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Still Standing: Ali and the transitivity of being

☛ Corbis Images: “Boxer Ali Dodging a Punch From Frazier”, Madison Square Garden, New York, March 8, 1971. Stock Photo ID: U1697850. © Bettmann/CORBIS. Large format retrieved from Gym Class All Stars.

The authorship of this photo –which is part of the Bettman Archive owned by Corbis– is not attributed. Here’s the original description, as it appears at Corbis:

Boxer Muhammad Ali steps away from a punch thrown by boxer Joe Frazier during their heavyweight title fight at Madison Square Garden in 1971. Frazier became the undisputed heavyweight champ of the world by winning a unanimous 15-round decision.

Although Ali lost this match, he was not knocked down: at the end of the 15th round, he was still standing. It was said –and written– that Ali was not in his best shape to take on Joe Frazier during what became known as “The Fight of the Century”.

Yet what is so striking about the image featured here is the amazing grace –for lack of better words– of Ali’s posture while he dodges Frazier’s punch. His whole body seems to be perfectly balanced, as if he was actually inviting and welcoming the failed attack of his opponent. Even in evasion, Ali looks like the one who is in control.

One could argue that if Ali was still standing in the ring at the end of the match, with Frazier, it may very well be because his was never standing still. To hold a position, to take a stand or to stand forth, to withstand an encounter, to sustain a relation: in each of those cases, it is less about the conservation of a given state, than it is about the movement of an exposition, and the fluidity of an ever-changing disposition. In the photo, Ali can guard himself because he is dancing with Frazier: in other words, there is a self to guard because there’s a dynamic engagement with the other.

In an essay originally published in 1988, Jean-Luc Nancy offers some enlightening observations about the transitive value of such an understanding of “being-there”:

Being is neither substance nor cause of the thing; rather, it is a being-the-thing in which the verb “to be” has a transitive value of a “positioning,” but one in which the “positioning” is based on nothing else but (and because of nothing else) than on (and because of) Dasein, being-there, being thrown down, given over, abandoned, offered up by existence. (The there is not a grounding for existence, but rather its taking place, its arrival, its coming—which also means its difference, its withdrawal, its excess, its “exscription.”) (“Of Being-in-Common”, tr. James Creech, Community at Loose Ends, ed. Miami Theory Collective, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1991, p. 2)

L’être n’y est ni substance ni cause de la chose, mais il est un être-la-chose où le verbe «être» a la valeur transitive d’un «poser», mais où le «poser» ne pose sur rien d’autre (et en vertu de rien d’autre) que sur (et en vertu de) l’être-là, l’être-jeté, livré, abandonné, offert de l’existence. (Le là n’est pas un sol pour l’existence, mais son avoir-lieu, son arrivée, sa venue —c’est-à-dire aussi sa différence, son retrait, son excès, son excription.) (“De l’être-en-commun”, La communauté désoeuvrée, Paris: Christian Bourgois, [1988] 1999, p. 204).

Nancy further develops the idea of the transitivity of being-there as being-with in Being Singular Plural:

To be is nothing that is in-common, but nothing as the dispersal where what is in-common is dis-posed and measured, the in-common as the with, the beside-itself of to be as such, to be transfixed by its own transitivity: to be being all beings, not as their individual and/or common “self,” but as the proximity that disperses [écarte] them. […] As such, then, “being-there” (Dasein) is to be according to this transitive verbal value of the dis-position. Being-there is [the] dis-posing [of] Being itself as distance/proximity; it is “to make” or “to let” be the coming of all with all as such. Dasein (that is, humanity as the index of Being) thus exposes Being-as-to-be. (tr. by Robert D. Richardson and Anne E. O’Byrne, Stanford: Stanford University Press, [1996] 2000, pp. 96-97)

Être n’est rien de commun, mais rien en tant que l’écartement où se dis-pose et se mesure l’en-commun, c’est-à-dire l’avec, l’auprès-de-soi de être comme tel, être de part en part transi de sa propre transitivité: être étant tous les étants, non pas comme leur «soi» individuel et/ou commun, mais comme la proximité qui les écarte. […] «Être-le-là» (Dasein), c’est donc être selon cette valeur verbale transitive de la dis-position: être-le-là, c’est dis-poser l’être lui- même, comme écartement/proximité, c’est «faire» ou «laisser» être la venue de tout avec tout comme telle. Dasein (l’homme comme exposant de l’être) expose ainsi l’être en tant qu’être. (Être singulier pluriel, Paris: Galilée, 1996, pp. 120-121).

