieu du drame dit que tout décompose, par la proximité, en une vanité.

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No. 104 (May 2006), Derivations The exterior, the gate, the columns, between two columns pass as one says it’s hot, takes out of his pocket a miniature object, small fan like a razor, refuses to see himself offering, proposes to offer to the other, fan in hand all at the start the action with the ringing begins. A fan echoes, with its vibration, the electric razor: it is a motor question. The interior, telephone cabins, benches, a balustrade, as one of them says, needs a bit of fresh air while miming the breeze, stirring with the hand the fresh air that eludes him, palpates him while the other fans, telephoning. With him the activation is not mechanical, manual: reject the pocket fan for optimal use of his notebook, that’s what distinguishes him from the other. At the true rapid movement of all the orders noted calmly by an

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imperturbable man, slow, leaning over his notebook all around orders, to his arms waving, to an overexcited state, to more rapid movements, to exchanges shouts, to murmurs to one, to movement shoves. The question is of movement and of stopping time, of a time that accelerates, takes off, rushes, from the too soon or the too late as the fall multiplies, doesn’t catch up. A clock date and hour, a bell rings, a signal crowd, the men wipe their foreheads, the men come to blows to one who seems wounded, the others stare at the board. The board of moving values to the men who bustle beneath, become passionate, is a divine figure, a stasis by time on, is a figure of time, a mechanical countdown impossible to ignore. The exterior, a table, to her who behind him, holds still,

rises up for, observes what he is writing or actually is drawing, that the waiter blocks, that he rips from the notebook to leave on the table that she then takes away with her, looks in all directions, amazed by this gesture. To the flowers drawn reply the fossil flowers bought the night before in the same place as the drama say that everything decomposes, through proximity, in a Vanity.

ERIC SUCHÈRE | ...un autre mois...

N° 105 (juin 2006), Et petits bruits obstinés Comme elle va à la fenêtre, revient, prend le cadre, l’image, qu’il regarde derrière elle ou la regarde elle qui, de sa main, repose une autre photo prise, compose par des cadres, passe tactile, refait deux fois au moins, d’un objet qu’elle soulève, ou d’une main qu’elle effleure, ferme un livre, d’un doigt sur la poussière, la couverture reliée, désigne un lit, s’approche et s’allonge, lui s’approche et s’assied, sur le bord la regarde, un baiser qu’elle évite, se redresse, se retourne vers, ne regarde, se retourne pour un bruit d’une porte qu’on ouvre ou d’une porte que l’on ferme ou des bruits de pas est une ombre, une nature morte de fleurs sur le mur, un rideau que le vent soulève, se rabat comme elle entre et éteint la radio comme lui, dans un fauteuil, ferme les yeux, s’endort, qu’elle prend ses affaires et s’en va tout doucement. C’est un mouvement encore naturel, encore le vent provoque, s’oppose au mécanique et les fleurs, troisième fois, sont un motif secret. Comme une femme, dans la rue, monte sur le trottoir, il attrape le bras d’une autre femme qui passait à côté sans l’avoir remarquée, l’arrête, la scrute, remarque qu’elle s’est fait teindre, est passée blonde à brune, alors il l’expédie congédie, la regarde partir avec un grand sourire. C’est une série de substitutions, un passage permanent du noir au blanc, une suite de pertes, de temps perdu, dépensé, un temps dans le même, l’identique, le semblable dans des changements sans buts d’une brune à une blonde ou d’un brun à un autre. Comme il monte dans sa voiture, démarre, il y a la nuit noire, les halos réverbères, avant qu’il ne s’arrête, s’avance vers la grille, s’y appuie, cliquetis, repart vers autre grille, jette un gravier, cliquetis, qu’une femme blonde sort, avance, ouvre la grille, se retourne pour voir, n’est pas elle. C’est une reprise permanente avec des variations, des gestes identiques à interpréter différemment en fonction du contexte, des échos permanents, boucles de petits bruits qui reviennent obstinés : porte, poteaux, graviers ou machine à écrire.

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No. 105 (June 2006), And insistent little sounds As she goes to the window, comes back, takes the frame, the image, that he looks at behind her or looks at her who, with her hand, sets down another photo taken, composes by frames, tactile pass, does it again two times at least, of an object that she picks up, or of a hand she grazes, closes a book, of one finger in the dust, the cover bound, indicates a bed, approaches and lies down, he approaches and sits, on the edge looks at her, a kiss she avoids, gets up again, turns again toward, doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t look, turns at the sound of a door being opened or a door being shut or footsteps is a shadow, a still life of flowers on the wall, a curtain that the wind ruffles, folding back as she enters and turns off the radio as he, in an armchair, shuts his eyes, falls asleep, that she takes her things and leaves quietly. It is still

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a natural movement, the wind still provokes it, is opposed to the mechanism and the flowers, third time, are a hidden motif. As a woman, in the street, steps onto the sidewalk, he grabs the arm of another woman who was passing on the side without noticing her, stops her, examines her, notices that she has dyed her hair, has changed from blond to brunette, so then he sends her away, dismisses her, watches her leave with a big grin. It is a series of substitutions, a permanent passing from black to white, a suite of losses, of lost time, spent, time in the same, the identical, the similar through changes without end of a brunette to a blond or a dark man to another. As he gets into his car, starts the motor, the night is dark, the halos street lamps, he stops, advances toward the gate, leans on it, click,

takes off for another gate, throws gravel, click, that a blond woman gets out, advances, opens the gate, turns back to see, isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t her. Is a permanent reprise with variations, identical gestures to interpret differently, according to context, permanent echoes, loops of little sounds that come back insistently: door, poles, gravel or typewriter.

ERIC SUCHÈRE | ...un autre mois...

N° 106 (juillet 2006), Dans un temps pas encore Une berge, une grue, des hommes tirent sur des cordes, soulèvent une voiture qui se trouve dans un lac, qu’un plongeur, qui émerge lentement, fait signe de remonter la voiture blanche au pare-brise défoncé et une main qui pend de la fenêtre, est un mort, est une eau morte, est un temps mort, dans le silence, dans un arrêt du temps, dans la fin des mouvements naturels, annonce le temps pulsé ou bien artificiel, un temps amorphe lent contre ce qui s’accélère. Elle, seule, au milieu de l’avenue, des immeubles modernes, sous les grands réverbères, sous le soleil en blanc vers l’homme qui se dirige vers elle, qu’elle repousse d’une main pour aller voir l’épave, se retourne vers lui, qu’il s’avance vers elle, qu’ils marchent vers la berge, s’arrêtent pour regarder la voiture que l’on hisse, l’eau qui s’écoule lentement, d’un ruissellement filet est une reprise du temps, clepsydre accidentelle. Un jet d’eau, elle sourit, se retourne, joue avec une branche et, lui, regarde son décolleté, qu’elle avance vers lui, repart, qu’il la suit jusqu’à côté du jet, qu’elle tend la main vers, dévie le jet pour s’asperger un peu, en saisir la fraîcheur, qu’il se met de côté pour l’asperger un peu, qu’elle court pour s’échapper, n’est un ruissellement mais vitalité pulsée, signal d’un temps perdu rendu possible par une force mécanique, un pulsé rotatif contre un temps écoulé. Elle jette un objet dans une barrique pleine d’eau, une feuille de papier, un bout de bois qui flotte sur le liquide stagnant qu’elle fait tourner un peu, de sa main, qu’elle retire peu après, se recule, s’adosse, tandis qu’il lui parle, est une stase, est ici un arrêt, un temps contenu par, une clepsydre future, un temps en pas encore.

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No. 106 (July 2006), In a time not yet A barge, a crane, men pulling on cords, retrieve a car found in a lake, that a diver, who emerges slowly, signals to begin lifting the white car with smashedin window shield and a hand dangling from the window, is a dead man, is still water, is dead time, in the silence, in arrested time, in the end of natural moments, announces the time parsed or rather artificial, an amorphous slow time against that which speeds up. She, alone, in the middle of the lane, modern buildings, under huge streetlights, in white under sun toward the man who moves toward her, whom she repulses with her hand to see the wreck, turns back toward him, that he moves toward her, that they walk toward the barge, stop to look at the car being

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lifted, the water that runs slowly, of a thin stream is a reprise of time, a fortuitous clepsydra. A fountain, she smiles, turns back, plays with a branch and, he, looks at her dĂŠcolletĂŠ, that she moves toward him, takes off again, that he follows her up to the spray, that she extends her hand toward, deviates the spray to sprinkle her body, to capture the chill, that he moves out of the way to sprinkle his body, that she runs to escape, is not a stream but pulsing vitality, signal of lost time made possible by a mechanical force, a rotating pulse against passing time. She throws an object into a barrel full of water, a piece of paper, a bit of wood, that floats on the stagnant surface that she stirs a bit with her hand, that she pulls away soon after, retreats,

leaning, while he speaks to her, is a stasis, is here a stop, a time contained by, a clepsydra for later, a time in not yet.

N° 107 (août 2006), Semble inadaptée

ERIC SUCHÈRE | ...un autre mois...

Un bruit d’ascenseur et une porte qui s’ouvre et les deux qui sortent sur le palier et lui ferme la porte, ouvre sa porte, ferme sa porte, qu’elle se retourne, se dirige vers, regarde à une fenêtre, qu’il la regarde elle dans le fond de la pièce, va vers elle, ouvre une porte qu’elle franchit, la suit elle dans la pièce, éclaire un tableau qu’elle regarde et la regarde elle qui entre dans une pièce, lui qui entre et la suit, qu’elle se dirige vers lui, regarde la fenêtre, se dirige vers, se penche pour regarder, qu’il se dirige vers elle qui regarde et se trouve derrière elle quand elle se retourne, qu’elle le trouve tout près d’elle, l’esquive, se faufile entre lui et une table, qu’elle revient vers lui, face à lui, lui sourit, tend le bras, ouvre une fenêtre qu’elle place entre eux deux, s’embrassent de chaque côté, lèvres contre la vitre, se recule, le regarde, s’embrassent encore une fois, qu’il referme la vitre, se précipite vers elle, la prend vite dans ses bras, la tient, l’embrasse avec passion, qu’elle se dégage soudain, qu’elle traverse une pièce, entre dans une chambre sombre dans laquelle elle s’enferme, qu’elle entend un bruit, se retourne apeurée, qu’elle va vers la fenêtre, regarde longuement la rue, qu’il demande s’il peut entrer, qu’elle refuse qu’il pénètre, qu’il passe par une autre porte, entre, se dirige vers elle, la surprend elle qui se retourne et rit, qu’il la prend dans ses bras et tente de l’embrasser, qu’elle se débat encore, esquive par le côté, qu’il s’approche, l’attire, l’embrasse au creux du cou, se dirigent vers le lit sur lequel ils s’écroulent, approche la main d’un sein qu’il n’ose pas caresser, qu’elle se redresse, se relève, se recoiffe, arrange ses vêtements, qu’elle remet son collier, qu’il arrange ses vêtements, qu’elle avance dans le couloir, s’arrête et se retourne, qu’il l’attire vers lui, le serre entre ses bras, le serre encore plus fort, se serrent puis se séparent, qu’elle va vers la porte d’entrée, qu’il ouvre la porte, l’entrebâille, regarde dans l’embrasure, qu’elle se tient sur le seuil, se retourne et s’en va, descend les escaliers et qu’il reste à l’entrée tandis qu’elle descend lente les marches, s’arrête un instant, dirige son regard vers les étages au-dessus, regarde dans le vide, va vers la porte d’entrée qui est entrebâillée, en franchit le seuil, tourne, se précipite, semble inadaptée, se heurte à un passant, n’arrive à avancer, se met sur le côté, face à une grille qu’elle agrippe, se retourne, regarde vers le ciel, avance de quelques pas, regarde des arbres à travers la grille, baisse les yeux, se retourne et s’éloigne.

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No. 107 (August 2006), Seems awkward The sound of an elevator and a door that opens and the two exit onto the landing and he closes his door, opens his door, closes his door, that she turns around, goes toward him, looks out a window, that he looks at her she at the other end of the room, goes toward her, opens a door that she crosses, follows her in the room, turns a light on above a painting that she looks at and looks at her she who enters a room, he who enters and follows her, that she moves toward him, looks at the window, moves toward, leans over to see, that he advances toward her who looks and finds himself behind her when she turns around, that she finds him near her, the evasion, slips in between him and a table, that she comes back toward him, faces him, smiles at him, extends her arm, opens a window that

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she places between them both, kiss on either side, lips against the pane, moves back, looks at him, kisses once more, that he shuts the pane again, hurries toward her, takes her quickly in his arms, holds her, kisses her passionately, that she disengages suddenly, that she crosses a hall, enters into a darkened bedroom in which she shuts herself, that she hears a sound, turns around, frightened, that she moves toward the window, looks for a long time at the street, that he demands if he can come in, that she refuses to let him, that he passes through another door, enters, moves toward her, surprises her who turns back and laughs, that he takes her in his arms and tries to kiss her, that she still fights him off, evasion sideways, that he approaches, pulls her toward him, kisses her at the nape of the neck, moves

toward the bed upon which they collapse, extends his hand toward a breast he doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t dare touch, that she sits up, stands up, redoes her hair, straightens her clothes, that she puts back on her necklace, that he straightens his clothes, that she proceeds down the hallway, stops and turns back, that he pulls her toward him, holds her tightly in his arms, holds her yet more tightly, holding then separating, that she goes toward the entrance, that he opens the door, opens it a crack, looks through the door jam, that she remains on the threshold, turns back and leaves, descends the staircase and that he remains in the entryway while she descends slow the stairs, stops an instant, turns her gaze toward the floors above, looks into the emptiness, goes toward the entrance which is half-open, crosses the threshold, turns, hurries, seems awkward, bumps into a passerby, canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t advance, steps aside, facing a gate she grips, turns back, looks toward the sky, advances a few steps, looks at the trees through the gate, lowers her gaze, turns back and moves away.

ERIC SUCHÈRE | ...un autre mois...

