Burma VJ: Reporting from a Closed Country

I first heard about the film Burma VJ on Newsnight Review.
The show was about Iran's (feminine) artistic production and its influence abroad, but towards the end they branched out to Burma. Burma VJ's Director Oskergaard said that "in principle, you could make the same project about Iran".

However, and this was mentioned in the programme, much more gets out of Iran than it does of Burma, despite Iran's reputation.
As a member of the general public, I had never seen or even heard of a film about and mostly made with images from Burma. Whereas I had seen a few Kiarostami films, heard of Iranian novels, watched Persepolis and heard Satrapi's interventions many times: Iran has had a Western face for a few years now. Burma has not.

This was why I was very keen to see the film. That, and the fact that one of my good friends' husband is from Burma and I have been hearing about the events his family has been witnessing for quite a while now.
It's very hard to hear, and even harder to understand. Not only because the events are of an extremely serious nature, but also because the media remain so silent, when we hear about Iran on an almost daily basis. Of course there's the bomb and the natural resources etc., but the media/governments' selective reports fit the situation perfectly here: silence is the Burmese rule. And not only a Buddhist one, unfortunately.

This is why the work of the VJs is so vital, and so admirable. They are risking their lives in the hope of changing a desperate situation. They are well organised and highly skilled; despite, or maybe because of, their country being almost completely cut off the rest of the world, they understand the importance of involving the international community. Their struggle is moving, and the images they smuggle out of Burma stay with you: the monks peacefully marching through the streets, protected by courageous passers-by, the students willing to risk their lives, a frail Aung San Suu Kyi bowing silently and the emotion the mere sighting of her provokes in VJ Joshua. But as I was watching these intense records of a country's suffering, the main thought which came to my mind was, what can be done?

I attended the film's UK premiere in London. It was screened with a satellite transmission of the opening celebrations somewhere else.
I must admit that I was somehow disconcerted, if not shocked, by the commercial exploitation of the film by its main sponsor. It was truly out of place and revolting. A simple company logo in the film credits and on the poster would have been enough, and more dignified. The introduction and post-screening discussion were in theory very good additions. But they seemed pointless and self-indulging: there was no need to preach the converted.
In fact it is a real issue surrounding the film: I fear that most people who see the film, especially in the UK, already have an interest in Burma. It seems crazy to compare the two but, An Inconvenient Truth had a limited shelf life: media covering of national/international events and local initiatives are the real eye openers for most people (the good old power of the 'Chinese whispers'). And the discussion could have been an interesting opportunity to talk about the implications/actions needed for change. The 'sponsor''s intentions leaned towards that direction, but he did not deliver.

The main issue, which was consistently avoided during the discussion, is that of the involvement/action power of foreign governments. I really agree with what John Pilger said in The Guardian: "the culpable indifference and complacency of wealthy nations underpins an arrogant junta". The complacency extends to documentary film sponsors.

I am not indifferent. But I do not think that there is anything I can do. I signed the petition, I gave money. But it will not help much. What is needed is, a total change of mentality from our Western world. Whilst I believe that this is happening more and more, it will be a long and difficult process, and Burma cannot wait.

Burma VJ is a precursor: the mix of real smuggled footage and scenes reconstructed from the VJs' accounts is gripping and reveals the power of cinematic construction. But their intrinsic impact is nothing compared to that of fortuitous moments of extreme filmic quality.
In suspended moments, under the lure of narrative pauses, there are shots of immense power. Aung San Suu Kyi's apparition is what cinema (and therefore, what being human) is: on the screen she is her image. And it touches our soul in a deeply unconscious, universal manner.

If the film can help in any way, it will be thanks to such sequences: they have the power to awaken the atheistic universality of reverence and our human need for justice.


© asd - 2009

Francis Bacon Exhibition, Tate Britain, London

I was pleasantly surprised with the latest Francis Bacon exhibition.
You might say 'pleasant' does not sound like the appropriate word. Screaming faces, bodies trapped in dark cages, blood and guts are hardly the most pleasant way to spend a sunny Saturday morning with your lover. Well, thanks to the Tate, our decision to 'give it a go' was rewarded and you shall stand corrected.