Jean-Luc Nancy uses the example of someone who enters a room. In the case at hand here, it could very well be read as the example of a boxer who enters a ring:

Someone enters a room; before being the eventual subject of a representation of this room, he disposes himself in it and to it. In crossing through it, living in it, visiting it, and so forth, he thereby exposes the disposition –the correlation, combination, contact, distance, relation-of all that is (in) the room and, therefore, of the room itself. He exposes the simultaneity in which he himself participates at that instant, the simultaneity in which he exposes himself just as much as he exposes it and as much as he is exposed in it. He exposes himself. It is in this way that he is [a] “self,” that he is it, or that he becomes it as many times as he enters into the disposition and each time that he does. (Ibid.: 97)

Quelqu’un entre dans une pièce; avant d’être le sujet éventuel d’une représentation de cette pièce, il se dispose lui-même en elle et à elle, et selon qu’il la traverse, l’habite, la visite, etc., il en expose la disposition –la corrélation, la combinaison, le contact, la distance, le rapport de tout ce qui est (dans) la pièce, donc de la pièce elle-même. Il expose la simultanéité, dont il est lui-même à l’instant partie prenante et où il s’expose autant qu’il l’expose et qu’il y est exposé. Il s’expose: c’est ainsi qu’il est «soi», c’est-à-dire qu’il l’est –ou qu’il le devient– autant de fois et chaque fois qu’il entre dans la disposition. (Ibid.: 121)

“The battle of the undefeated giants”, LIFE magazine, March 5, 1971, pp. 40-41. Google Books.

• By Philippe Theophanidis on October 13, 2014 ― Published in Art, Communication | Tagged: Ali, being, coexistence, community, Dasein, disposition, existence, Jean-Luc Nancy, movement, participation, position, self, sport, transitivity

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Stefan Zweig – Der Amokläufer

– D’ailleurs, attendez… peut-être, malgré tout, pourrais-je encore vous faire comprendre… Savez-vous ce que c’est que l’amok?

– Amok?… Je crois me souvenir… c’est une espèce d’ivresse chez les Malais.

– C’est plus que de l’ivresse… c’est de la folie, une sorte de rage humaine, littéralement parlant… une crise de monomanie meurtrière et insensée, à laquelle aucune intoxication alcoolique ne peut se comparer. Moi-même, au cours de mon séjour là-bas, j’ai étudié quelques cas – lorsqu’il s’agit des autres on est toujours perspicace et très positif – mais sans que j’aie pu jamais découvrir l’effrayant secret de leur origine… La cause en est, sans doute, le climat, cette atmosphère dense et étouffante qui oppresse les nerfs comme un orage, jusqu’à ce qu’ils finissent par éclater… Donc l’amok… oui, l’amok, voici ce que c’est: un Malais, n’importe quel brave homme plein de douceur, est en train de boire paisiblement son breuvage… il est là, apathiquement assis, indifférent et sans énergie… tout comme j’étais assis dans ma chambre… et soudain il bondit, saisit son poignard et se précipite dans la rue… il court droit devant lui, toujours devant lui, sans savoir où… Ce qui passe sur son chemin, homme ou animal, il l’abat avec son kriss, et l’odeur du sang le rend encore plus violent… Tandis qu’il court, la bave lui vient aux lèvres, il hurle comme un possédé… mais il court toujours, sans rien voir de ce qu’il y a à sa droite ni à sa gauche, courant toujours en poussant son cri perçant et tenant à la main, dans cette course épouvantable, son kriss ensanglanté… Les gens des villages savent qu’aucune puissance au monde ne peut arrêter celui qui est en proie à cette crise de folie sanguinaire… et, quand ils le voient venir, ils vocifèrent, du plus loin qu’ils peuvent, le sinistre avertissement: “Amok! Amok!” et tous s’enfuient… Mais lui, sans entendre, poursuit sa course; il court sans rien voir et continue de tuer tout ce qu’il rencontre… jusqu’à ce qu’on l’abatte comme un chien enragé ou qu’il s’affaisse anéanti et tout écumant…

– ZWEIG, Stefan ([1922] 2002). Amok, tr. A. Hella et O. Bournac, éd. Stock, coll. Bibliothèque Cosmopolite, Paris, pp. 70-71.

• By Philippe Theophanidis on July 6, 2008 ― Published in Excerpt, Literature, Philosophie | Tagged: 1922, affection, affliction, amok, amoklaufer, crazy, killing, Literature, littérature, losing, Lost, Malais, Malaisie, maniac, mind, murder, nouvelle, novel, rage, spree, Stefan, Zweig

David Dawson: Lucian Freud, Working at Night (2005)

☛ Lucian Freud. L’Atelier, Éditions du Centre Pompidou, Paris, 2010 (© David Dawson)