N° 108 (septembre 2006), Annonce la fin À un jet d’eau et son bruit, à un château d’eau, à l’immeuble en construction, à l’assemblage de briques, à la barrière du chantier, à la barrique d’où l’eau s’écoule par le côté, aux tapis, pailles tressées comme bâches de protection, aux barres qui en sortent, au vent qui agite cette surface, aux arbres agités par le vent, à la géométrie tubulaire d’échafaudages, aux lignes tracées contre le ciel, à l’ombre des arbres sur le bitume, à la lumière sur le bitume, aux ombres sur une palissade, à une cabane, à une autre, aux bandes blanches passage piéton qui mène à l’immeuble en construction, à la barrière du chantier, à la barrique d’où l’eau s’écoule par le côté, aux arbres, au vent remue feuillage, à l’écorce striée, à l’avenue déserte, aux réverbères, aux bandes blanches passage piéton qui mène à l’immeuble en construction, aux arbres aux bords, aux bandes blanches passage piéton qui mène à l’immeuble en construction, à la barrique d’où l’eau s’écoule par le côté, au bout de bois qui flotte et une feuille de papier, à l’eau qui s’écoule sur la terre, au ruisseau qui se forme, au bruit de l’eau qui s’écoule, aux arbres, aux grands réverbères, aux gouttes en suspension, au jet d’eau rotatif, à l’eau qui s’écoule, aux gouttes d’eau sur les feuilles et branches d’un arbuste, à un poteau, à un arbre, à la silhouette anguleuse d’un immeuble moderne, à la découpe des balcons sur le ciel, à une suite de décrochements, de lignes crénelées, à une rue bordée d’arbres, à l’immeuble en construction, à la barrique d’où l’eau s’écoule, à l’eau qui s’écoule sur la terre, sur le sol, sur les bandes blanches passage piéton, sur le sol, à l’immeuble en construction, à la barrique d’où l’eau s’écoule, à l’eau qui s’écoule sur la terre, dans les failles du bitume, aux réverbères, à une grue, au ciel, au soleil qui se couche derrière de gros nuages, à un réverbère éteint sur le ciel noir qui s’allume, à une rue, à l’immeuble en construction, aux réverbères allumés, à l’avenue déserte, à l’immeuble en construction dans l’obscurité, à une lumière qui éclaire la barrique, aux réverbères allumés, au halo mimétique d’un soleil, annonce la fin, une révélation, surimpose : fin, noir, arrêt.

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No. 108 (September 2006), Announcing the end To a fountain and its sound, to a water tower, to the building in construction, to the assemblage of bricks, to the barrier of the work site, to the barrel from which water escapes out the side, to the rugs, braided straw as protecting tarpaulin, to the bars that stick out, to the wind that ruffles this surface, to the trees swaying in the wind, to the tubular geometry of scaffolding, to the lines traced against the sky, to the shadow of trees on cement, to the light on cement, to the shadows of a palisade, to a cabana, to another, to the white bands pedestrians only leading to the building in construction, to the barrier of the work site, to the barrel from which water escapes out the side, to the trees, to the wind stirring leaves, to the striated bark, to the deserted avenue, to the streetlights, to the white bands

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pedestrians only leading to the building in construction, to the trees on the border, to the white bands pedestrians only leading to the building in construction, to the barrel from which water escapes out the side, to the scraps of wood that float and a piece of paper, to the water that flows onto the ground, to the rivulet that forms, to the sound of water running, to the trees, to the huge streetlights, to the droplets suspended, to the rotating foundation, to the water that runs, to the droplets of water on the leaves and branches of a bush, to a pole, to a tree, to the angular silhouette of a modern building, to the cut-out of balconies against the sky, to a series of projections, of crenellated lines, to a street bordered with trees, to a building in construction, to the barrel from which water escapes, to the water that flows onto the

earth, onto the ground, on the white bands pedestrians only, onto the ground, to the building in construction, to the barrel from which water escapes, to the water flowing onto the earth, into the cracks in the cement, to the streetlights, to a crane, to the sky, to the sun that sets behind large clouds, to a streetlight extinguished against the black sky that lights up, to a street, to a building in construction, to lit streetlights, to the deserted avenue, to the building in construction in the obscurity, to a light that shines on the barrel, to lit streetlights, to the mimetic halo of a sun, announcing the end, a revelation, superimpose: end, black, stop.

Gilles Plazy

rimbaud en silence

glotte contractée ou plénitude dans la vibration du chant page tournée, porte claquée mais ouverte sur une vie d’énigme quel terrible mutisme ! mais surtout pas maudit, rimbaud qui n’avait pas de goût pour le drame et nul souci d’autres lauriers que ceux du baliseur de territoires qu’il fut (mais brièvement) trahi par le genou, lui le marcheur la jambe elle aussi coupée après extinction de la parole la souffrance n’était pas garante de sa parole, punition non plus car parler en vérité n’implique pas la douleur et, si le verbe de jésus impliquait le sacrifice la poésie n’est pas marquée, d’origine par une faute à rédimer, non plus que faute elle-même en sa passion de liberté un signe, sans doute, fut sur lui à la naissance, qui le fit porteur de la plus vive parole qui fût (un don lourd à porter, certes, car tenir en sa bouche une parole si vive c’est feu dans la langue, feu dans l’esprit œillères qui tombent, halte criée aux certitudes, question qui lacère l’habitude horizon qui se déploie…)

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rimbaud in silence

clenched throat or fulfillment in the vibrations of the song turned page, slammed door but open on a life of enigmas what a terrible muteness!

(English translation: Dorli & Jake Lamar)

but not damned at all, rimbaud who didn’t have a taste for melodrama and didn’t care for laurels except for those won by surveying territories which he did (if only briefly) the walker, betrayed by the knee the leg cut off after his words were extinguished to suffer was not a guarantee for the words, nor a punishment, because to speak truly doesn’t involve pain and, if the word of jesus involved sacrifice poetry isn’t, originally, marked by a fault to be redeemed nor by a fault in its own passion for liberty a mark was no doubt on him when he was born, which made him the bearer of the sharpest words (a heavy gift, surely, because to hold such sharp words in one’s mouth is fire on the tongue, fire in the spirit shedding blinders, shouting halt to certainties, questions lacerating conventions opening horizons …)

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GILLES PLAZY | rimbaud en silence

il se dit lui-même, presque enfant encore et, pour banville, invoquant le printemps quelques mois avant la commune de paris touché par le doigt de la muse (ce qui était encore parler en potache) mais déjà il ouvrait les yeux et la bouche dans la volonté d’une poésie objective, renvoyant baudelaire dans la cour de l’école du sentiment il cherchait de l’inconnu, se cherchait à lui-même encore inconnu et pour cela entreprit de dérégler le sens de mettre des cailloux dans la logique de la raison myope et mensongère (mais la folie pas plus que la drogue n’était la voie qui fût poésie) brièvement mais intensément à contre-pied posant de nouvelles balises j’assiste à l’éclosion de ma pensée (et ma pensée, c’est du feu déjà le feu d’un langage universel) il veut la vision, mais aussi l’intelligence au-delà de l’amour, la souffrance la folie, être le sublime savant dans la plénitude du grand songe c’est-à-dire faust, au prix de son âme s’il le faut, mais qu’importe quand on ne croit ni en dieu ni en diable ? et qu’importe si le feu brûle quand on est phénix et qu’on renaîtra avec la vérité dans une âme et un corps ? et qu’importe si la farce va de pair avec la métaphysique, si le rire et la sainteté sont les deux faces de la pièce de monnaie qu’on joue au hasard ? si le sang est mauvais, comme on dit à charleville, buvons-le jusqu’à la lie dans l’absolument moderne, allant de l’avant vers paris, l’arabie, l’abyssinie quoique sachant qu’on ne part pas (on a beau dire, on ne part pas 86

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he said of himself, still almost a child and to banville invoking spring a few months before the commune de paris that he was touched by the museâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s finger (which was still talking as a schoolboy) but he already opened his eyes and his mouth with the will of an objective poetry, knocking baudelaire back into the playground of romanticism he was looking for the unknown for himself, to himself still unknown and so undertook to upset sense to put pebbles in the logic of myopic, mendacious reason (though neither madness nor drugs were the way to poetry) briefly but intensely contrarily, setting new beacons i witness the blossoming of my thought (and my thought is already fire fire of a universal language) he wants vision, but intelligence too beyond love, pain, madness to be the sublime scholar in the fullness of the great dream a sort of faust, be it at the price of his soul but never mind when you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t believe in god nor in the devil and never mind if the fire burns when you are a phoenix to be born again with truth in a soul and in a body and never mind if the joke is in keeping with metaphysics, if laughter and holiness are the two faces of a coin tossed at random if the blood is bad, as they said in charleville, let us drink it to the bitter end in the absolutely modern, going onward to paris, arabia, abyssinia although knowing that we donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t leave | 3_ 2007

et l’on n’arrive nulle part, ou bien l’on s’en revient, reprenant la route de charleville, le bateau pour marseille)

GILLES PLAZY | rimbaud en silence

on a été un autre et l’on est encore sur son lit, jambe coupée, jean-arthur rimbaud, qui fut poète et ne l’est plus, mais le sera toujours, jusqu’à l’encens l’oraison, le culte, ce pire des tombeaux cet enfer posthume hors saison qui couvre d’une chape d’obscur ce qu’il y avait de vif argent dans la voix et donne figure de marbre et nom de lycée au poète de la fureur questionnante douloureuse et joyeuse - l’insoumis exemplaire, l’illuminé bouleversant qui laissa derrière lui la poésie comme on laisse sur le rivage un amour en agonie l’illumination, n’est-ce pas l’embrasement par la lumière, l’homme enlevé aux ténèbres des agenouillages anciens, la promesse du printemps tenue par l’été, une gaieté divine, le chant d’orphée, l’opéra fabuleux, l’alliance du soleil du monde et du feu intérieur, l’extase de la vérité qui n’est que la vie même ? ô sublime métamorphose, grandeur de l’homme qui se révèle à lui-même dans sa splendeur et la splendeur du monde! mais rimbaud, dans la douleur, à marseille quand la mort lui vient, nous apprend aussi combien cette joie est illusoire - toute aventure interrompue, consommé l’échec et, pour seul or amassé, celui des poèmes reniés, mais l’œuvre irradiante, à jamais rimbaud, tel orphée, descendit au cœur du monde, au centre de la matière, non pour chercher quelque eurydice, mais en quête de l’éveil, en quête du sens qui sommeille dans la poésie telle qu’un verlaine et les autres, les poètes de paris, la pratiquent, sentiment et musique

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(whatever we say, we don’t leave and we don’t arrive anywhere, or we come back, on the road to charleville, on the boat to marseilles) you were someone else and you are still, on your bed, leg cut off, jean-arthur rimbaud, who was a poet and is no longer, but will always be one, up to incense prayer, cult, that worst tomb that posthumous hell out of season which covers with obscurity the quicksilver in his voice that gives a marble face and names a school for the poet of painful questioning and joyous rage – exemplar of insubordination, troubling luminary who left poetry behind him as a love in agony is left on the shore illumination, is it not conflagration by light, man abducted from darkness of ancient kneelings, promise of spring realized by summer, divine gaiety, orpheus’s song, fabulous opera alliance of the worldly sun and the inner fire, ecstasy of truth which is nothing but life? o sublime metamorphosis, greatness of the man revealing himself to himself in his magnificence and in that of the world but rimbaud, suffering, in marseilles when death is coming, also teaches us how illusory that joy is – every adventure broken off, failure accomplished and, for his only treasure, his repudiated poems, his forever radiant words rimbaud, like orpheus, descended into the heart of the world to the center of matter, not looking for some eurydice, but in search of awakening in search of the sense that was slumbering in the poetry practiced by verlaine and others, parisian poets - feeling and music | 3_ 2007

GILLES PLAZY | rimbaud en silence

il vécut, lui, pleinement l’expérience du dire qui est l’expression du voir, pourtant un jour, il s’est tu, il est allé ailleurs ni en enfer ni au ciel, mais sur cette terre que l’homme doit habiter pour être pleinement homme, il est allé voir par le monde ailleurs, s’il y trouvait cet autre en lui qui lui avait fait signe, mais il n’y rencontra que lui-même, un homme désarmé, déserté par la poésie, dans des projets inaccomplis le poète arthur rimbaud n’est pas mort à marseille, hôpital de la charité les poètes ne meurent pas tant que leur œuvre reste vive nous entendons leur voix (et c’est ainsi que parle encore rimbaud) comme la voix en nous de cet homme qui voit et qui parle et qui, simplement, est au monde la poésie est le mouvement de langue par lequel l’homme prend la parole et, ainsi parlant et se parlant, se révèle à lui-même la poésie est dans la langue, pas à aden ni au harar, où est peut-être la vie mieux qu’à paris, à charleville, où l’on s’épuise dans le mensonge, la peur, l’épargne là-bas, rimbaud n’a pu composer qu’avec le silence au-delà des poèmes le silence dont il a fait un mur sur lequel son œuvre est inscrite en lettres d’or de feu, de lumière, de vérité .

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rimbaud was living fully the experience of saying which is the expression of seeing, however one day, he spoke no more, he went elsewhere neither to hell nor to heaven, but on this earth that man must inhabit to be fully a man, he roamed the world to see if he could find in himself this other man who had beckoned him, but he only met himself, a man disarmed, deserted by poetry mired in unaccomplished plans the poet arthur rimbaud did not die in marseilles, h么pital de la charit茅 poets do not die as long as their work stays alive we hear their voices (and so rimbaud still speaks) as the voice within us of this man seeing and speaking and simply being in the world poetry is the language in motion by which man begins to speak and, so speaking and speaking himself, reveals himself to himself poetry is in language, not in aden nor in harar, where life is perhaps better than in paris, in charleville, where we exhaust ourselves in lies, in fear, in hoarding there, rimbaud could compose only with silence beyond poetry silence with which he built a wall where his words are written in golden letters of fire, light and truth .