For the first time in quite a few recent Tate experiences, the inevitable fight-to-the-death-to-get-a-5-second-look-at-half-a-painting ordeal was bearable and almost excusable. Yes, it was crowded, yes, you had to queue, but at least there was space to move and enough curatorial food for novice thoughts, which is not always the case at Tate.

It was my first Bacon exhibition. I had never seen any of his paintings in the flesh. And I do not have a vast knowledge of his art either. I was curious, and somehow he keeps popping up in my life recently. When I realised it was on, I took it as a sign. The direction it pointed to is hard to take but I am a step closer.

What you get out of anything depends on how much you put in it. You have to be in a certain state of mind to enter Bacon's world. Either unbalanced or transcended-your-weaknesses-to-turn-them-into-strenghts sort of state. No need to point out which side I'm on.

So what did I get out of it? I understand his obsession with the representation of the Pope. Here my thoughts are necessarily biased: it is an imagery linked to cultural and spiritual burdens which I am heavily carrying.
One of my friends told me she did not enjoy it because the subject matters were alien to her. She could understand them on an intellectual level, but she did not relate to them. To her this meant his art did not work. Strangely the subject matters were not what touched me most. Another friend could not quite remember what she saw, only what it made her feel. Most of the time I am the same. I cannot remember exactly what I saw. But on a few occasions, and this was one of those (another was with a few Monets at Marmottan), the visual experience is such that the memory of the feeling cannot exist without its visual source. More than that, the feeling is the vision. So much unconscious, so much inexpressible is contained into it that it is it.
It seems to me a Jungian thing (from the little knowledge I have of his work) and a very filmic experience.

In the last few months I have become obsessed with layers and relief. I loathe smoothness; I like it thick! I was most keen on Bacon's later works and one Pope: Untitled, 1950. The Pope is not a prisoner of the cage; the lines act as proofs: he is as much outside as inside of the cage. He is a prisoner of things we cannot see and yet, they are all there in front of us. A dialogue with the invisible, through the visible.

I wish I could let it out in this way.

© asd - 2009

Of Grains

Of course there is someone else in there. There is no such thing as duality. Without a terce, there cannot be two sides, only two pieces. I must be the third.

The crack grows and grows and grows because I fail to be one and three.

I am thinking about the lovemaking scene in Lost Highway.
You might ask, 'which one?', but if you really think about it, there is only one. And it does not even last outside the spotlights. But it is one true love scene.

That is what cinema is. Right there, you can experience it. For a few minutes, to the Song of a Siren, you are the light. And when it's all over, when it is truly gone, you realise this: it takes three.

© asd - 2009

L'Escalier

Une, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix, onze, douze, treize, quatorze, quinze, seize, dix-sept, dix-huit, dix-neuf, vingt. Palier. Une, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix, onze, douze, treize, quatorze, quinze, seize, dix-sept, dix-huit, dix-neuf, vingt. Palier. Une, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix, onze, douze, treize, quatorze, quinze, seize, dix-sept, dix-huit, dix-neuf, vingt. Palier. Sept etages.
Apres le troisieme, je descends un escalier invisible. J'essaie pourtant de me concentrer. Pour etre entierement honnete, je n'ai qu'une seule idee en tete, meme si je me joue vainement la comedie du mecanique.
Rez-de-chaussee. Je tourne a peine la tete.
Elle est vide.

Tous les matins me poussent les ailes de l'espoir renouvelle : peut-etre, oui peut-etre, ce matin, enfin, peut-etre y en aura-t-il une ! Et chaque matin, inexorablement, il n'y a que du rien.

Une, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix, onze, douze, treize, quatorze, quinze, seize, dix-sept, dix-huit, dix-neuf, vingt. Palier. Une, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix, onze, douze, treize, quatorze, quinze, seize, dix-sept, dix-huit, dix-neuf, vingt. Palier. Une, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix, onze, douze, treize, quatorze, quinze, seize, dix-sept, dix-huit, dix-neuf, vingt. Palier.
Rez-de-chaussee.