This photo of Lucian Freud working at night in his studio was taken by long time assistant David Dawson. The photo was part of an exhibition held by Hazlitt Holland-Hibbert to coincide with the book launch of Freud at Work (Knopf, 2006). The photo, along with a dozen others, was reproduced by the catalog put forward by the Centre Pompidou for its recent exhibition Lucian Freud. L’Atelier (March 10 2010 – July 19 2010)

About David Dawson:

David Dawson (b.1960) is a painter and met Freud when he was working part- time for his then dealer, James Kirkman, in the late 1980s. He has been Freud’s assistant for fifteen years and over the last five years he has been photographing the artist exclusively. Dawson has also modelled for Freud, including the painting Sunny Morning – Eight Legs. He studied at Chelsea School of Art and the Royal College of Art. (Hazlitt Holland-Hibbert’s press release – PDF)

• By Philippe Theophanidis on October 13, 2010 ― Published in Art, Painting, Photography | Tagged: body, Lucian Freud, night, painter, painting, photograph, photographer, studio

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German photographer Hilla Becher dies (1934-2015)

☛ Water Towers: “11. Neunkirchen, Saarland, D 1979” by Bernd Becher and Hilla Becher, Cambridge: MIT Press, 1988.

German photographer Hilla Becher died on Saturday, October 10, in Düsseldorf. Her husband, Bernd Becher, died in 2007. They are renowned for the systematic documentation of industrial architecture they produced together since the late 1950s. This systematic approach evokes a methodology in-between that of taxonomists and of structuralists. Here’s how Hilla Becher explained it an interview she gave in 2002:

The serial element for us resulted from our having collected so much material on certain topics. But our idea of showing the material has much more to do with the 19th century, with the encyclopedic approach used in botany or zoology, where plants of the same variety or animals of the same species are compared with one another on the individual pages of the lexicon. It became more and more clear to us that there are definite varieties, species and subspecies of the structures we were photographing. That is, in effect, an old-fashioned approach. Later it was also used in Conceptual art, logically enough. (“The Bechers’ Industrial Lexicon”, see below for the complete reference).

Other photographers have proposed a visual classification of natural forms. It is the case for example the work of Karl Blossfeldt. The Becher gave all their attention instead to the artificial structures of modern, heavy industry. Hilla was nonetheless very fond of those structures, calling them “creatures” (creatura), as she does in the Contacts episode referenced at the end of this post.

Water Towers by Bernd and Hilla Becher, 2005. Retrieved from The New York Times.

In 1988, Water Towers became the first of their monographs to be published in the United-States. The introduction they offer to this particular collection is succinct, almost clinical:

The tower is a part of the complexe system by which water is collected and distributed. Consisting of a water tank and a towerlike substructure, it fulfills two purposes at the same time: storage and the maintenance of pressure.

How tall a water tower must be depends on how far the water it stores must be delivered. The size of the tank is determined by the amount of water that must be made available at times of peak demand, by daily variations in consumption, and by consideration of emergencies such as fires and pump failures.

After each drop in the water level, a simple regulation mechanism (a float) activates the pump. The tank is then filled via the inflow pipe. Another pipe carries water in, and an overflow pipe prevents overfilling. The »lantern« a plate-covered opening in the uppermost part of the tank, allows the proper amount of air to enter or exit as the water level decreases or increases.

The tank may be constructed of wood, steel, or reinforced concrete. The base may be a massive piece of stonework or an open structure of steel, concrete, or wood. Newer methods of construction employ a single tubular column or a ring of pipes for the base. Large water towers have staircases in their substructures: smaller ones may have ladders instead. The inside of the tank is accessible for cleaning and for repair work. (“Functional Aspects of Water Towers”, in Water Towers, 2002, p. 13).

Water Towers by Bernd and Hilla Becher, gelatin silver prints, 67 11/16 x 55 1/8″ (172 x 140cm). Retrieved from MoMA. Gift of Werner and Elaine Dannheisser.

For more about the Becher, consider the following resources:

The New York Times: “Hilla Becher, Photographer Who Chronicled Industrial Scenery, Dies at 81” by Swell Chan, Oct. 14, 2015.
The Guardian: “How Hilla Becher found beauty and dignity in industrial decline” by Sean O’Hagan, October 15, 2015.
The J. Paul Getty Museum has 128 photos available online.
Sonnabend Gallery has 46 items available online, all properly identified.
The MOMA has 15 works available online.
Art in America: “The Bechers’ Industrial Lexicon” by Ulf Erdmann Ziegler, June 2002, no. 6, pp. 93-101, 140-143.
Sign and Sight: “High precision industrial age souvenirs” interview with Cornelius Tittel, September 2005.
Tate Papers no. 1: “The Photographic Comportment of Bernd and Hilla Becher”, Blake Stimson, Spring 2004.
Tate Magazine no. 1: “The long look” by Michael Collins, October 1st, 2002.
Parachute: “Photographing Industrial Architecture: An Interview with Hilla and Bernd Becher” by Angela Grauerholz and Anne Ramsden, no. 22, 1981, pp. 14-19.
In 2002, ARTE produced a 15-min episode about the work of Bernd and Hilla Becher as part of the award-winning Contacts documentary series. The episode is included in the third volume of the series, which is about conceptual photography. At the time of writing, the episode is available on YouTube in two parts: Part I, Part II. A higher resolution (720p) is also available with Spanish subtitles here.