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They were everywhere: a conversation about archeology in Mongolia today Q : Michael Gervers A : D. Tumen Q: Could you please tell me the range of archeological periods being excavated in Mongolia today? A: All over Mongolia archeological monuments are found dating from the Paleolithic, also known as the Old Stone Age, up to the 1415th century Old Mongolian Period. Q: What are the other periods between Paleolithic and Mongolian? A: Paleolithic, Neolithic, Bronze Age, Early Iron Age, Xiongnu Period and then the union of several tribes which we usually call the first millennium AD or the pre-Mongolian Period Q: Could you name some of these tribes? A: After the Xiongnu came the Xianbei union in the 3rd century AD. This lasted for almost 100 years until the end of the 4th century AD. After the Xianbei there was another union of tribes, the Touba and the Jujan. Then came the Turkic Period, which was a union of two tribes, the First Turkic and the Second Turkic. This was followed by the Uighurian and the Kirgiz, which lasted for a very short time. Following that was the Khitan, and after that a union of the Mongolian tribes dominated from the 11th century. Q: And what is the difference between the First and the Second Turkic Period? A: There is no very significant difference. But there were some variations between the two burial traditions. For instance, the First Turkic tribe usually cremated their dead. However some sacrificial monuments and grave sites with human remains and horses were found about the middle of the 19th century which seem to belong to a Turkic period. Our Departmentâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s last excavation revealed that 92

Royal Xiongnu tomb under excavation by joint Mongol-Russian expedition at Noin Uul, Sujugt Valley (Selenge Aimag). Photo: M.Gervers, 2006.

burial with horses was a ritual of the Mongolian period. Q: But surely they were burying horses with the deceased in the Bronze Age? A: Usually, incomplete animal bones were found, for example mostly sheep, goat, horse heads, ribs and scapula, and sometimes dog skulls from the Bronze Age graves excavated in Mongolia. Q: But in the Iron Age, in the Pazyryk region for example, there were many complete horse burials. A: Yes, in the Russian Altai region, at Pazyryk, kurgans with complete horse skeletons were discovered. However, until 2005 the Pazyryk kurgan, or archaeological monuments from the period, had never been excavated in Mongolia. Since 2005 Mongolian and French archaeological expeditions have carried out archaeological surveys and discovered many Pazyryk sites in the Mongolian Altai mountains. They partly | 3_ 2007

excavated the Pazyryk grave sites in the region and unearthed many interesting artifacts and horse skeletons. The tradition of burying the dead with horses was also practiced in the Xiongnu and Turkic periods, although only a few graves with complete horse skeletons are known from the Xiongnu period. That more have not been found may be explained by the fact that most Xiongnu graves were robbed and disturbed at some unknown time. From the archaeological viewpoint, it would seem that complete horse burials were more common before and after the Xiongnu period. Q: Which was the group from Inner Asia, including Mongolian territory, that you indicated were similar to the Avars from East Europe? A: That was the Jujan tribe, whose union was around the 4th century, after the Xianbei. Their political center was the Khangai mountain region. Q: What was the connection between this tribal group and what we know of the Avars through excavation in Hungary? A: This is very interesting. Most of the information comes from historical sources. For example, Chinese sources tell us that during the 4th century the Jujan moved to Central Asia. Hungarians call them ‘the newcomers’. This was called the Avarian Period. I visited the Museum of Anthropology in Budapest, at the beginning of the 1980s. There were lots of artifacts from the Avarian Period, which had been found in Hungary. There had been an archaeological excavation of Avarian grave monuments. Hungarian researchers and physical anthropologists told me that most of the skeletons with Mongoloid features were found in graves that denoted high social status. It may be that in the Avarian period the common people were native born and the newcomers were of higher status, very rich and with Mongolian features. Q: When the Hungarians were actively engaged in excavations in Mongolia, were they looking for Avar material or were they more interested in trying to find proto-Hungarians? | 3_ 2007

Noble “Ongot” Stone Man of the Tureg tribe. First Millennium period (VI-VIII c.). Hustai National Park (Tov Aimag). Photo: M. Gervers, 2006.

A: They were interested in both, but usually in the Xiongnu Period. Q: And why would they be interested in that period? A: Because the Xiongnu tribal union is very familiar to foreign researchers, including the Hungarian archeologist Erdely. The first wave of immigration from Inner Asia to Europe was Xiongnu. Q: Are these the people whom we also refer to as Huns? What about Attila? Where was his home? A: I can’t say, but he certainly belonged to the Xiongnu tribe whose home land is Mongolia. Some of the Xiongnu moved through Central Asia and the Eastern European countries, to Hungary, Bulgaria, the south of Czechoslovakia and Italy. The Xiongnu were everywhere.

Q: Why do you think the Xiongnu left the Mongolian territory? A: There were probably many reasons, but I suspect that there was a great power struggle and conflict between the nomadic tribes for the control of Inner Asia, with the result that some of them moved to the West and some of them to North China, while most of the population remained in their home land. D. TUMEN | Archeology in Mongolia

Q: It was not because of the Chinese? A: According to Chinese historical sources the Xiongnu, the so-called Barbarians from the North, frequently invaded or attacked North China for wealth, while at the same time there was also considerable trade and exchange between the two populations. Battles between the Mongols and the Chinese occurred only after the Mongol Empire period. In 1469, during the Ming Dynasty, the Chinese invaded Mongolia and totally destroyed Karakorum, the capital city of the Mongolian Empire. Q: Is there any way to know where the various tribes came from during the first Millennium? A: I think most historians believe that all the tribes lived in the territory of Mongolia. There were many of them. Some became powerful and united and ruled all the others. Their names became associated with the period: Xianbai, Touba, Jujan, Turkic and so on. They probably ruled all the nomadic Turkic, Tungus, Manchu tribes in Inner Asia. For the most part, the general population did not change, but they had many different rulers. There were many tribes or aimags in the territory of Mongolia before the Mongolian Empire: Naiman, Hereid, Merged, Hiyad, Tatar Mongols, all were independent tribes. When the tribe of Chinggis (Genghis) Khan gained power, it united and ruled these others to become the Mongolian Empire. The territory which they occupied and controlled reached as far as Europe and South Asia. Q: I noticed from your excavation maps that the Iron Age and Xiongnu sites tend to be in the central regions of Mongolia, but the heartland of the Mongol Period was obviously in Eastern Mongolia. There are very few so-called Mon94

Rare Bronze age deerstone with human female head. Joint Mongol-Japanese excavation at Uushigiin Uver site (Hovsgol Aimag). Photo: M. Gervers, 2006.

gol Period excavations anywhere in central to western Mongolia. Is there a reason for this? A: Yes. First, it is because the initial unification of the Mongolian tribes took place in the Three River basin of northeastern Mongolia, where the Kherlen, Onon and Tuul rivers flow. Chinggis was born in Deluun Boldog, Khentii aimag in 1161. The second reason is that archaeological monuments from the Bronze and Iron Ages in west and west-central Mongolia are very well studied, while monuments of the Mongol Empire period have received relatively little attention to date. Q: Is there any reason why so few Xiongnu sites have been found in eastern Mongolia? A: Actually there are Xiongnu grave sites everywhere in eastern, western, northern and southern Mongolia. One of the reasons why most of the Xiongnu grave sites were found in western Mongolia was that until 2000 most foreign and Mongolian archaeologists directed | 3_ 2007

their attention to the earlier historical periods (the Bronze, Iron Age, and Xiongnu periods) and worked in eastern Mongolia. The Khangai mountain range is the western border of central Mongolia. Between the A ltai to the west and the Khangai lies the Trans Khangai, which is the home land of another Turkic tribe, the aimag of the Naiman. Q: What does ‘aimag’ mean? A: It means an independent union of tribes. Q: The term ‘aimag’ today is used to distinguish different geographical areas. Does it also refer to different ethnic groups? A: No. In this modern sense, ‘aimag’ is an administrative unit that may include several ethnic groups: for example, Khovd aimag. ‘Aimag’ had a different meaning in the historical period; it was an independent union of tribes, for instance the Naiman, Hereid, Merged Borjigon, and Tatar aimags Q: What are the best-known periods in Mongolian archeology?

Bronze age deerstone. Uushigiin Uver site (Hovsgol Aimag). Photo: M. Gervers, 2006.

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A: The Xiongnu, Bronze Age, Neolithic and Paleolithic periods and the Mongol period. There are many gaps in our knowledge of the first millennium. We have not been able to find cultural differences between the tribes in those unions. Probably, culturally they were very similar to each other. Q: Is there a hierarchy of wealth in these different periods? In other words, are you more likely to find richer sites from the Bronze Age than from the Mongol Period? A: There are cultural differences. We can see social stratification in graves that were excavated from the Pazyryk, Xiongnu and Mongol periods. There are very rich grave sites which belonged to high ranking persons or tribal heads. In these cases we can see a difference in the rituals, artifacts, and also in the Pazyryk or Iron Age, for example, the sacrifice of women. We can also see a big difference in a Xiongnu grave, which shows the exact social status of the person. Q: You can tell this from the Xiongnu graves? A: Yes, firstly from the surface and underground construction of the grave, and secondly, from the archaeological findings. Usually, the grave of a high ranking person is very big, and rich with golden and other artifacts. However, it is very difficult to see the social stratifications of the Bronze Age because their grave sites are not very rich and most of them were robbed a long time ago. Q: I think you mentioned today that the slab graves from the Bronze Age were made of some kind of deer stone. Were these recycled deer stones? A. I think you remember that last year we visited two sites from the Bronze Age at the Temeen Chuluu (Camel Stone) site in Battsengel sum, Uberkhangai aimag and the Shatar Chuluun site, Erdenetsogt sum, Bayankhongor aimag. In each site several slab graves with deer stone enclosures were found. Those sites are located in central Mongolia. We do not see any social differences or stratifications in the slab graves, mainly because most of the graves were robbed. 95

Q: So they were not so deeply buried? A: No, only about two to three meters down. All one finds are fragments of animal bone, ceramics and a very few bronze or iron decorations.

D. TUMEN | Archeology in Mongolia

Q: Which period do you associate with the slab graves? A: The Bronze Age, and the Early Iron Age. The entire Bronze Age is from the second millennium BC until the 7th century BC. The Bronze Age overlapped with the Iron Age in the 7th century BC. The Iron Age ran from the 7th century until the 3rd century BC. The Xiongnu period developed out of the Iron Age. Q: Now, let us turn to the subject of archaeological cooperation and the interests of those foreign countries who are currently excavating. Is there any particular period that interests the French, for example, or the Japanese or the Russians or the Americans? Is there any national interest or association with the period that they are excavating? A: Usually they are all interested in different historical periods. For example, the French archeologists pay more attention to the Xiongnu grave sites and the American archeological team from the University of Arizona to the Paleolithic period. It also depends on who leads the excavation. Q: So there is no national preference? A. We Mongolians are also very interested. During both the pre- and post-communist eras Mongolian archeologists and scientists studied all the historical periods. However, until about the 1950s, Mongolian archeology was very fragmented. The Russian archeologist, Keselev, who discovered the ruins of Karakorum city, led the first, very important, archeological excavation by a joint RussianMongolian expedition. Q: What about Kozlov and Noyon-Uul? A: The Russian archeologists, Kozlov, Debets and Talâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ko-Grintsevich, excavated many graves from the Xiongnu and Mongol periods in Buryatia around the Russian-Mongolian border. In 1924 Kozlov and an expedition or-

ganized by the Russian Geographic Society came to Noyon-Uul, which is very close to the Russian Buriat border, to perform an archeological survey, during which he discovered a big grave monument. That was not his only excavation, but all archeological expeditions have some lucky and some unlucky moments. Kozlov dug many graves there, but only one of them (the so-called Mokrii kurgan, mokrii meaning damp or wet) had not been looted, and this was the noblemanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s grave which he discovered. Q: That was the one that was found in its original condition? A: Yes, that one likely was in the original condition. He found lots of artifacts in this grave. Q: And what happened between 1924 and 1950? How did Mongolian archeology begin, from the view point of the Mongolian archeologist? A. There were no Mongolian specialists in Mongolian archeology. The first fully trained Mongolian archeologist graduated from Moscow University at the beginning of the 1950s. Before that there were only some undergraduate students of archeology who came from Moscow State University or Leningrad University to join a few introductory Russian expeditions. Q: Perhaps we should talk about these rather well-known Mongol archeologists. A: Yes. D. Navaan and N. Ser-Odjav were the first generation of Mongolian archeologists. They established Mongolian archeology. Q: Would it be fair to say that, until the 1990s, Mongolian archeology was dominated by the Soviets? A: Yes, it was dominated by the Soviets. Since the mid 1960s there were joint archeological expeditions and for almost 30 years, until the 1990s, there were archeological surveys throughout the Mongolian territory. The Russian archeologist, A. Okladnikov, who usually studied the Paleolithic, was the supervisor of a Russian-Mongolian joint historical, cultural expedition. This expedition had teams study-

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ing the pre-historical period, the Paleolithic and Bronze Ages and others which concentrated on the Xiongnu. They did not research any tribal period. Q: Since the Post-Soviet period, has Russian archeology changed direction in Mongolia? Or is it a continuation of what they were doing before 1990? A: It is a continuation, but there are some differences. For example, before the 1990s, most of the Russian archeologists concentrated on the Bronze Age, studying deer stones or petroglyphs and some grave sites. They were more interested in western Mongolia, trying to see the historical relationship between the Bronze Age populations of western Mongolia and south Siberia, because there is much common cultural evidence. In south Siberia they have Kheregsuur and lots of stone kurgans, and of course there are the deer stones of Mongolia. After the 1990s, Russian-Mongolian expeditions still paid attention to the Bronze Age, but they were not only looking at Kurgan culture. They found totally new cultural sites, for example: the Chimerchukh culture in the Altai, which also was found in northwest China and the Mungen Taiga. The Munkhkhairkhan cultural sites are identical to the Bronze Age culture from Russian Tuva. The Russians did an archeological survey in Mongolia to see if there was some connection in the geographical distribution of this culture. They found exactly the same type of monuments in western Mongolia, along the Altai Mountains. Q: Just changing the subject slightly, does the present day Mongolian border reflect the historical cultural habitation of the region? You were saying that there are a number of sites in south Siberia which are similar to ones in Mongolia. This would seem to suggest that, from the cultural view point, the present border between Mongolia and Russia is not really a border. A: Not a cultural border. There was a common culture in ancient times; the present border is more recent. Even during the historical period, maybe 2000 years ago, there were different

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nomadic tribes, but there was not a defined political border until about the 17th century. The people who lived close to the border moved back and forth. Now that a strict border line has been established these populations have been isolated, leaving relatives stranded on two different sides. Now it is just the language of the 20th century, not of ancient times. Because they were nomads they wanted to move as they pleased. Also some of the areas were tribal and within them there were no borders. I think you will understand what I mean. Q: Yes absolutely. Borders are often natural borders such as rivers or mountains. A: Yes, geographical borders, not political ones. Q: We also spoke about the fact that in the Iron Age, I am thinking of the Pazyryk culture, it is said that they must have been Iranian people. Now does this mean that Mongolia was the eastern end of nomadic travel? Was there a common nomadic culture that went from Iran to Mongolia? Do we know? A: I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t say exactly. However most Mongolian archeologists, and some foreign ones, have a similar opinion of Pazyryk. The Chinese historical sources mention a remarkable tribe from the 4th century BC with very unusual physical features. They had very bright hair and they inhabited the north of China. Q: Red hair? A: Blonde hair, blue eyes, high nose. Those are caucasoid features. They were a nomadic people who moved from north China, meaning the territory of Inner Mongolian today, and drove to the Gobi. They moved only between these directions, north and south. They had a totally different physical appearance. The tribe was called 'Dingling'. Most Russian and Mongolian archeologists think of it as a Pazyryk or maybe pre-Xiongnu tribe, not as some kind of immigrant from Iran. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know the pre-history of Iran and their archeological monuments, so I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t tell what kind of connection there was between Iran and Pazyryk. I think perhaps an ancient Asian and Caucasoid nomadic population migrated from north to south and mixed 97

with the local people. Gradually, the Mongoloid features became dominant. Maybe they were united with the Xiongnu tribes.