Une, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix, onze, douze, treize, quatorze, quinze, seize, dix-sept, dix-huit, dix-neuf, vingt. Palier. Une, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix, onze, douze, treize, quatorze, quinze, seize, dix-sept, dix-huit, dix-neuf, vingt. Palier. Une, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six, sept, huit, neuf, dix, onze, douze, treize, quatorze, quinze, seize, dix-sept, dix-huit, dix-neuf, vingt. Palier.
Rez-de-chaussee.
Je rate la derniere marche...!!! Oh oh oh !!! Mon coeur bat la chamade. Le delicieux pincement que je recherche constamment me taquine l'estomac. La clef dans le creux de ma main tremble. Le gouffre de ma boite aux lettres est obstrue par une grosse enveloppe beige. Hypnotisee, je reste paralysee quelques longues secondes. C'est presque trop beau pour etre vrai. Un paquet dans ma boite aux lettres !

Puis d'un mouvement vif, j'approche la clef de la serrure rouillee. Enfoncer. Ok. Tourner. ... Touner... Tourner... Non !!! La clef ne tourne pas. Pas de panique. On recommence depuis le debut. Je recule de quelques pas pour m'assurer les faveurs de quelque divinite paienne. Enfoncer. Tourner. Tourner... tourner... Toujours rien.
Pas de panique. L'enveloppe depasse confortablement et j'essaie de l'extirper de la fente dans laquelle on l'a forcee.
Rien n'y fait ! Pas moyen de la deloger. Apres cinq minutes d'efforts non recompenses, je fais deux pas en arriere pour contempler l'ironie de ma situation.
"Je vais me mettre en retard..."
L'enveloppe semble me narguer. Elle me regarde effrontement, ses coins aplatis pointes vers le ciel.
Il me la faut. Elle est a moi. Avec le recul, je m'apercois qu'il y a cinq autres boites autour de la mienne. Comment avais-je pu les ignorer auparavant ? Ses cinq soeurs la protegent de tout leur corps : les six boites lettres forment un bloc massif et solidaire, au coeur duquel se love celle qui m'est reservee.
Je ne peux pas forcer la porte de ma boite aux lettres en faisant levier sur les gongs, car ils me sont inacessibles. La clef ne tourne pas. L'enveloppe ne bouge pas.

Je pousse la porte de sortie.

<© asd – 2009>

Coincidence

I used to have a weird belief, a pagan look at the mysterious signs which came my way. They always seemed to come in pairs. I would first hear/see something unusual I had not encountered before. Most of the time, it was trivial: a date, the name of a historical/musical/etc. figure, a song, a poem or even a word. Upon encountering it for the first time, my attention was startled: it is an almost inexpressible feeling. A question mark is what defines it best. The feeling is ephemerous and soon I would lose all consciously-accessible memories of it.
Yet, somehow, there was a second encounter. In a different place, a different setting entirely. The second time round, it was a feast of exclamation marks. But this was no superficial revelation: no meaning erupted from it and I could not say: "now I know the purpose of this!". Something fundamental, extraordinary was happening, but there was no conscious activity. It was completely instinctive and almost primitive. Every time, I was filled with an extreme sense of happiness and excitement. The only certainty I had was, there is something beyond the surface of all things and it is not a product of my doing.
For many years I kept this to myself. It is very hard to phrase (I'm sure you can see that now!). But one day I told my sister. And this was a magical moment: she told me she felt it too. She knew exactly what I meant and she had experienced it too.
I think it may have something to do with Deleuze's ideas of "Difference and Repetition".

It is gone. I have not felt it for a very long time. Something has happened to me and I don't know what. I can feel it within my soul and body: something has changed.