• By Philippe Theophanidis on October 17, 2015 ― Published in Architecture, Art, Photography, Technology | Tagged: Becher, classification, obituary, taxonomy, tower, typology, water

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Jean-Luc Nancy on resurrection: love what escapes you

Love and truth touch by pushing away: they force the retreat of those whom they reach, for their very onset reveals, in the touch itself, that they are out of reach. It is in being unattainable that they touch us, even seize us. What they draw near to us is their distance: they make us sense it [sentir], and this sensing [ce sentiment] is their very sense. It is the sense of touch that commands not to touch. It is time, indeed, to specify the following: Noli me tangere does not simply say “Do not touch me”; more literally, it says “Do not wish to touch me.” The verb nolo is the negative of volo: it means “Do not want.” In that, too, the Latin translation displaces the Greek mē mou haptou (the literal transposition of which would be non me tange). Noli: do not wish it; do not even think of it. Not only don’t do it, but even if you do do it (and perhaps Mary Magdalene does do it, perhaps her hand is already placed on the hand of the one she loves, or on his clothing, or on the skin of his nude body), forget it immediately. You hold nothing; you are unable to hold or retain anything, and that is precisely what you must love and know. That is what there is of a knowledge and a love. Love what escapes you. Love the one who goes. Love that he goes.

☛ Noli me tangere. On the Raising of the Body by Jean-Luc Nancy, tr. by Sarah Clift, Pascale-Anne Brault, and Michael Naas, New York: Fordham University Press, [2003] 2008, p. 37.

Here’s the original French version:

L’amour et la vérité touchent en repoussant: ils font reculer celle ou celui qu’ils atteignent, car leur atteinte révèle, dans la touche même, qu’ils sont hors de portée. C’est d’être inateignable qu’ils nous touchent et qu’ils nous poignent. Ce qu’ils approchent de nous, c’est leur éloignement: ils nous le font sentir, et ce sentiment est leur sens même. C’est le sens de la touche qui commande de ne pas toucher. Il est temps, en effet, de le préciser: Noli me tangere ne dit pas simplement «ne me touche pas», mais plus littéralement «ne veuille pas me toucher». Le verbe nolo est le négatif de volo: il signifie «ne pas vouloir». En cela aussi la traduction latine déplace le grec mè mou haptou (dont la transposition littérale eût été non me tange). Noli: ne le veuille pas, n’y pense pas. Non seulement ne le fais pas, mais même si tu le fais (et peut-être Marie-Madeleine le fait-elle, peut-être sa main s’est-elle déjà posée sur la main de celui qu’elle aime, ou sur son vêtement, ou sur la peau de son corps nu), oublie-le aussitôt. Tu ne tiens rien, tu ne peux rien tenir, et voilà ce qu’il te faut aimer et savoir. Voilà ce qu’il en est d’un savoir d’amour. Aime ce qui t’échappe, aime celui qui s’en va. Aime qu’il s’en aille. (Noli me tangere, Paris: Bayard Éditions, [2003] 2013, pp. 60-61)

Written in 4th century, Codex Sinaiticus is one of the oldest complete copy of the New Testament written in Greek uncial letters. In the detail displayed above, retrieved from CodexSinaiticus.org: “ΜΗ ΜΟΥ ΑΠΤΟΥ” (John 20:17, Quire 8, folio 5)

British Library, Add MS 89000: The St Cuthbert Gospel produced at the end of the 7th century, is known as the the oldest intact European book. It contains a copy of the Gospel of St John in Latin. It was apparently in the coffin of St Cuthbert. Above: “Noli me tangere” (John 20:17, folio 85v)