D. TUMEN | Archeology in Mongolia

Q: What evidence is there that they had blonde hair and blue eyes? Has the hair been preserved in the grave site? A: No, the information was found in Chinese sources of the 4th century BC Ancient Chinese historical sources from this period refer to these unique tribes. They were studied by the Russian missionary and researcher Ya.I.Bichurin (1777-1853), an educated high level Russian of the middle of the 19th century who worked in Tibet and China. He was fluent in ancient Chinese and the Mongolian language and studied Chinese historical sources. He published the material on these tribes of Inner Mongolia from Chinese historical sources and gave them the name of Dingling tribes. Q: Is it possible to identify these tribes archeologically? A: No, but now they are also identified as Pazyryk because early archeological monuments and human remains with European features were found at Pazyryk. It is the early Iron Age. Q: So this would suggest that there were European people, nomads, coming to Mongolia? A: Either coming to Mongolia or else it was the Mongolian population which moved to a different location. Q: The reason that I’ve mentioned Pazyryk is that so many of the findings in the graves are similar to what was found in Iran from about the same period. Do you think that the decoration found on objects from Pazyryk was strongly influenced by Persia? A: Maybe. I don’t know exactly, because nobody mentioned any connection between Iran and Pazyryk. Nor did Rudenko mention it. In the 50s and 60s there was no evidence to compare with Iran. That maybe would have changed their conclusion. I have not seen any article written by Mongols that mentioned any connection between Iran and Pazyryk. Today is the first time that I’ve heard about it and I was very surprised. I remember very

well the books of Rudenko. But I do not know the cultural monuments of Iran. I have to see some of these materials from Iran to see how the comparison was made. For now, I can’t say anything about a direct connection. There are also some archeologists who suggested that there was some Indo-European influence on the Xiongnu culture, but I don’t know what that means; the influence is not clear to me. Q: What about relations in archeological and academic terms between Mongolia and Inner Mongolia? Is there work being done in Inner Mongolia which relates in any way to what’s being done in Mongolia? A: Yes, we have a very interesting political situation. Inner Mongolians are Mongolians. There is no difference, but we are politically divided into two parts. Manchuria occupied Mongolia in the 17th century and divided the country into two parts, Inner and Outer Mongolia. Before the 17th century there was one Mongolia with the same language, culture, tradition and history. Nowadays, most western people say ‘northern China’ not ‘Inner Mongolia’. The same types of archeological monuments are found both in Mongolia and in Inner Mongolia. In some of the sites there were lots of elements from China because it was close to China and there was trade and exchange of Chinese goods. Most of the grave sites and constructions are similar. And there are the same difficulties in both Inner Mongolian and Mongolian archeology. As I said before, it is very difficult to find cultural differences between these tribes, the Xianbei, Touba, Jujan and so on, because they had a common culture. In Inner Mongolia most of the findings are considered to be from the 3rd century BC and to the Xianbei and Khitan period (9th-10th century AD). The union of the Xianbei tribes was established after the Xiongnu, which was a very powerful tribal union in Inner Asia including Mongolia. Here in Mongolia we regard all these grave sites as Xiongnu. At the moment, the differences in culture and grave ritual between Xiongnu and Xianbei are not so clear. It is very difficult to understand or to find the difference between Xiongnu and Xianbei. | 3_ 2007

Q: Is that in Inner Mongolia or Mongolia ? A: In both. We say that all the grave sites here belong to the Xiongnu, but in Inner Mongolia all the similar cultural monuments are called Xianbei. Different names depend upon the tribe who ruled at the time, but these may be the same tribe. Q: Now, I suppose that the Chinese archeologists are looking for evidence of a Chinese presence in Inner Mongolia. A: I think all archaeologists who do archaeological research on Mongolian prehistoric sites seek to understand the historical and cultural relationship between the ancient nomads of Eurasia and their neighbors. But everybody is looking for their own elements in this culture. Q. Do the Russians do the same? A. No, Russia was very far from Mongolia, there was no influence in the prehistoric period. Russian archeologists are interested in the ancient cultural relationships between Mongolia, Siberia and Central Asia, and so on. Q: Might there be a difference, in terms of Inner Mongolia and Mongolia, between nomads to the north of the Gobi and nomads to the south of the Gobi? In other words could the Gobi also be a cultural dividing line? A: No, not culturally. In Prehistory the culture was likely very similar. Q: You mentioned in the lecture today, in response to a question about the Neolithic, that some of the inhabitants at the time, at least, were agriculturalists. A: Yes. This conclusion was published by the Mongolian scholar D. Dorj, who studied the Mongolian Neolithic, in his work The Neolithic of Eastern Mongolia. In the book he concluded that agriculture was one of the mainstays of the East Mongolian Neolithic population. But it is very hard to say because we have very few human remains from the Neolithic period. There may be two skulls each from eastern and western Mongolia, so it is not enough to tell. Q: So you cannot tell whether they were agriculturalists or not?

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A: No. Maybe there was a degree of agriculture which was secondary to the nomadic economy. But I could not say anything about it. Q: Can we return to the question of excavations undertaken by French archaeologists? A: At the beginning of 1995 the government wanted to build a hydro power station on the Egyin Gol. But beforehand they had to do a big ecological survey and also sought foreign investment for an archeological survey. The French government and the supervisor of an archeological team who worked for the ÂUNESCO organization found the money for this expedition. They have been working from 1995 until now. During the first five or six years they carried out an archeological survey around the Egyin Gol basin and discovered lots of archeological monuments. In fact they excavated the whole basin. Also there was another archeological expedition to a Xiongnu common manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s grave site. The Mongolian archaeologists Turbat (T'orbat), Amartuvshin and Erdenebat (Ed-en-ebat), who participated in the expedition, published books and many articles. One French anthropologist named Eric CrubĂŠzy and others made a bone DNA analysis for a skeleton which was found in an excavation in the Egyin Gol basin. He found a relationship between the ancient and current people living in the region. He published an article about this in the American Journal of Physical Anthropology. Q: What are the French excavating now? A: They finished an archeological survey and excavation in the Egyin Gol area at the beginning of 2000. Now they have two new projects. One of them is working in the Altai Mountains. They excavated grave sites which are actually in Pazyryk territory and last year they also excavated some Pazyryk grave sites in the Baga Turgen Gol (Small Rapid River) area, the Altai Mountains, Ulaankhus sum, Bayan-Ulgii aimag. They also found lots of interesting things. Another point to note is that a FrenchMongolian team worked in Arkhangai aimag and has excavated Xiongnu sites. There are two expeditions working on the Gol Mod sites

which have very interesting Xiongnu grave sites. A Mongolian-American expedition is working on the Gol Mod 2 and a MongolianFrench expedition is working on the Gol Mod 1. Usually these French teams come from the MusĂŠe Guimet in Paris. They are still excavating in Gol Mod 1

D. TUMEN | Archeology in Mongolia

Q: To what extent is the work of your department known and valued by the Mongolian population? Do the Mongols themselves want these articles, do they read the newspapers? Are they interested in Mongolian history? A: Yes, they are very interested. Q: I must say that even years ago this interest was there. When I was in Khovd aimag in 1990 I met a nomad who produced a copy of the Secret History of the Mongols from his ger. He was very interested in that. I wonder whether among the herding people in general there is an interest in history and in archaeology? A: Yes, most of the people are interested in Mongolian history. They take pride in their history because Mongolia was once a leading power. They are proud of Chinggis Khan and our history. But during the communist period it was not encouraged to be proud of our own history. We were not even allowed to mention the name of Chinggis Khan because there was a negative, independent side to him. But every Mongol in his heart regards Chinggis as a god. Q: This is an interesting point. So, under Soviet domination the study of the Mongol period was perhaps discouraged? A: Yes, it was very difficult. Nobody paid any attention to the Mongol period during that political phase. The Mongol Empire period was not studied from the archeological point of view. Research on the Mongol period only began after 1990. Q: I remember when I was in Mongolia around that time, that the Japanese had come and were making, as I understood, an aerial survey, looking for the burial place of Chinggis Khan. A: Yes. That was in the late 80s and early 90s, during the time of Perestroika, during the Gorbachev period. The political climate be-

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came warmer and we felt ourselves to be freer and able to speak our minds very openly. The first archeological survey of the MongolianJapanese joint expedition, the Gurvan Gol Project in the Three River Basin was carried out at that time. Q: And was that published? A: Just a report was published. This was the first serious archeological survey of the Mongol period. Q: Would the political situation under the Soviets explain why so little has been known about the first millennium also? Was it because that too was a distinctly tribal period? Or was the Mongol period considered to be part of the same tribal period? A: I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t tell you the exact reason why there is a big gap in this period. Maybe not many archeologists were interested in this period, because there is not so much clear evidence. The Chinese historical sources mention the names of a number of different tribes living to the north of the Gobi. Q: Are there scholars in Mongolia who are able to read Chinese sources? A: Yes, some historical books were published in the mid 1980s. One of them relates to the Jujan period which corresponds in European terms to the Arab period or the Avar period in Hungary. This book was published by the Mongolian historian, Khandsuren, who was fluent in Chinese and studied Chinese sources. Another book was published by the Mongolian historian, Sukhbaatar, about the ancient ancestors of the Mongols. He wrote about the union of Xiongnu tribes; linguistics, political status, social stratification, economy, religion, indeed everything about the X Â iongnu. After this, he published a book about the Xianbei, who they were and their connection to the Mongols. One of our Mongolian archeologists named Bayar published two books at the beginning of the 1990s on the Stone Men from the Turkic and Mongolian periods. At the beginning of the 60s one of our famous archeologists, Perlee, published a book about the Khitan (Qidan) relations with the Mongols. | 3_ 2007

Q: And for this he needed to read Chinese or Ancient Chinese? A: Yes. He studied the archeological findings, historical sources and published some of his conclusions about the relationship between the Mongol and the Khitan. Q: Perhaps we should turn to the subject of the future. What do you anticipate in the next ten years will be the objectives of Mongolian archeology? A: This is a good question. The aim of our department is to develop archeological education in Mongolia and also to pay more attention to the protection of Mongolian archeological monuments against robbery and illegal excavation. We would like to do a very wide survey, to register all these sites on some kind of archeological map, at least of eastern and northern Mongolia, if not all parts of the country. One of our biggest plans is the creation of an archeological database that shows the location of archeological monuments. Since the 1990s, whenever we carry out a survey, we have used a GPS to define the exact geographical location. It is a very useful tool for mapping the archeological monuments. We also want to improve the specialized qualifications and professional skills of Mongolian archeologists and we want to revitalize the teaching program and curriculum in our own department, which includes both archeologists and anthropologists. Q: You seek to compare the National University of Mongolia with other universities, and perhaps to organize a centre for specialized study? A: Yes. Most Mongolian archeologists have had a Russian education, which has some good and some bad aspects. We could combine Russian with Western archeological education, such as Canadian, American or Western European and thus improve our teaching methodology in archeology.

any students are able to receive grants from somewhere, they can go. But we also want to improve our own knowledge and share this knowledge with our students. When I go abroad, I not only give lectures, but also collect books and invite other professors from abroad to give lectures to our students. That is a different way to improve our teaching program and curriculum and impart more knowledge to our students. Because, after graduation, they will become specialists in Mongolian archeology and have improved language skills. Combining teaching and research improves the program. We should encourage cooperation and perhaps establish some kind of joint department with foreigners. Q: By joint departments, do you mean with other universities abroad? A: Yes. Maybe there could be an international department of Mongolian archaeology. There are foreign professors who want to come to our department and to teach. Foreign students can come to our department. We need to encourage international co-operation. Professor Michael Gervers is Director of the Central and Inner Asia Seminar, University of Toronto. Professor D. Tumen is Chair of the Department of Anthropology and Archaeology, National University of Mongolia. This interview took place in Toronto, May 2007. The authors are grateful to Tsendmaa Dorjbal who transcribed this interview from tape, and to Gillian Long of the DEEDS Project who edited it.

Q: And this means, perhaps, sending MongolÂ ian students abroad to study? A: It is very difficult to send Mongolian students to study abroad because we donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have enough money to pay for their education. If | 3_ 2007

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John Brandi

Walking with Frank O’Hara and Po Chü-i

I. Who sees the green heron roosting at the river’s mouth? Frank points it out, along with a bed spring in the reeds, and a can full of teeth. Po Chü-i leans on his stick, praises fox and clam, the friendship of fools, the speed at which a mountain becomes river, and water sand. The bridge gives a creak, sun rolls up its sleeves. There’s a wine shop down the road where Frank makes a call on the public telephone, “Lordy,” I hear him say, “So many echoes in my head, I blame it on Blake or the latitude of the stars,” while Po Chü-i takes a leak against a cinnamon tree, muttering “Why hoard gold to build a perfect country home, when here far from crowds, there’s all this spring light owned by no one?”

II. Up trail, snow dusting our shoulders, we brew clear tea from a roaring stream. The border’s closed but Po Chü-i gets drunk with the gatekeeper and when he sleeps, slips through the threshold to the Forbidden Land, refines his gaze and rises late, knowing how useful it is to be useless.

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Down slope, Frank’s on his back counting bats in the Hall of Temporary Progress. “A great feast of upside-down dreams!”

III. Just after midnight a warm breeze brings blossoms to the camellia tree. Alone, all I hear is the settling of the eaves. The company that’s kept me has gone off into scattered clouds. I’ll get up now, untwist the wild rose from the gate, leave it open for Po Chü-i and Frank to come some other night. My clothes are thin, the going was never easy. So many drives and compulsions, but now the moon is full, the belly content to be empty. The friendship of fools is sweet as the last grapes on the vine. A thousand tree rings from now, what more will survive?