<© asd – 2009>

Ego Short-circuit

As I walked through a clinical, modern transport terminal, I sensed white pillars supporting high ceilings and bright fluorescent lights shooting down at the crowds below. I distinctly felt that I had no power over my environment. I became aware of the equivocality of the state of consciousness I was in: I was 'I', an old man dragging a suitcase on wheels on top of which sat a small shoulder zip bag. I was going somewhere and my bags were packed full. The old man knew where he was going and he knew the contents of his bags. I did not. As I attempted to increase the pace of my steps, I grinned and moaned with anger. Suddenly a youngster swiftly grabbed the small shoulder bag and ran away. I tried to run after him; I focused all my strength into my upper thighs. But each step felt as if I had to lift legs numb from the knees down. As I endeavoured to climb the moving stairs of an escalator in pursuit of the thief, a young lady noticed my struggle and shouted to have him stopped. There was no reaction. As I reached the top of the escalator, I knew that my whole life was in that little bag. I had lost everything.
I was now wandering aimlessly through the large avenues of a city which resembled New-York. I was still holding on to the suitcase. Another old man was walking by my side. We were street companions. I had no place to go; I felt as grey as the city.
As we approached two churches facing each other from across the avenue, our legs ceased their slow motion. The church in front of us, standing on the right side of the avenue, was made of light grey bricks. It was tall and clear, in a strangely bright, Victorian Anglican style. On the front facade of the second church a large rosace window echoed the curved arches of the basalt walls. As we watched people queuing in and out of the churches, I said to my companion: 'regarde, regarde, ces cathédrales qui nous sont refusées'. I began to cry. There was no deeper sorrow. I fixed my eyes on the black church and whispered: 'je veux mourir'. At this very moment my ego reclaimed its throne and I forced myself out of the dream. I was still crying when I woke up, filled with an old man's sorrow.

My bedroom was filled with sunlight and within a few minutes his sorrow turned into a mere pinching in my heart. I wiped the tears off my cheeks.
I only know one thing for certain: as I saw through his eyes and felt through his body, it was my soul that was crying.

<© asd – 2009>

In Our Blood

Are there those who can and those who can't or, those who try and those who don't? Are you your own creation or the inalienable product of the chance associations in your blood?

<© asd – 2009>

Lake

I saw him in a dream.
He was dancing above the waters.
On his forehead
Were two little wings.
A vaporous light surrounded him.
His translucid skin was lifted
By a glittery wind.
But he could not ignore them,
In his orbits the dark waters of the lake were raging.

© asd – 2009

Free

I am sick of having to worry about people worrying. It is killing me. All my life I have had to hide my feelings for the benefit of others. "Don't say anything to her about it, darling", "keep it to yourself", "better to hide it". Too many times have I heard these words after bursting out in rage from weeks of being locked in my own head.
Sometimes, when there is no other way (often due to conscious refusal from one of the parties involved) and in extreme situations, things need to be spoken out to prevent death from mental asphyxia. But most feelings must be expressed and understood without words. They are there, you can see them, I can see them, and we both know that you and I can. And this is a fascinating attribute of human interaction: many things must be expressed without being said. It is as if, as soon as we speak them, the corporeality of our voices seals our thoughts and feelings dead. They turn into mere ob-jects. And as they touch the ground, they cloud the unconscious stream which carries all the feelings we know to feel and all the thoughts we know to think.
Please, my darling, see me out loud.

© asd – 2009

A Month in Suspension

The other day I felt it. It was right before me. My fingers were running along the hard, porous surface of some strangers' walls, and it was its face. My nose was overwhelmed with the cold smell of burnt grass, and it was its perfume. My eyes were blinded by a vaporous light, and it was its skin. I was floating behind a glazed window.
For the first time in a long, long time, I was filled with bliss. I did not look further back than forth. I did not let myself go. For the first time in a long, long time, I could see the other side.

There are two ways to step into life. Only one is real.

The first is what happened to me in another time.
I fell into it. I took a step forward and there I was. I took that step because there was no other way: the youth in my cells had built solid blinkers. Once I had entered, I went from mystery to mystery with no halt. But I made a costly mistake: I was pretentious enough to believe that it was I who had fashioned the blinkers, to my taste. Yes, I thought, I killed a cow, I rubbed its bare skin in organic matters and I sewed the pieces together to form two patches. Along the way, with the fresh feel of novelty wearing off, holes began to appear. You cannot see the other side without contrast: the bubble swimmed back up to the surface with terrifying speed and deflated in a flash. The glass had acquired an opacity which flattened light and my optic nerve only conveyed memories.

The second way is the hardest. You must be one and three.

I want to choose the second way. I want to make blinkers out of clear glass.

© asd – 2009