• • •

Noli me tangere is part of Jean-Luc Nancy ongoing deconstruction of Christianity (or his effort to expose the auto-deconstructing mode of Christianity: see “The Self-Deconstruction of Christianity”, Aug. 2000). It aims specifically at a non-eschatological interpretation of the doctrine of resurrection. In Nancy’s views, the conditions of life we share in Occident are marked by the opening of an infinite inappropriability. Those conditions, he argues in substance, are already exposed in the Christian representation of resurrection. Therefor, in his views, there cannot be such things as the renovation of a lost essence, a return of, or to proper life, or the raising of an original body/self. On the contrary, when Jesus says to Marie Magdalene “Touch me not”, in John 20:17, he is exposing both the truth of Christianity and of our current coexistential predicament: there is no body to touch, no given meaning to grasp, except the fleeting of all meanings. Everybody’s life is continually passing, transient, and we have nothing to hold except the recognition of our shared finitude. As we are thrown together in the opening of this endless transitivity –Pascal’s “l’homme passe infiniment l’homme” (Br. 434/Laf. 131)–, we must risk ourselves to love without the illusion of possessing anything, or anyone. Thus Nancy observes: “Love what escapes you. Love the one who goes. Love that he goes.” At one point in his analysis, he further unfolds the doctrine of resurrection as a kenosis (κένωσις), that is an event of emptying. His deconstruction of the metaphysic of presence exposes the gap upon which our being-in-common is grounded (the emptiness attached to kenosis is not an absence that would come second to an originary presence: on this topic, see “A Faith That Is Nothing At All” in Dis-Enclosure: The Deconstruction of Christianity, [2005] 2008).

This exercise in deconstruction is clearly related to Heidegger’s Destruktion of the metaphysical and theological understanding of Being, often regarded as an attempt at overcoming “ontotheology”¹. In his essay “The Passion of Facticity”, Giorgio Agamben argues that love plays a central role in Heidegger’s Being and Time (Potentialities, 1999). He suggests how, inspired by Augustine’s “Non intratur in veritatem nisi per caritatem”² (Contra Faustum, 32.18), Heidegger conceived of a kind of “ontological primacy of love as access to truth” (1999: 186). As a path however, love does not lead the Dasein to a determinate truth, nor to a proper meaning. On the contrary, love is the passion of the Dasein’s “facticity”, that is the passion as the mode of being through which the Dasein knows not an essential fact, but the enigma of this very facticity. “Facticity,” writes Agamben, “is the condition of what remains concealed in its opening, of what is exposed by its very retreat. (Agamben, 1999: 190).

What is worth for Mary Magdalene is also telling of the most banal experience of love: the difficult realization that the miraculous presence of the loved one is always attached to the possibility of its eventual retreat, or disappearance (I have suggested elsewhere just how challenging such an experience can be: see Michael Haneke, love and finitude). At the same time, it also illustrates the most widely shared condition among us all. Since the early 80s, Jean-Luc Nancy has been studying this coexistential condition through his relentless unworking of the concept of “community”. For what is at hand here, it will suffice to suggest how, from this standpoint, love reveals that the most intimate is actually the most common, and how onto(theo)logy (or epistemology for that matter: the problem of truth) is a highly political affair.

“Noli me Tangere”, Titian, circa 1514, oil on canvas, 110.5 x 91.9 cm, Bequeathed by Samuel Rogers, 1856. Retrieved from The National Gallery: inventory no. NG270.

“Noli me Tangere” (detail), Titian, circa 1514. The National Gallery: inventory no. NG270.

• • •

^1. See Iain Thomson’s “Ontotheology? Understanding Heidegger’s Destruktion of Metaphysics” (International Journal of Philosophical Studies, Vol.8(3), 297–327; PDF).↩︎︎

^2. In the English translation of Agamben’s essay, the quote from Augustine contains a typographical error which has been corrected here. ↩︎︎

• By Philippe Theophanidis on April 6, 2015 ― Published in Art, Communication | Tagged: aporia, body, Christianism, deconstruction, dialectic, Jean-Luc Nancy, love, teleology, touch, truth

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Michael Harrington’s paintings

☛ Galerie de Bellefeuille: “Red Parlour” by Michael Harrington, oil on canvas, 36″ x 48″, 2011.

It’s been suggested before: there’s something inherently cinematic about Michael Harrington’s paintings. Most of his work seem to have a rich potential for narrative: I look at the scene depicted above and I can’t help but to think there’s a complicated story going on (the motion in the feet of the character on the right). Or maybe it’s the themes Harrington keeps coming back at: congregation of men finely suited in fancy halls or hotel rooms, a single subject lost in a cityscape at night, a car driving by to an unknown location.

Peter Simpson, the arts-editor-at-large for The Ottawa Citizen, noticed something similar when he visited Michael Harrington’s studio last spring:

And that’s about as much of the story as you’ll get from the Ottawa painter, who prefers to let you fill in the blanks when looking at his work. “I’m creating these little images, but hopefully it’ll ignite the viewers to come up with their own interpretations of what’s going on.”

Harrington’s oil paintings readily invite interpretation: They practically demand them. His scenes are narrative, and they create a vague but instant impression that you’ve walked in mid-scene and interrupted something in motion, something possibly dangerous, or suspicious, or at least curious. (Ottawa Citizen: “Michael Harrington’s animal instincts: new paintings”, April 6, 2011).