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Gary Snyder

Glacier Bay East Arm, Muir Inlet dates covered: 28. VII-2. VIII. 89

28. July Friday Day l Bartlett Cove and out to Muir inlet. (Thinking, as the ship glides over the quiet water, north into Glacier Bay—of how I wish I could have taken more trips with the boys as they were growing—) Through whale waters. A Catamaran with facilities like an airplane. Not full. [The non-pathetic seeing of nature. steep is as “standing upright” quick is as birds sky is as breath/wind skin is as soil clarity is as mountain water muddied is as water the buffaloes wallow in— And “practice” is repetition. Boredom, of course. A different pace—closer to the cycles of nature. Order is as fitting, as, “it fits.”] 8.40 a.m. let off at Wright Mountain—the twin hulls crunching lightly onto the steep gravel beach, foggy above. Down off the bow on an aluminum ladder, the gear then handed down, the kayak let down by rope, a sleeping bag rolls into the wave between the hulls—I wade rubber boots in and grab it. The ship diesel winds up, it backs off, and we are left on a strange beach in the misty rain, alone. It takes us an hour to pack the kayak properly, as it sloshes along in a rising tide. We leave at 9.40 and an hour later are passing by Muir point. Float into a carpet of feeding Phalaropes? who mostly ignore our silent qajaks. Flocks of crows cawing from the aspen shore before Muir point. Paddle toward a point on the west side, seeing the entrance to Adams inlet open on our right. Distant—across the water—

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Glacier Bay Bord Oriental, Muir Inlet Du 28. VII au 2. VIII. 89

Vendredi 28 juillet

Premier jour

Traduction française : Olivier Delbard

Bartlett Cove, vers Muir Inlet. (Et je pense, tandis que le bateau glisse sur l’eau calme vers Glacier Bay au Nord, à combien j’aurais aimé faire plus de voyages avec les garçons alors qu’ils grandissaient—). Passons dans des eaux à baleines. Un catamaran équipé comme un avion. Pas plein. [Voir la nature sans s’apitoyer. raide comme « se tenir tout droit » rapide comme l’oiseau ciel comme le souffle/vent peau comme le sol clarté comme l’eau de montagne boueuse comme l’eau dans laquelle se vautrent les buffles— Et « pratique » comme répétition. De l’ennui, bien sûr. Un autre rythme—plus proche des cycles de la nature. L’ordre est convenable, comme dans « ça convient ».] 8H40 du matin. largués à Wright Mountain—les coques jumelles crissent légèrement en montant sur la grève, brouillard audessus. Descendons de l’avant par une échelle en aluminium, on nous fait ensuite passer l’équipement, le kayak est descendu par une corde, un sac de couchage tombe dans la vague entre les coques—j’enfile des bottes en caoutchouc pour le récupérer. Le moteur diesel du bateau est relancé, il fait demi tour et nous laisse sur une plage étrange dans la pluie et la bruie, seuls. Il nous faut une heure pour bien préparer le kayak, alors qu’il tangue dans la marée montante. Nous partons à 9H40 et une heure plus tard passons près de Muir point. Flottons au milieu d’un tapis de phalaropes ? à la recherche de nourriture qui pour la plupart ignorent nos qajaks silencieux. Croassements de nuées de corneilles sur la côte couverte de trembles au niveau de Muir point. Pagayons en direction d’un point sur le côté ouest, à la vue de l’entrée du Adams inlet qui s’ouvre sur notre droite. Au loin— cris d’oiseaux comme des nœuds entrelacés. Surface calme et

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knots of bird cries. Still-glassy surface. 12.20 Morse point, pull in on a beach for lunch. The low clouds lifted, puffs on the peaks east, wisps of cirrus and sweeps of stratus. A south wind comes up as we nap on the gravel, after a lunch of canned sardines and crackers. A panorama view is opening. Casement glacier curving in a far alsope behind the frontal hills, brown parallel lines giving it sweep. GARY SNYDER | Glacier Bay East Arm

The pointed aristocratic peaks, and the humbled rounded massive slave mountains, lower and bent, that have borne ice. Into Hunter cove around 3.20 p.m. Holding paddles aloft to catch the wind, we moved along, resting a while. Paddle in to the beach. Search out water—the creek almost dry, only a pool that we excavate larger to gather, come back and fill the waterbag with one sierra-cup at a time tiltings. Recent moose tracks. GLACIERS are “accumulation”—with an “economy” —are gifts that move very slowly—this glacial outwash turned to beach rubble, ice-scrapings, water-rollings. Countless mussel shells empty and washed up high on the beaches—a cold spell last winter did it? Put our camp on a gravel bench against the alders. Scant water, warm sun, light breeze. The trash before my closed-up eyes on this beach bench— whole and broken faded mussel shells, rocks and pebbles of all colors and textures, broken, smoothed, but none too smooth or clean, mixed again with bits of limbs and twigs— some larger areas, three inches, covered with moss in parts—a little soilmaking bed. As the sun lowers, small birds come out in the bushes. Fox sparrows here— It turns out that: the great chunk of ice floating in Endicott Arm off the Dawes Glacier that had smooth parallel striations worn into it (like stairsteps) was a piece of bottom ice, showing the very part that had slid over the rocks. Cooking on the beach as the tide creeps up toward our rocks. Calm mountains all around. Moose sign along the beach, these alder lowlands. After eating, Carole and I walk north around the point, over rocks, to another cove. There has been a clear panorama all afternoon of the rim of peaks around this world, the divide between Herte and Lynn Canal, the Chilkat country north of that. The dream Riggs Glacier slopes. 106

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lisse comme du verre. 12H20 Morse point, arrêt sur une plage pour déjeuner. Les nuages bas s’éloignent, bouffées de vent sur les pics à l’Est, légères volutes de cirrus grands traits de stratus. Un vent du sud se lève alors que nous faisons la sieste sur le gravier, après un déjeuner de sardines en boîte et de crackers. Un panorama s’ouvre devant nous. Le glacier Casement s’incurve sur une pente au loin derrière les collines qui nous font face, des lignes parallèles brunes lui donnent forme et mouvement. Les pics pointus sont les aristocrates, et les humbles et massives montagnes arrondies des esclaves, courbées et penchées, qui ont porté la glace. Pénétrons la crique Hunter à 15H20 environ. Tenant les pagaies en l’air pour prendre le vent, nous allons de-ci de-là, nous reposant un peu. Pagayons jusqu’à la plage. A la recherche d’eau—la crique est presque sèche, il n’y a qu’une petite mare que nous élargissons pour prendre de l’eau, revenons ensuite pour remplir la poche à eau, à l’aide d’un gobelet en métal rempli puis versé une fois après l’autre. Traces d’orignal récentes. LES GLACIERS sont « accumulation »—avec leur « économie »—sont des présents qui se déplacent très lentement—ces alluvions glaciaires devenues dépôts de gravier, débris de glace, eaux houleuses. Multitudes de coquilles de moules vides déposées loin sur la plage—un coup de froid de l’hiver dernier ? Posons notre camp sur un banc de graviers adossé à des aulnes. Eau rare, chaud soleil, brise légère. Ces détritus devant mes yeux sur ce banc de gravier—coquilles de moules décolorées entières et brisées, roches et galets de toutes couleurs et de toutes textures, brisés, polis, mais jamais trop lisses ni trop propres, mixés à des bouts de branches et de brindilles—quelques surfaces plus grandes, de trois pouces, couvertes de mousse en partie—un petit lit à fabriquer du sol. Alors que le soleil descend, de petits oiseaux sortent des buissons. Des moineaux roux— Il s’avère que : le grand bloc de glace flottant dans le bras de mer d’Endicott au large du glacier Dawes qui portait de légères stries parallèles creusées (comme des marches d’escalier) était un morceau de glace de fond, révélant la partie même qui avait glissé par-dessus les rochers. Préparons la cuisine alors que la marée s’approche de nos rochers. Montagnes calmes tout autour. Trace d’orignal le long de la plage, ces étendues de plaines couvertes d’aulnes. Après manger, Carole et moi marchons vers le Nord autour du point, par les rochers, vers une autre crique. Le panorama a été clair toute l’après-midi, sur les cimes des pics tout autour de ce monde, ligne de partage entre Herte et Lynn Canal, avec plus au Nord le pays chilkat. Les pentes de rêve du glacier Riggs.

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29. July Sat. Day 2

GARY SNYDER | Glacier Bay East Arm

Rise at 5 a.m. 52 degrees, low overcast. Set out at 7.20, tide down but rising. Arms creak and complain, what new work is this for us? Learning to match Carole’s stroke, she sits in the front cockpit…and me behind, operating the ingenious little rudder with my feet and trying to get the feathering turn of the paddle, the timing, the angle, right. We get across from Wachusetts inlet, which shows barren slopes on the south side— attractive for hiking. At 11.15 across from Wolf Point the ship Sea Lion, with passengers— We go past Sealer’s Island, off limit now as nesting area for Aleutian terns, the easternmost breeding of the species, Goose cove to our right. Past the nunatak, the one I think mentioned by Muir as he traveled up the glacier and then camped on it. Wolf point on the west side, and its cove, we keep going and into the cove of McBride glacier and pull up on the beach on its north side. Five hours of steady paddling: the cries of birds echo to and fro across the channel. Ravens’ high agitations. Coughs. Wild complaints. Mutters. Loud comments. Distant choruses, group recitations. Shrill notes, low groans. High peeps, strings of nasal shrilling, very nasal bleating. A flying flock here, a floating clan there—busy flights one way of several, another single bird flying a straight line somewhere. Ten or twelve gulls, two Oystercatchers. The Oystercatchers scolding steady even as they fly and as they wheel and land. A tern dipping and wheeling and scolding. Really what it is, these clusters of cohorts, each a different species, is first talking among themselves, and second showing place to all the others— The cliff walls, glacier snouts, and waters echo with the mix of all the bird calls: the soft rush of the tide-flow, rock slides off mountain walls, ice-thumps off glaciers and that distant roar... a cry here, a cry there. Calls. Groups of sudden serenades. All of this soft and distant mingling. A far “pee pee”—a far crash. Rich, diverse, immediate, total, compelling, funny, one must stop and listen to the lives of life. “God is in the details.” The dark orange eye and beak of an Oystercatcher. Secure the kayak, and take off toward the glacier for almost an hour, locating water and an opening in some small alders on the big bar for a tent site. We also scoop out a depression in the beach with an ice-axe and lay black plastic into it and then fill that with chunks of ice chopped off stranded icebergs, cut it in bits with the ice-axe, and let it begin to melt. Sit and cook to the rush of the stove, in the inter-tidal zone. Cache the food-

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Sam. 29 juillet. Deuxième jour Lever à 5 heures du matin. 11°C, temps bas et couvert. Départ à 7H20, marée basse mais montante. Les bras craquent et gémissent, quel est ce nouveau type de travail pour nous ? J’apprends à m’aligner aux coups de pagaie de Carole assise à l’avant, et moi derrière, actionnant avec les pieds le petit gouvernail ingénieux et essayant de friser l’eau en ramenant la pagaie en arrière, d’avoir le bon tempo et le bon angle. Nous croisons la crique de Wachusetts, avec ses pentes dénudées sur le versant sud—attirantes pour la randonnée. A 11H15 au niveau de Wolf Point le bateau Sea Lion, avec passagers— Passons l’île de Sealers, désormais hors des limites de la zone de nichage des sternes des Aléoutiennes, lieu de reproduction le plus oriental de l’espèce, la crique Goose à notre droite. Passons le nunatak, celui je pense que mentionna Muir quand il sillonna le glacier et y campa. Wolf Point à l’Ouest, avec sa crique, nous continuons jusqu’à la crique du glacier McBride et débarquons sur la plage du côté Nord. Cinq heures à pagayer de manière régulière : Échos des cris d’oiseau de part et d’autre du chenal. Agitations dans l’air. Toussotements. Complaintes sauvages. Murmures. Commentaires à voix haute. Chœurs lointains, récitations de groupes. Notes aiguës, gémissements graves. Pépiements dans les airs, chapelets de stridences nasales, jérémiades fortement nasales. Volée en plein mouvement ici, clan qui semble flotter là-bas—vols très chargés une possibilité parmi tant d’autres, un autre oiseau seul vole en ligne droite quelque part. Dix ou douze mouettes, deux huîtriers. Les huîtriers qui grognent sans cesse même en vol quand ils tournoient et se posent. Une sterne plonge, tournoie et grogne. C’est vraiment comme cela, ces groupes, ces cohortes, chacun une espèce différente, qui se parlent entre eux d’abord, puis laissent de la place à tous les autres— Les parois des falaises, les fronts des glaciers, et les eaux résonnent du mélange de tous ces cris d’oiseaux : l’avancée légère et déterminée de la marée, les chutes de rochers des parois montagneuses, les bruits sourds de la glace qui tombe des glaciers et ce grondement au loin… un cri ici, un cri là-bas. Des cris des appels. De soudaines sérénades en groupe. Toute cette douce confusion au loin. Un « piii piii » au loin—fracas lointain. Riche, diverse, immédiate, totale, irrésistible, drôle, il faut s’arrêter pour écouter toutes les vies de la vie. « Dieu est dans les détails ». L’œil orange foncé et le bec d’un huîtrier. Le kayak en sécurité, prenons le chemin du glacier, pendant presque une heure, repérons pour planter la tente de l’eau et une ouverture au milieu de quelques aulnes de petite taille sur la grande barre. Nous creusons aussi dans un trou sur la plage à l’aide d’une hache à glace, posons un plastique noir dedans

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bags in the alders and walk, without food on our persons, to the tent in the late northern dusk light. 30 July 89 day 3 Awake to a misty soft rain and low ceiling. 46 degrees.

GARY SNYDER | Glacier Bay East Arm

The light rain started around midnight. It seems with the rain that the crashes of falling ice from the glacier increase. Light by 4 a.m. We sleep until 8, in complex dreams and the relaxation of a layover day in the rain. Soon as it gets light the birds start. Process: Rock, ridges, emerging from the retreating ice, being in the air and rain again. All new and scraped around. The alders start sprouting. Tidal zones in and out of waters, with their long shiny flats. The runs of prints of shorebird feet Glacial mind broad and slow pushing, canyon mind a steady downward cutting edge in one spot. Rain mind a wide presence touching all. Snow becoming ice is the softest and the hardest. Chipped a bit of dark blue ice from under a stranded berg in the McBride lagoon to suck. Ancient water. Seals heads, up—up— all timeless— “Reticulate Causation” Breakfast in the rain, down by the kayak eat granola with powdered milk and no tea, all in our rainsuits, hoods up. Carry the kayak over low tide mudflats (fine glacier flour once the rock and dust of high ridges, now settled in a tide-flat outflow: no longer sunny hard and inorganic; the yang rock dust from some yogic peak, but wetly worked over and transformed into muck full of life and smelling like Japanese cuisine. Leave about 11 a.m. in a rising tide. Camp set up snug and zipped and dry in its opening on the outflow of the McBride. Looking west across the mile-wide inlet and the steep striated walls of White Thunder ridge. We paddle straight for the next northerly west wall point, and round it, all in a soft rain. Water glass smooth. A looking seal, breaking the membrane (sky and sea alike one soft gray mirroring each other) between this world and the one below, to look, intelligent other, and slip back (not dive) with only the faint-