“Red Parlour” in particular strikes me as a familiar setup. It somehow reminds me of the old fashioned ballroom sequences in Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining (image source: Beautiful Stills From Beautiful Films). Both make a remarkable use of the color red and they share a sense of uneasiness. The de-faced men is Harrington’s painting could be said to echo the uncanny waiters in Kubrick’s film (the bartender as well as the waiter who spills advocaat on Jack).

“The Shining” by Stanley Kubrick, 1980: the ballroom sequence

Or maybe it has something to do with another painter known for his cinematic setup: Edward Hopper. See for example New York Movie (1939). Granted, the subject is different: a single woman laying against the wall of a theater instead of two men standing in what looks like the back of a hotel’s parlour. Yet, both painting heavily irradiates a sense of unfinished story: where are the two men going (toward the painter it seems)? what is the self-absorbed usherette thinking about?

“New York Movie” by Edward Hopper, oil on canvas, 32 1/4 x 40 1/8", 1939

The story is not the only thing unfinished in Harrington’s painting: some of the elements represented on the canvas are deliberately left in an approximate stage of completion. It’s especially striking with the face of most of the characters he chose to paint. We know they are faces, yet they are barely recognizable: features are not well defined as if they were recorded from hazy memories or from the insufficient fragments of a long gone dream (not totally unlike some of Andrian Ghenie’s paintings, featured here about a year ago).

Michael Harrington is in his mid-forties. He lives and works in Ottawa, Ontario (Canada). More resources online about his paintings:

Galerie de Bellefeuille provides hi-res pictures of 11 different paintings produced between 2010 and 2011.
Katharine Mulherin Contemporary Art Projects offers medium-format pictures of two undated painting.
Ellen Miller Gallery has four medium-format pictures of paintings produced between 2007 and 2010.
Galerie St-Laurent+Hill has nine medium-fromat pictures of unidentified, undated paintings (that’s unfortunate). Flash is required.
MyTurtleNeck is the blog of senior art director Catherine Mangosing. She has a post with medium-format of six different paintings (also unidentified and undated): “cinematic light : artist michael harrington”, October 16, 2010.
Rover: “In-demand Man. Popular Ottawa artist Michael Harrington paints the meaning of man” by Marianne Ackerman, November 24, 2011. Excerpt:

What he paints is mainly men, cars and flowers, an ever-shifting combination of the three in moonlit fields, fluorescent-lit parking lots, gaudy hotel rooms and lobbies. His colours are vibrant – red, yellow, a lot of black, leavened by a masterful use of light. The worlds he captures are edgy, mysterious; full of pathos, menace, sometimes humour.

• By Philippe Theophanidis on December 17, 2011 ― Published in Art, Movies, Painting | Tagged: dream, Edward Hopper, face, fuzzy, Kubrick, Michael Harrington, representation, storytelling, vague

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35 years ago: The Three Mile Island accident

☛ National Archives: President Jimmy Carter leaving [Three Mile Island] for Middletown, Pennsylvania., 04/01/1979. Identifier:540021. Public domain.

• • •

On March 28, 1979, the Three Mile Island Unit 2 (TMI-2) reactor suffered a partial meltdown. The incident was rated at Level 5 on the International Nuclear and Radiological Event Scale. Although the exact health impact is hard to determine (and still subject to debate), it is recognized that radioactive gases were release in the environment. The U.S. NRC states the releases “had no detectable health effects on plant workers or the public”). Nonetheless, it was qualified as “the worst accident in the history of commercial nuclear power generation” in the official Report Of The President’s Commission On The Accident at Three Mile Island (p. 1; PDF). The events also had an important impact both on the nuclear industry and the public opinion. It fuelled anti-nuclear fear and opposition. On April 9, 1979, the TIME ran a cover with the words “Nuclear Nightmare”. (The film The China Syndrome opened just a few days prior to the incident: see IMDb).

In comparison, both the Chernobyl disaster (April 26, 1986) and the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear disaster (March 11, 2011) (previously here) are classified as Level 7 events on the INRE scale. At the time of writing, they are the only two events to be classified at that level.

There are plenty of resources about the Three Mile Island accident online. In 1999, PBS produced a 50-min documentary for its American Experience television program explaining the events: “Meltdown at Three Mile Island”. The video can be watched in full on YouTube or below:

Color photos from the President’s Commission on the Accident at Three Mile Island are available at the National Archives. The Dickinson College’s Three Mile Island web site has plenty of original documents (audio, video, PDF: see especially their Resource Center).

“This is an Oct. 31, 1983 picture taken from a TV monitor by Three Mile Island camera technicians which they say shows the stub ends of the broken fuel assemblies that are adhering to the bottom of the nuclear power plant’s damaged Unit 2 reactor’s plenum structure” (AP Photo) Retrieved from The Denver Post.