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pour le remplir de morceaux de glace coupés d’icebergs dérivants, coupons en petits morceaux à la hache, et laissons fondre peu à peu. Assis, nous préparons la cuisine sur la mèche de jonc du réchaud, dans cette zone des marées. Cachons les sacs de vivres dans les aulnes et marchons, sans nourriture sur nous, vers la tente dans la lumière crépusculaire du Nord. 30 juillet 89 Troisième jour Réveil sous une pluie douce et dans la brume, plafond bas. 8°C. La pluie fine a commencé autour de minuit. On dirait qu’avec la pluie, le bruit de la glace qui se fracasse en tombant du glacier augmente. Lumière du jour à 4 heures du matin. Nous dormons jusqu’à 8 heures, pris dans des rêves complexes et le relâchement d’un jour de halte sous la pluie. On entend les oiseaux dès que la lumière point. Processus : les rocs, crêtes, surgis de la glace qui se retire, se trouvent dans l’air et dans l’eau de nouveau. Tout neufs et nettoyés. Les aulnes commencent à produire de nouvelles pousses. Zones de l’estran dans et hors de l’eau, leurs longues étendues brillantes. Les suites d’empreintes de pas d’oiseaux du rivage. L’esprit du glacier vaste et à la lente poussée, l’esprit du canyon au tranchant aiguisé comme une paroi descendant en un seul bloc. L’esprit de la pluie une large présence qui touche tout et tous. La neige qui devient glace est la plus douce et la plus dure. Dans le lagon McBride j’ai taillé un morceau de glace bleu sombre du dessous d’un iceberg dérivant pour le sucer. Eau d’un temps ancien. Têtes de phoques, qui apparaissent—apparaissent—intemporel— « causalité réticulée » Petit-déjeuner sous la pluie, en bas près du kayak mangeons du granola avec du lait en poudre, pas de thé, tout entiers dans nos vêtements de pluie, avec les capuches. Transportons le kayak sur des étendues boueuses à marée basse (fine farine de glacier autrefois rocs et poussières de hautes crêtes, maintenant installée sur une zone d’écoulement de l’estran : plus ensoleillée ni dure ou inorganique ; poussière de roche yang de quelque pic yoguique, mais travaillé par l’humidité, transformé en boue plein de vie et sentant la cuisine japonaise. Partons à 11 heures environ par marée montante. Campement confortable bien isolé et sec à l’ouverture de la zone d’écoulement du McBride. Je regarde vers l’Ouest de l’autre côté de la crique d’une largeur d’un bon kilomètre, vers les parois raides et striées de la crête White Thunder. Nous pagayons droit vers le prochain point au Nord de la paroi

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est ripple. Sky and sea one soft grayness. And what are these dimly seen walls of frail rock and ice. At McBride glacier the logs of spruce from earlier forests sticking out from the eroding moraine rubble wall of this latest retreat. “No increase, no decrease”—the ice fills the hollow, the hollow holds the ice—it slides down, then back, then down, a 4-million-year long copulation of the water cycle with the geo rock world, the mantle. GARY SNYDER | Glacier Bay East Arm

Turn west with the inlet. Riggs (or is it McBride) glacier huge and faint with the mists across it, at the bend of the channel. Into the first landable cove beaches west, pull in alongside a rapid incoming glacier stream, carry the kayak up the slope and rest it. Sit on the rocks for chilly wet lunch. Stiff and cold we change to hiking boots and stomp out briskly up a long slope: getting our legs working, weaving a way up between erosion canyons and rushing streams. On a point, overlook the glacial polish shoulder of bedrock rises, only a few yards of it, above the moraine detritus. From an earlier advance? Or could one glacial advance also submerge one of its bedrock scrapings under moraine stuff in the same move? Lateral moraine rubble dissected by swift streams, alder struggling—willow—something that looks like Madrone—and mosses a crust on shifty stones. Looking from our high point over the misty inlet, the light jade green waters with icebergs floating, and two tiny kayaks moving east. The rhythm of their paddles, the rise and dip. I imagine standing on an Aegean headland watching the flashing oars of a trireme crawling across wide seas. We pick our way down over slidy rock and sand, put out to the water, and (more skilful now) sit offshore setting the spray skirts, pogie hand-sheaths fastened to the paddles—and set across the water east toward Riggs glacier steering occasionally between the icebergs, stopping to sit and silently watch and be watched by a two-eyed calm faced seal. Pass by a vertical thread of creek arranging down steep wall angles, a soft rush, it disappears back of a cliff-jut and streams on over the humps and drops, into the saltwater. I take a compass reading toward Riggs and we push on into the fog, Carole aft working the rudder, me fore with the Silva compass clipped in to the sprayskirt, calling port or starboard corrections as we go. Eerie a while. We emerge to a view of Riggs, a blue light off of it in this gray mist. And why so many wheeling and crying birds around a glacier? Glaukos. Silvery and gleaming.

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occidentale, le contournons, tout cela sous une pluie fine. L’eau lisse comme du verre. Un phoque qui regarde, brisant la membrane (ciel et mer le même gris doux en miroir) entre ce monde et celui d’en bas, pour regarder, autre intelligent, puis glisser de nouveau (et non pas plonger) en ne perturbant quasiment pas la surface de l’eau. Ciel et mer un seul gris doux. Et que sont ces parois entr’aperçues de fragiles rochers et de glace. Au glacier McBride les troncs d’épinettes qui se dressent de la moraine érodée mur de gravats du dernier retrait. « Pas d’augmentation, pas de recul »—la glace remplit la cavité, la cavité contient la glace—elle glisse vers l’avant, puis recule, puis de nouveau vers l’avant, copulation de quatre millions d’années du cycle de l’eau avec ce géo-monde de rochers, le manteau. Tournons à l’Ouest en suivant la crique. Le Riggs glacier (où est-ce le McBride) énorme et flou enveloppé de brume, là où le chenal forme un coude. Nous allons vers les premières plages accostables à l’Ouest, débarquons le long d’un torrent de glacier dévalant la pente, et allons mettre le kayak plus haut sur la pente. Déjeuner froid et humide, assis sur les rochers. Raidis de froid nous nous changeons pour des chaussures de randonnée et montons d’un pas lourd mais rapide le long d’une longue pente : faisant travailler les jambes, nous serpentons entre les canyons d’érosion et les torrents rapides. D’un point, nous surplombons l’éperon glaciaire d’élévations rocheuses à la surface polie, seulement sur quelques mètres, au-dessus des débris de la moraine. La trace d’une avancée passée ? Ou se pourrait-il qu’une avancée glaciaire submerge aussi l’une de ses petites épines rocheuses sous des matériaux de moraine dans un seul et même mouvement ? Les débris de la moraine latérale sont disséqués par des cours d’eau rapides, les aulnes luttent—des saules—quelque chose qui ressemble à un arbousier—et des mousses comme une croûte sur des roches fuyantes. Nous regardons de notre point surélevé par-delà la crique embrumée, les eaux de jade vert clair et leurs icebergs flottants, deux minuscules kayaks qui vont vers l’Est. Le rythme des pagaies, le va-et-vient dans l’eau et hors de l’eau. Je m’imagine debout sur un promontoire de la mer Egée observant les rames rutilantes d’un trirème traversant avec force de grandes étendues marines. Nous choisissons un chemin qui descend au milieu des roches glissantes et du sable, et nous nous asseyons dans l’eau (en faisant plus attention maintenant) pour fixer la jupe d’étanchéité, les gants de laine attachés aux pagaies—et traversons vers l’Est en direction du glacier Riggs, manoeuvrant de temps en temps entre les icebergs, nous arrêtant pour observer assis en silence et être observés par les deux yeux d’un phoque au visage calme. Passons devant un filet vertical de petits cours d’eau qui s’arrangent des angles pentus de la paroi, en une douce précipitation,

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I wonder what the Tlingit for “Oystercatcher” is? Two fly by peeping as they go. We drift a while in front of Riggs. It’s like paddling on the water in the sky right in the alpine zone. Sailing past mountaintops...being on top of the world on top of the water. The ocean, “full”—always plenitude here-brimming— fullness of rich living green water cold and rippling. (Cold is only relative: for the resident creatures it is cozy home, these icy waters, these ice-scraped shores.) GARY SNYDER | Glacier Bay East Arm

Turn down bay, south now, the mist lifted, but still cloudy and drizzling—and paddle point by point and around to our icestudded tide flat inlet. Beach up on another low and carry a long carry to a safe place at the edge of the alders. Walking to camp, a set of fresh moose-tracks. We set out directly for a walk around the front-zone before the glacial lagoon, and roam among the house-sized blue ice blocks sitting in the low-tide muds. They are melting, some dripping a freshwater melody. I chip out more underside blue ice fragments, ice from the deepest heaviest low bands. And air bubbles in some ice from earlier planet sky. Big booms and a new iceberg in the lagoon. The moose-prints lead right up to the lagoon inlet passage, and straight across— such critters! Alder catkmins are hard and green now. Alders and salmonberries and wild blackberries as a boy. Back at camp Carole changes to dry clothes and sits in the entrance of the tent while I stay in raingear and do most of the cooking. We drink a sip of Rye and eat together. String damp clothes on a line inside the tent. & under that, and the murmur of a faint drizzle, we make love in the half-light of 11 p.m.

31 July 89 day 4 48 degrees at 8 a.m. tides: high, 1.15 a.m., 2.30 p.m. low, 7.40 a.m., 8.00 p.m. Overcast. Fog, misty drizzle. Drowsing and then sleeping. Of all the early bird cries, even half-asleep I hear “Oystercatcher.” That clear insistent calling. Up at 7.45 and making green tea, hijiki and miso-oatmeal mush, with canned sardines. Carole and I speak over breakfast of subsistence mind. Dick Nelson’s fishing and hunting: and the mind for watching what moves, what grows. “The great earth provides.” Now writing this 10.30 a.m., and getting ready to pack and move back down

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disparaît derrière une avancée de la falaise, tombe en cascade sur les bosses et les creux puis se jette dans l’eau salée. Je prends le compas qui m’indique la direction de Riggs, nous continuons dans le brouillard, Carole manie le gouvernail vers l’arrière, et moi à l’avant avec mon compas Silva accroché à la jupe d’étanchéité, indiquant tantôt bâbord tantôt tribord. Irréel et inquiétant pendant un moment. Riggs apparaît d’un seul coup devant nous, rayonnant d’une lumière bleue dans cette brume grise. Et pourquoi autant d’oiseaux crient et tournoient autour d’un glacier ? Glaukos, argenté et brillant. Je me demande comment se dit « huîtrier » en tlingit ? Il y en a deux qui passent devant nous en poussant un petit cri. Nous dérivons pendant un moment devant Riggs. C’est comme pagayer sur l’eau dans le ciel en pleine zone alpine. Glissant devant les sommets montagneux… on est au sommet du monde au sommet de l’eau. L’océan, « plein »—toujours la plénitude ici—débordante—abondance de richesse de vie eau vert froide ondulations. (Le froid ici est relatif : la maison des créatures qui résident ici, ce sont ces eaux glacées, ces rivages entaillés par la glace.) Nous tournons vers la baie, vers le Sud maintenant, la brume s’est levée, mais il y a toujours des nuages et du crachin—et pagayons point par point tout autour du bras de mer sur l’estran serti de glace. Accostons sur une zone basse et transportons notre charge sur une longue distance vers un endroit sûr à la lisière des aulnes. En marchant vers le campement, série de traces d’orignal toutes fraîches. Nous partons directement pour une marche autour de la zone frontale devant le lagon glaciaire, et traînons autour des blocs de glace, de la taille d’une maison, pris dans la boue de la marée basse. Ils sont en train de fondre, certains laissent échapper une mélodie de gouttes d’eau douce. Je taille quelques fragments de glace bleue du dessous, celle des bandes les plus profondes et les plus lourdes. Et les bulles d’air dans certaines glaces du ciel de la planète autrefois. De grands boums : un autre iceberg dans le lagon. Les empreintes d’orignal conduisent tout directement au passage de la crique du lagon, et le traversent—ah ces créatures ! Les chatons des aulnes sont durs et verts maintenant. Aulnes ronces élégantes et mûres sauvages de l’enfance. De retour au campement Carole se change pour des vêtements secs, s’assoit à l’entrée de la tente pendant que je reste en vêtement de pluie et prépare l’essentiel de la cuisine. Nous buvons une gorgée de whisky et mangeons ensemble. J’étends les vêtements humides sur un fil dans la tente. & et sous cela, dans le murmure d’un léger crachin, nous faisons l’amour dans le demi-jour de 11 heures du soir.

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the bay. We set out about 1.30 p.m. so as to go into the lagoon while it’s still slack, and explore around the icebergs in front of the glacier. Rustling iceberg bits lapping and rubbing in sweeps where the current bunches them, a dance of skeletons, a rattle and click of old cold bones. We get drawn toward them as we drift. Clouds puffed broad above: clouds in glaciers, glaciers hidden in glaciers... GARY SNYDER | Glacier Bay East Arm

The sunshine, the ceaseless rustle of water and ice, the cannonade of icefalls, and after seeing first the smoky plume of falling ice bits, the baboom of its impact after a lapse of quick time, and the echoes across to Thunder ridge (hence the name?)— A tern, clear up here diving as for a fish among the icebergs. What fishing here to bring in birds again we wonder—wind and ice rustle and the boom of the ice letting go...its cutting edge... releasing the avant-garde to the mainstream as it were— At 2.15 we depart McBride glacier, its lagoon and cove, steering out through bergs and boils on the beginning ebb current, and paddle south. The Nunatak. Goose cove. Sealers island. The opening into Wachusetts inlet, and heading then toward the Klotz hills. A run of choppy water. The kayak riding slicing through, paddling the rough water with the smooth. Habit now, I can look up at the mountainsides and down the inlets while paddling away, rarely getting out of Carole’s rhythm. And I steer. Sun comes in and out—its warm—but clouds dominate. Rounding the last point before the cove south of the Klotz hills, Carole pointed back saying “Let’s camp there” and at first I didn’t see how there might be some level land for a tent—but then saw at the top of the steep gravel beach a bench and some beach rye. Turned and headed straight in. Carole undid her spray skirt and stepped out of the bow cockpit to walk up the gravel, signaled o.k., so we disembark, unload, the tide going down, and set up camp—tent and all—within an hour. Carole sets up cooking on a stone ledge in the tidal zone. Look south to Mt. Wright and far down the bay to peaks, islands, clouds. (Dick Nelson on St. Lazaria, said a bird-kill by another bird: the wings are always still together.) Clean cove, rocks, long view. And a little smoothed-out place. Someone had put a tent up here before. Also a little chamber built of rocks for a foodcache, down in the beach outcroppings. After dinner we climb around the corner west and north for the view back up the in-