“A cooling tower of the Three Mile Island nuclear power plant near Harrisburg, Pa., looms behind an abandoned playground, March 30, 1979” (AP Photo/Barry Thumma). Retrieved from The Denver Post.

• By Philippe Theophanidis on March 28, 2014 ― Published in Communication, Technology | Tagged: catastrophe, disaster, energy, environment, nuclear, Three Mile Island

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Aaron Draplin from DDC talks about his love for pencils

There’s just something simple and soothing about them. I mean, I don’t want to get too existential about bonded lead or anything, but, hell, there’s just so much possibility in each one! It freaks me out. That little pencil…the tool aspect…is this little gateway to a million ideas. I think about that kind of stuff with each one I crack into. In a world where things are more and more compacted, complicated, sped up and digitized, a regular old wood pencil is always there for you. Never needing to be recharged, you know?

The more I think about it, the more pencils—on some weird level—represent “complete freedom.” Freedom from digital ubiquity and predictability. There something cool about how you feel human when using a pencil. That feeling goes away the back to guys shaping rocks into cutting tools and stuff, I’d reckon. Or, maybe only in my head!

☛ Pencil Revolution: “Interview with Mr. Aaron Draplin, Draplin Design Co. and Field Notes Brand (Part 1)”, February 21, 2011.

Read Part 2 as well (published on February 23, 2011).

(Photo by Aaron Draplin, used with permission)

Aaron Draplin is a graphic designer based in Portland, Oregon. He is the founder (2004) of The Draplin Design Co. (DDC). I’ve been following Aaron’s work for a couple of years now (I wrote about it in the About section of this blog). There’s something comfortingly sturdy about it (be it logotypes or merchandise). It’s simple by design, but doesn’t look cheap. On the contrary, it feels like it really is reliable and made to last a long time (like a real vintage all-metal Tonka truck or an industrial nameplate). What’s even more interesting is to discover the man himself: in the interviews he gave (like the one above), he’s funny, passionate about his craft and strong in character (and in language). If you don’t know him yet, you may consider exploring the following links:

First off, if you like scribbling things down on paper, maybe you’ll find some interest in the Field Notes line of product, a joint production of DDC and Coudal

Photograph by Graham Ballantyne, 2009 (CC BY-NC-ND 2.0)

From Aaron’s company website: find out more about Aaron Draplin’s history, his education as a graphic designer, his professional experience and the creation of his very own company; while you’re at it, you might as well browse a gallery of nice things designed by DDC; don’t miss DDC merchandise catalog (including, of course, some pencils).

Identities created by Draplin Design Co.

Read An Interview with Draplin Design Co. over at HearHear.us (June 2007)

One time a jaded creative director guy back in Minneapolis looked over my pile of school/fun work in front of him and said, “Great energy here. You’ll lose this once you start really working.” Fuck that. Another stiff. That was great to hear because it made me swear to myself to always keep this stuff fun and challenging.
Here’s another lengthy interview with Aaron by Travels of John: The Pied Piper of Good Design and Making Things Awesome (February 2011)

Some of these design powerhouse guys out there, they’re really good businessmen and they’re really impressive. I just like to keep it a little loose, just kinda wing it, and let that be the spirit. We don’t have to take ourselves so seriously. You don’t want to show up to your job and just hate work. I don’t ever want to do that, I’m afraid of that. I want to love my job. I mean, I can’t wait to get down here every day. There’s just too much cool shit to look at and do and enjoy and freak out about, you know what I mean?
And yet another interview (from November 2009): Aaron Draplin Q&A | Michigan Blood Through and Through

I was born in Detroit, and moved north when I was four-years-old. I grew up in Northern Michigan in a little town called Central Lake. 800 people. When I was 13, we moved to the “big city” of Traverse City. Michigan blood through and through, man!
If you want to read more about Aaron Draplin, visit the “Press” page on his website: he keeps it up to date
Aaron and friends love to hunt for old, vintage stuff at yard sales. The mecca of yard sales in America is The World’s Longest Yard Sale, along Highway 127. In 2010, Aaron and his friend recorded the odyssey on film: watch it at Select Scenes From The World’s Longest Yard Sale
Finally, here’s how I personally first heard of Aaron Draplin, back in 2008: in this interview, Aaron discusses with much gravity and sensibility the link between motel signs and the fate of graphic design in America. Three years later, I still find he makes a compelling argument about the whole thing. Watch it below:

[UPDATE – July 14, 2011] Create the Map has a 12 minutes interview with Aaron Draplin (text and video): “Interview #005: Aaron Draplin of Draplin Design Co.” by Jay, July 14, 2011