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31 juillet 89. Quatrième jour 9 °C à 8 heures du matin. Marées : haute, 1H15 du matin, 2H30 après-midi, basse, 7H40, 8H du soir. Somnolons jusqu’au sommeil. De tous les cris d’oiseaux, même à moitié endormi, j’entends « huîtrier ». Un appel clair et insistant. Debout à 7H45, je prépare du thé vert, avec porridge et hijiki, et des sardines en boîte. Nous parlons avec Carole de l’esprit de subsistance. Dick Nelson à la pêche et à la chasse : et l’esprit pour observer ce qui bouge, ce qui pousse. « La Grande Terre fournit ». J’écris cela à 10H30 du matin, et me prépare à empaqueter et redescendre dans la baie. Départ à environ 1H30 de l’après-midi, pour être dans le lagon tant qu’il est encore étale, nous explorons le voisinage des icebergs devant le glacier. Bruissement des bouts d’icebergs, les clapotis dans l’eau et bruits de frottement là où le courant les rassemble en bouquets, une danse de squelettes, le claquement et le cliquetis de vieux os glacés. Nous sommes attirés vers eux en dérivant. Poussées de nuages partout au-dessus : nuages dans les glaciers, glaciers cachés dans les glaciers… Éclat du soleil, bruissement incessant de l’eau et de la glace, canonnade des chutes de glace, après avoir vu dans un premier temps le panache de fumée des morceaux de glace qui tombent, le badaboum de l’impact après un court laps de temps, et l’écho de part en part de la crête du Tonnerre (d’où son nom ?)— Une sterne, très nette au-dessus de nous, plonge comme pour attraper un poisson au milieu des icebergs. Quels poissons ici pour faire revenir les oiseaux on se demande—le vent le bruissement de la glace et le boum de la glace qui lâche… son bord tranchant… sorte de mouvement d’avant-garde qui annonce de nouvelles tendances. A 2H15 nous quittons le glacier McBride, son lagon et son anse, manoeuvrons à travers les icebergs et les bouillonnements du courant qui recommence son reflux, et pagayons vers le Sud. Nunatak. Anse de Goose. L’île de Sealers. L’ouverture de la crique de Wachusetts, direction ensuite vers les collines de Klotz. Parcours un peu agité. Le kayak se taille un chemin en fendant les flots, coups de pagaies en douceur dans l’eau difficile. Question d’habitude, j’arrive maintenant à lever les yeux vers les flancs des montagnes, regarder vers les criques tout en pagayant, sans presque jamais quitter le rythme de Carole. Et je dirige. Le soleil apparaît et disparaît—il fait doux—mais les nuages l’emportent. Au moment de contourner le dernier point avant la crique au sud des collines de Klotz, Carole pointa du doigt un lieu derrière nous, disant « campons là » et d’abord je ne compris pas comment il pourrait y avoir un terrain plat pour une tente—

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let. The tide is down, sweeps of rock covered with mussels are laid bare. And come back direct through the alders. 1 August 89. Tuesday. Day 5 54 degrees at 7.30 a.m, misty and fog in the night. Tent soaked on the outside again. A fox sparrow just trembling the alders. A hummingbird at our back while we’re sitting, coming to see C’s red jacket. GARY SNYDER | Glacier Bay East Arm

“Succession”—from the Alders standpoint, advance and retreat is the reverse. This is a time of great alder advances, as the glaciers retreat. Biomass on the march. Succession a name for a specific aspect of the process in impermanence, but it happens with clouds, with weather, with ideas, as well. (Dogen got the start for Mts & Rivers Sutra from the Su Shih poem?) Flows of glaciers and alders. Ins and outs of Tides. Weather, “Heaven’s Breath.” 11.20 a.m. leave the cove to continue south. Fill the waterbag at Maquinna cove, Carole ashore, freshwater gurgling in the beach rock. Then go round Adams point. Soon we find the tide current picking up and we are being carried into Adams inlet faster and faster. It is like going into a window. The richness. How many calls/songs of the wild? Canada geese—terns—an Aleutian tern. Waters and green grown island, coves, the riffle echoes water sounds and bird sounds—seal up and back then diving, terns look us over, we silently float into this world of bird cries and waters sounding, within the rims of steep mountains white-and-green in the subtle half-illuminated cloud light...a faint sun warmth mixed with breeze of chill. From the Endicott glacier a broad bare glacial outflow fan of gravels and rushing waters distant roar. (It was Carole who really wanted to come in here! I am so glad we took the chance and came on in!) Three long-tailed terns with red in the head swing by the kayak in their flying-chattering—we ride on riffles and boils and steady flow, glacial creek fan a mile wide, growing louder, even a mile south of it, near the island. Bird comments, gossip, chatters, annoyances, presentations, announcements. We float, with all our gear, our own water, completely self-contained, into a sort of the Garden of Eden, “better” says Carole, because there are no domesticated apples.” A circle of waters,

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mais ensuite je vis au sommet de la plage de gravier un replat et une sorte de seigle de mer. Nous sommes donc retournés en direction de l’endroit. Carole défit sa jupe d’étanchéité et sortit du cockpit pour escalader le gravier, me fit OK, et alors nous débarquons, déchargeons, la marée est descendante, et installons le campement—la tente et tout le reste—en moins d’une heure. Carole installe la cuisine sur un rebord de pierre dans la zone des marées. Je regarde vers le Sud en direction du Mt Wright et plus bas au loin dans la baie vers des pics, des îles, des nuages. (Selon Dick Nelson à St Lazaria, quand un oiseau est victime innocente d’un autre oiseau : les ailes restent pliées ensemble). Belle crique, rochers, vue dégagée. Et ce petit endroit plus lisse ? Quelqu’un avait déjà planté sa tente ici. Il y a aussi une petite niche faite avec des rochers pour cacher la nourriture, plus bas dans les affleurements rocheux sur la plage. Après dîner nous escaladons en direction du nord et du sud pour la vue de la crique derrière nous. La marée est basse, des bouquets de rochers couverts de moules sont mis à nu. Retour direct par les aulnes. 1er août 89. Mardi. Cinquième jour 12 °C à 7H30, brume brouillard pendant la nuit. La tente est trempée de nouveau à l’extérieur. Un moineau roux vient de faire trembler les aulnes. Un colibri derrière nous alors que nous sommes assis, il est venu voir la veste rouge de C. « Succession »—du point de vue des aulnes, avancée et retrait à l’envers. Nous sommes dans une période de grande avancée des aulnes, alors que les glaciers se retirent. La biomasse est en route. Succession est le nom utilisé pour un aspect particulier de l’impermanence, mais cela se produit aussi avec les nuages, le temps ou les idées. (Dôgen trouva le début de son soutra des Montagnes et des Rivières du poème de Su Shih ?). Flots de glaciers et d’aulnes. Allées et venues de la marée. Le temps qu’il fait, « Souffle du Ciel ». A 11H20 quittons la crique pour continuer vers le Sud. Remplissons la poche à eau à l’anse de Maquinna, Carole sur la grève, gargouillis de l’eau douce dans les rochers sur la plage. Puis contournons Adams point. Bientôt le courant de la marée se fait de plus en plus fort et nous sommes entraînés de plus en plus rapidement vers Adams inlet. C’est comme rentrer dans une fenêtre. Toute cette richesse. Combien d’appels/chants du monde sauvage ? Des bernaches du Canada—des sternes—une sterne des Aléoutiennes. Les eaux et une île de verdure, des criques, les rapides renvoient l’écho des bruits d’eau des bruits d’oiseau—on voit un phoque qui replonge ensuite, des sternes nous regardent de haut, nous flottons en silence dans ce monde de cris d’oiseaux et de sons aquatiques, dans un écrin de

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washed with tides and glacial outmelts, that wasn’t even here in Muir’s time.

GARY SNYDER | Glacier Bay East Arm

4.00 p., We stop on the east side of the glacial island. There’s grass, and some fresh water. Deep alder, soil building where you peek into the dark inside, a floor of Devil’s club and moss. We sit on the beach and wait for the turn of the tide, to ride the flow back out. Around the north side of the island is a long, slow pull, not muich tide. At the west end of the island an ebb ride begins, and we enter the single Adams inlet channel. Hear a strange strange deep throaty growling from afar. It’s a group of seals on the north beach of the channel, maybe 80. And Canada geese nearby, also resting on the bar. Paddle steadily the south side to come up on Muir Point. It’s a mussel beach, we go ashore in two spots looking for a campsite but can’t find a level place, only rounded mossy boulders under the beach rye. We decide to cross the main inlet to its west shore, and we do it in 25". A quick setup in the high (driftwood) zone at the top of the beach. Mussel shell blue scatters and mounds crunch under my tall brown rubber boots. Cook dinner as it darkens, sitting at the upper end of the tide zone, and slip into bed by 11 p.m. & then it starts raining. This day we made 14 miles. Kelp and trash high tide lines on the beach. Alder thicket walls cover any old landscape of boulder and gravel, alders and fans for bears.

2 August. 1989. Wed. Day 6 Rise 4.30 p., set out 6.30, a light rain and everything safe in the soaked garbage bags and under the vestibule, we are good now at quick packing. Folding the tent, saving each stake, carry gear to the water, put on the lifejacket, pull the spray-skirt over the head, and adjust it. Stride with tall boots into the water...stepping into kayak, bobbing, light, afloat. Stretch the spray-skirt placing it under the cockpit lip, and snap it into place. Put the map case forward of the hatch, balancing the paddle, and take it up, and Carole starts her stroke, I follow from her left side lead, and also begin my stroke. We move and flow together. Water murmuring behind. Fog. Barely see the far shore. But Garforth emerges gradually and go past it to the east, a beach of birds. Reach the pickup point, lay out the gear and the kayak, and then we make another miso-oatmeal breakfast mush and green tea.

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montagnes abruptes blanches et vertes dans la subtile demilumière des nuages… faible douceur du soleil mêlée de brises de fraîcheur. Depuis le glacier Endicott le fracas lointain d’un cône de déjection glaciaire de graviers et d’eaux impétueuses. (C’est Carole qui voulait vraiment entrer ici ! Je suis si heureux que nous ayons finalement décidé d’y venir !) Trois sternes aux longues queues avec du rouge sur la tête se balancent près du kayak en volant-piaillant—nous naviguons sur des rapides, des bouillonnements et des flots plus réguliers, avec le bruit de plus en plus fort d’un cône glaciaire de la crique, large de plus d’un kilomètre, même à un kilomètre et demi au sud, près de l’île. Commentaires des oiseaux, commérages, bavardages, mécontentements, présentations, annonces. Nous mettons à flot, avec tout notre équipement, notre propre eau, en totale indépendance, sur une sorte de Jardin d’Eden, « en mieux » dit Carole, car il n’y a pas de pommes domestiquées ». Un cercle d’eaux, inondé de marées et de débris de fonte glaciaire, qui n’était même pas là à l’époque de Muir. 4 heures de l’après-midi, nous nous arrêtons sur le côté est de l’île glaciaire. Il y a de l’herbe et un peu d’eau douce. Aulnes profonds, le sol qui travaille quand on jette un coup d’œil vers l’intérieur sombre, tapis de bois piquants et de mousse. Assis sur la plage, nous attendons le changement de marée, pour repartir sur les flots. Trajet sur le côté Nord lent et long, peu de marée. A l’extrémité occidentale de l’île nous commençons à naviguer contre le reflux, puis entrons dans l’unique chenal de l’Adams inlet. Entendons de loin un profond grognement guttural étrange, étrange. C’est un groupe de phoques sur la plage au nord du chenal, il y en a peut-être 80. Et des bernaches du Canada tout près, qui se reposent aussi sur la barre. Pagayons à un rythme régulier le long du côté sud pour arriver sur Muir Point. C’est une plage couverte de moules, nous débarquons en deux lieux à la recherche d’un lieu pour camper, mais ne trouvons pas d’endroit plat, seulement des gros rochers moussus sous le seigle marin de la plage. Nous décidons de traverser le principal passage vers sa côte Ouest, ce que nous faisons en 25". Installation rapide sur la zone en haut (bois dérivants) de la plage. Sous mes grandes bottes marron en caoutchouc coquilles de moules, éclats bleus, petits monticules écrasés. Préparons le dîner alors que la nuit tombe, assis à l’extrémité supérieure de l’estran, et nous glissons au lit vers 11H du soir & alors la pluie commence. Nous avons parcouru 22 kilomètres aujourd’hui. Varech et débris lignes tracées par la marée haute sur la plage. Des fourrés touffus d’aulnes couvrent toujours les anciens paysages de rochers et de graviers, aulnes et sortes d’éventails pour les ours.

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The boat the “Gold Rush” arrives from the fog and we ladder up, load up, and step through the front window, suddenly we are into warmth, light, and the engine thrum. People, tourists, looking at us with interest and curiosity as we slip out of raingear and get some new clothes from the packs. The ship takes us up to Reid and then Tarr inlets. WORD, “Nunatak” GARY SNYDER | Glacier Bay East Arm

an island of land surrounded by icefields...introduced by Nordenskiold “inter-racial stumps.” And, “Single birds meet the seals at the Haul-out Bar.” JOHN MUIR in 1890 800 feet in the air above where we kayak, drawing a sled behind him with his gear, walking north and sometimes camping on the ice. One century.

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2 août. 1989. Merc. Sixième jour Lever 4H30 du matin, départ 6H30, pluie légère, tout est à l’abri dans les sacs poubelle trempés et sous le vestibule, maintenant nous sommes bons à l’empaquetage rapide. Plions la tente, n’oubliant aucun piquet, transportons l’équipement vers l’eau, enfilons les gilets de sauvetage, mettons la jupe d’étanchéité par la tête, puis l’ajustons. Entrons dans l’eau avec des grandes bottes… montons dans le kayak, qui se balance, léger, à flot. Tendons la jupe en la mettant en place sous le rebord du cockpit. Nous posons l’étui avec les cartes devant l’écoutille, tenons la pagaie en équilibre, l’empoignons, Carole commence à avancer. Je la suis à partir de sa conduite à gauche, et commence également à pagayer. Nous bougeons et glissons sur l’eau ensemble. L’eau murmure derrière nous. Brouillard. On voit à peine la côte au loin. Mais Garforth se profile peu à peu, et passant devant à l’Est, une plage pleine d’oiseaux. Le point de rencontre atteint, nous étalons l’équipement et le kayak, puis nous nous préparons un autre petit déjeuner à base de bouillie de miso et porridge avec du thé vert. Le bateau le « Ruée vers l’or » sort du brouillard, nous grimpons à bord, chargeons notre paquetage, pénétrons par la fenêtre avant, et soudain nous sommes dans la chaleur, la lumière avec le tapotement régulier du moteur. Des gens, des touristes nous observent avec intérêt et curiosité alors que nous ôtons nos vêtements de pluie et sortons de nouveaux vêtements de notre paquetage. Le bateau nous emmène à Reid et ensuite aux criques de Tarr. LE MOT, « Nunatak » Îlot de terre entouré de champs de glace… introduit par Nordenskjöld « Souches inter-raciales » Et, « les oiseaux célibataires rencontrent les phoques au Bar des Prises. » JOHN MUIR en 1890. A 800 pieds dans le ciel au-dessus de notre kayak, laissant la trace d’un traîneau derrière lui avec son équipement, marchant vers le Nord et campant sur la glace. Un siècle.

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Garder le silence. Milan Grygar Florent Fajole

Concevons, hors de toute histoire, une double origine de la peinture. La première serait l'écriture, le tracé des signes futurs, l'exercice de la pointe (du pinceau, de la mine, du poinçon, de ce qui creuse et strie — même si c'est sous l'artifice d'une ligne déposée par la couleur). Le seconde serait la cuisine, c'est-à-dire toute pratique qui vise à transformer la matière selon l'échelle complète de ses circonstances, par des opérations multiples telles que l'attendrissement, l'épaississement, la fluidification, la granulation, la lubrification, produisant ce qu'on appelle en gastronomie le nappé, le lié, le velouté, le crémeux, le croquant, etc. Freud oppose ainsi la sculpture -via di levareà la peinture -via di porre ; mais c'est dans la peinture même que l’opposition se dessine : celle de l’incision (du « trait ») et de l’onction (de la « nappe »). Ces deux origines seraient liées aux deux gestes de la main, qui tantôt gratte, tantôt lisse, tantôt creuse, tantôt défripe ; en un mot, au doigt et à la paume, à l’ongle et au mont de Vénus. Cette main double se partagerait tout l’empire de la peinture, parce que la main est la vérité de la peinture, non l’œil (la « représentation », ou la figuration, ou la copie, ne serait à tout prendre qu’un accident dérivé et incorporé, un alibi, un transparent mis sur le réseau des traces et des nappes, une ombre portée, un mirage essentiel). Une autre histoire de la peinture est possible, qui n’est pas celle des œuvres et des artistes, mais celle des outils et des matières ; pendant longtemps, très longtemps, l’artiste, chez nous, n’a reçu aucune individualité de son outil. Roland Barthes, « Réquichot et son corps » (1973), in Œuvres complètes, IV, Editions du Seuil, Paris, 2002, pp. 381-382.

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El misterio de los enlaces y el secreto de las pausas José Lezama Lima, « Prosa de circunstancia para Mallarmé », in Analecta del reloj, La Habana, Ed. Orígenes, 1953, p. 265.

1. Creuser, habiter. En 1965, Milan Grygar constate que les outils habituels du peintre, et d’une façon plus générale l’univers immédiat de son atelier, n’interviennent pas de façon active dans la réalisation de l’œuvre produite. L’artiste tchèque décide alors de les employer, avec l’impulsion donnée par la main humaine, comme matériaux capables de creuser et de produire des formes visuelles, puis sonores autonomes et inédites ; ce qui suppose une certaine marge de manœuvre laissée à des objets ou à leurs fragments choisis pour leur motricité et leurs qualités rythmiques. Beaucoup sont des jouets mécaniques et/ou réfèrent à la mesure du temps. Délaissant la peinture pour mieux en retrouver l’origine supposée par Roland Barthes, Milan Grygar aboutit à la création de dessins acoustiques et de partitions visuelles* dont les deux aspects, visuel et sonore, inscrits ensemble dans le processus de l’œuvre (Alexandre Broniarski), conservent une réelle autonomie de perception. Puis la scénographie personnelle devient publique. L’une des actions de 1969 (reproduite à plusieurs reprises par la suite) creuse les traces laissées sur le papier. Creuser comme pour recueillir la cicatrice élémentaire de l’écriture au-delà de toute empreinte. Le trou béant est ainsi une profession de foi totale et plus radicale encore dans les possibilités de la peinture.

* Sur les rapports entre œuvres visuelles et sonores en général, et sur les dessins acoustiques et les partitions visuelles de Milan Grygar en particulier, cf. Jean-Yves Bosseur, Le sonore et le visuel. Intersections musique / arts plastiques aujourd’hui, Dis Voir, Paris, [1992] 2006, ISBN : 2-906-571-23-7. Version anglaise disponible chez le même éditeur. | 3_ 2007

Non seulement les objets du peintre ont recouvré toute leur individualité, mais la photographie permet de convertir les objets résiduels, ceux qui -maintenus dans un rôle passif- ne sont là en théorie que pour servir de support ou d’alibi. Après la saillie, au cœur d’un périmètre que l’on peut élargir, reste la prégnance du creux et le silence à peine habité par un objet (une chaise, une bouteille d’encre, une toile, etc.) qui, au même titre que le quotidien sur d’autres prises, nous rappelle à quel monde nous appartenons. C’est une façon de garder le silence tandis que l’artiste tient le registre du son et de l’image. Et de manière plus marquante encore dans la première action évoquée. Le silence a ici une couleur de prédilection immensément blanche. Il s’écrit sans un mot et laisse des traces que l’on n’attendait pas. Quoi de plus saisissant en effet que d’associer la chaise sur laquelle était assis l’artiste à la conservation du silence produit par le creusement le plus abouti de la peinture ? Quand on est allé très loin, que l’on s’est positionné au-delà et qu’en définitive on en revient toujours au point de départ. Seule une chaise en révèle désormais le processus. « Garder un silence de mort » pour paraphraser Gilbert-Lecomte, c’est déjà, en de pareilles circonstances, créer l’œuvre d’où l’on se trouve. C’est la reprendre à son compte pour la créer une seconde fois en s’asseyant. De là où Milan Grygar s’est trouvé assis et de là où se situe le public, de l’autre côté du creusé, et où je suis assis à cet instant précis, il existe en effet bien des manières de garder le silence qui ne s’excluent pas et parfois se combinent : en gardant de vue, par la perception et la photographie, ou encore en touchant du doigt, par la transmission et le déplacement. 2. Lire, toucher. L’une des nombreuses partitions que Milan Grygar a créées consiste en un cahier de plusieurs dizaines de pages de portées comportant le déplacement de ses empreintes digitales inscrites à l’encre noire. Cette partition a fait l’objet d’interprétations publiques et la

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photographie que nous reproduisons a été prise dans l’atelier de l’artiste lors des premiers essais. Il n’est pas difficile d’imaginer ce qui se dégage de cette œuvre visuelle dont le prolongement est sonore. Le lecteur découvre le plaisir du texte qu’il a devant les yeux et qu’il aborde du bout des doigts pour mieux s’en imprégner. Ce geste marque déjà en creux l’extension de l’œuvre par le toucher en un espace et un temps transitoires sans délimitation précise. Il s’agit en somme d’un geste musical latent dont la durée est variable. Interpréter la partition sans pour l’instant se poser sur le moindre objet, à l’instar de la photographie qui prive l’être humain d’une relation sensible directe à la matière. Si le temps creuse et nous plonge dans un espace qui n’a pas besoin d’être limité, il s’agit plutôt en définitive de napper les surfaces et d’en faire émerger les sensations jusqu’à perdre, pourquoi pas, le contact originel avec le référent sonore. La conséquence presque inattendue serait de perdre le son de vue car nous avons tout le loisir d’éprouver d’autres sensations. Tout reste possible, y compris de creuser et de garder le silence une fois encore. 3. Photographier. Dans l’œuvre de Milan Grygar, les photographies documentent le silence et son périmètre, la part maudite dont on a si peu fait cas jusqu’à présent. On a insisté, à juste titre, et comment pourrait-il en être autrement, sur la génération du son à partir de la création d’une œuvre plastique et visuelle. Nous pouvons tout autant sonder les qualités du silence que ces images impriment en chacun de nous. S’il est vrai que les photographies parlent en gardant le silence, elles font parfois davantage. Photographier l’œuvre pendant et après son accomplissement, c’est donner à voir le trait qui creuse et la nature du creusé qui s’en suit. C’est par exemple ici accorder une voix au silence, à ses volumes et à ses reliefs, à son espace et à sa durée. 4. Une autre histoire de la peinture est bel et bien possible…

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Keeping the silence. Milan Grygar

FLORENT FAJOLE | Keeping the silence. Milan Grygar

1. To dig, to dwell In 1965, Milan Grygar notes that the common tools of the painter, and in a general sense the immediate universe of the painter’s studio, do not actively participate in the realization of the production of art. The Czech artist then decides to use them, from the impulse of the human hand, as materials able to dig and produce visual forms, then become unedited and autonomous sound; he proposes a maneuverable space between the objects or their fragments chosen for their mechanical and rhythmic qualities. Many are mechanical toys and/or objects that refer to the measurement of time. Forsaking the usual act of painting for a better method to find its origin, as proposed by Roland Barthes, Milan Grygar arrives at the creation of acoustic drawings and visual scores*, where two aspects, visual and sound, register together in the work process (Alexandre Broniarski), preserving the real autonomy of perception. Then this personal scenography becomes public. One of the actions in 1969 (reproduced on several later occasions) digs the traces left on the paper. Digging as though collecting the elementary scar of writing beyond all print. The open hole that appears becomes once again a complete and radical profession of faith in the possibilities of painting.

* For writing on visual and sound works in general, and the acoustic drawing and visual scores of Milan Grygar in particular, see Jean-Yves Bosseur, Sound and the visual arts: Intersections between music and plastic arts today, Dis Voir, Paris (2000).

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Not only did the painter’s objects recover their individuality, but the photography makes it possible to convert the residual object, things which—kept in a passive role—are in theory only present as support or alibi. After the bulge, in the heart of the enlarging space, the remaining pregnant hole and its silence is barely inhabited by some remaining object (a chair, a bottle of ink, a piece of fabric, etc.) which, along with the objects of the everyday in other settings, remind us in which world we belong. It is a way of keeping the silence as the artist holds on to the register of sound and image. And in an even more striking way, it is evoked in the first actions. Silence here is the color of an immensely white predilection. It is written without words and leaves traces one cannot wait for. What power affects the association of the chair on which the artist sat with the conservation of silence produced by the successful act of digging a painting? Having gone very far, that far off position ultimately returns to the starting point. From now on, only a chair reveals the process. “To keep a deathly hush” to paraphrase Gilbert-Lecomte, is already, in similar circumstances, to create a work from where one finds oneself. It is to reposess the work and, sitting there, create it for a second time. From where Milan Grygar had been sitting, and from where the public viewed him, on the other side of the digging, and where I sit at this precise moment, indeed there exists many ways of keeping the silence, none excluded and often combined: kept in view, by perception and photography, or once again through the touching of a finger, by transmission and displacement. 2. To read, to touch One of the numerous scores created by Milan Grygar consists of a notebook of dozens of printed staffs on which he marks his fingerprints recorded as black ink. The score was the subject of a public performance and the photography reproduced here was taken in the artist’s studio at the time of the first tests. It is not difficult to imagine what is released

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from this visual work, whose extension is sound. The reader discovers the pleasure of the text in front of his eyes and can be approached with the ends of the fingers to bring it to life. The epic already marks the emptiness extending from the work by touching, without precise limits, a transitory space and time. It is acted out as a latent musical gesture with variable duration. The score can be interpreted without a movement imposed on any other object, like a photography that deprives a human being of any direct sensual relation to the matter it records. If time digs and plunges us into a space that does not require a limit, ultimately it acts on a coated surface and makes feelings emerge until, why not, we lose our original contact with the thing to which the sounds refers. The almost unexpected consequence would be to lose the sound of sight because we have so much time to test other sensations. Everything remains possible, including the digging and keeping the silence once again. 3. To photograph In the work of Milan Grygar, photographs document silence and its perimeter, the cursed part of which did little until now. We can rightly insistâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;and how could we do otherwiseâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;on the generation of the sound begun from creating a plastic and visual work. We can as much probe qualities of silence which these images imprint on each of us. If it is true that the photographs speak by keeping the silence, sometimes they make something more. To photograph the work during and after its achievement is to permit us to see the nature of the digging and the nature of the result which follows. For example, here it grants a voice to silence, its volume and its relief, its space and its duration. 4. Another history of the painting is possible, well and goodâ&#x20AC;Ś

(English translation by Paul Kahn & Dominique Negel) | 3_ 2007

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Milan Grygar

Writing selected from Milan Grygar's texts, published in Obraz a zvuk / Image and Sound, National Gallery in Prague/Gema Art, 1999. Page 113: Finger score, 1972, photograph by Štěpán Grygar Pages 114-119: Recording of the performance of a tactile drawing, 1969, photograph by Josef Prošek Pages 120-127: Recording of the performance of a tactile drawing Opening of space, 1976, photograph by Štěpán Grygar

Tactile Drawings

Acoustic drawing is auditive drawing, sound created and organized by the drawing. It is an activity oscillating between the solid and non-solid, steady and unsteady. It is a harmony between the image and the sound, strategy and structure of the acoustic and the optical. It is a language of drawing and sounding objects. It is a symbiosis of the drawing game with sounds, a symbiosis of drawing and sound story. ... It is a record of a completed action, a record of the course of the drawing in the unity of time and space. It is an interval drawing with sound sources in the rhythmical sequence of taking in breath and breathing out, the positive and negative of the activity, act, and action of the drawing. ... Drawing is an optical and sound continuum of the duration of time in the space of the sound in the area of the drawing. ... Chance is the existence of the possible. The intersection of the given and the possible. The voluntary in the involuntary, the intentional in the unintentional, the certain in the uncertain. ... Light and silence are the basic properties of the space. The light and silence are perceived by us as the space. ... The starting point of the painting is the light. The starting point of the music is the silence. It was the silence of my studio which helped me to bridge over the silence of my drawings. ... Sound is the space of time.

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Michael Rothenberg

Rosemary Clooney Died Today

I’m in a hurry with no place to go I’m here, it’s here, not there, but here Burning incense 10:29 am, Sunday morning, rain, rain, come this way mind o mind float away.... “krishna lila” by dj Cheb i Sabbah, put me to sleep last night when I thought I’d never stop running the tap, frozen in sleepless headlights. Everyone should know I was there for him. I was monkey son and hope I didn’t hurt him not sitting with him every remaining departing moment Separation and exile He complained about being alone but knew it was nothing unique Moment to moment, each breath and thought breaking apart, the delicacy of regrouping those thoughts into a concoction, to consume once again Agates, buddhas, books and very little else over 78 years, but tons of friends Who admired him, never knew how to talk to him, or ways to take care of him Protect him in his grand vulnerability He was after all a cranky guy but so what if that was his worst aspect then give me more Philips Banquets of Philips Trees of peach Philip fruit Tomes of Philip Philip zones

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Philip barks and howls and groans to populate the thickening silence Philip silence and Philip pause Philip face distorting to punctuate the situation Philip ears and images What a handsome fatman Handsome boob Handsome vegetable Handsome meat I picture him and my mother talking from one hospital bed in Miami to another in San Francisco Two handsome cranks both sure how this miserable story would end

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Joanne Kyger

Night Palace

“The best thing about the past is that it’s over” when you die. you wake up from the dream that’s your life. Then you grow up and get to be post human in a past that keeps happening ahead of you

October 2003

Dear Paul, Sylvester Pollet used the poem in his 2006 Backwood Broadside Series of a small selection of my poems and called it Night Palace and it has also been recently republished in the Collected, ABOUT NOW from National Poetry Foundation (July 2007). It was originally published in Micah Ballard’s magazine called Night Palace, (which was his title originally) auguste press/ ugly duckling press 2005, San Francisco. So if you still want to use it after it has been published this often, please feel free. Very best, Joanne 144

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2007

Gary Snyder Michael Rothenberg Norman Fischer John Brandi CA

James Koller

NM AK

Eric Suchère

10 9

17 8

Gilles Plazy

11 4 5

12 13

Etel Adnan 9 8

Pavel Řezníček

6 5

Milan Grygar

3 1 2

Miska Knapek

Tuula Närhinen D. Tumen