• By Philippe Theophanidis on March 9, 2011 ― Published in Art, Communication, Technology | Tagged: Aaron Draplin, digital, pencil, tool

Solastalgia – The desolation of home

War, overpopulation and climate change are likely to be drivers of nostalgia as a serious form of psychoterratic illness in the twenty-first century. […] While dispossession and forced separation from home are potential triggers for environmentally induced distress, what about similar distress in people who are not displaced? People who are still in their home environs can also experience place-based distress in the face of the lived experience of profound environmental change. The people of concern are still ‘at home’, but experience a ‘homesickness’ similar to that caused by nostalgia. What these people lack is solace or comfort derived from their present relationship to ‘home’, and so, a new form of psychoterratic illness needs to be defined. […] The word ‘solace’ relates to both psychological and physical contexts. One meaning refers to the confort one is given in difficult times (consolation), while another refers to that which gives confort or strenght to a person. […] Therefore, solastalgia refers to the pain or distress caused by the loss of, or inability to derive, solace connected to the negatively perceived state of one’s home environment. Solastalgia exists when there is the lived experience of the physical desolation of home.

☛ “Solastagia: the distress caused by environmental change” by Glenn Albrecht et al., in Australian Psychiatry, vol. 15, no 1, 2007, pp. 95-98.

Khanna, Sanjay (2008). “What Does Climate Change Do To Our Heads”
Albrecht, Glenn (2007). “Solastalgia: A new psychoterratic illness”
Thompson, Clive (2007). “How the Next Victim of Climate Change Will Be Our Minds”, Wired, vol. 16, no. 1, December 20.

• By Philippe Theophanidis on November 11, 2008 ― Published in Communication, Technology | Tagged: anthropocene, desolation, ecology, ecosystem, environnment, experience, home, loss, nostalgia, solace, solastalgia

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Behind-the-scene photos from François Truffaut’s The 400 Blows (Les 400 coups, 1959)

☛ François Truffaut at Work by Carole Le Berre, tr. from French by Bill Krohn, New York: Phaidon, [2004]2005, flaps photograph (both front and back) by André Dino, December 1958. © MK2/André Dino.

This is a behind-the-scene photo depicting the shooting of the very last (and very famous) sequence of François Truffaut’s film Les 400 coups (The 400 Blows). It was shot by still photographer André Dino at Villers-sur-Mer (in Normandy) between December 16 and December 22 1958 (I got the date from Truffaut: A Biography by Antoine de Baecque and Serge Toubiana, tr. by Catherine Temerson, University of California Press, [1996]2000, p. 132). The film premiere at the 12th Cannes Film Festival on May 4th where it won the Award for Best Director (see official site) and was released in France on June 3rd of the same year.

Below is another behind-the-scene photo shot by André Dino most likely during the same days of December 1958 (source of hi-res version). It shows François Truffaut (left) and Jean-Pierre Léaud (right) sitting in the same Citroen 2CV used for the final tracking shot on the beach. Léaud appears to be rolling a cigarette:

“The 400 Blows” by François Truffaut (behind-the-scene photo by André Dino, December 1958, © MK2/André Dino)

François Truffaut (left) and Jean-Pierre Léaud (right) are sitting in the tracking car used for shooting the very last sequence of “The 400 Blows” (behind-the-scene photo by André Dino, December 1958, © MK2/André Dino)

André Dino (IMDb) was a still photographer on many iconic French films of the same period. He worked on Claude Chabrol’s Le Beau Serge (1958), on Jacques Tati’s Mon Oncle (1958) and Play Time (1967). He also played a small role in some of them.

I was quite surprised to find a picture of him with Jacques Tati on the set of Mon Oncle (I couldn’t track back the original source: I believe it was first uploaded to the Internet on October 2006 by the blog If Charlie Parker Was A Gunslinger):

Jacques Tati and André Dino on the set of “Mon Oncle” (1958). Unknown photographer.

Jacques Tati (left) and André Dino (right) on the set of “Mon Oncle” (1958). Unknown photographer.

There isn’t much information about André Dino online. The first two photographs shown above belong to the Collection Cahiers du Cinéma but aren’t accessible online (see its Photothèque). Some more behind-the scene photographs shot by Dino during the production of The 400 Blows are also kept at the Cinémathèque Française (see Cine-Ressources.net).

Finally, I found the following image in Carole Le Berre’s book, on page 26. While he was still searching for the definitive title for his film, François Truffaut filled a small index card with various ideas.

“Truffaut searches for a title for his first feature film” (in “François Truffaut at Work” by Carole Le Berre, New York: Phaidon, 2005, p. 26)

• By Philippe Theophanidis on February 21, 2012 ― Published in Art, Movies | Tagged: behind-the-scene, Jean-Pierre Léaud, The 400 Blows, Truffaut

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