The wings of a humming bird will flap seventy times and a photon will travel one hundred eighty six thousand, two hundred and eighty two miles, or seven and a half times around the earth. Forty thousand people will click “Search” in Google, and a guitar string will vibrate four hundred and forty times to make a sound we call “A” or “La.” Almost five million stars will die and another five million will be born. All this while my heart skips a beat for you, in this next second.
There. Gone.
Teacup
My grandfather stood in a crowded line, holding a briefcase made out of hardened cardboard. Inside of it, a few clothing garments and a shiny, rather small tea cup. Thousands of people waiting patiently though no one was talking. A grey welcoming symphony composed of only a few seagulls, the naval crew and the deep and heavy metal moaning of a floating giant beast.
Around 11 in the morning of Friday October 21st,1927, a large cross-Atlantic steamboat named “Giulio Cesare,” lowered the ramps in Puerto Madero, Buenos Aires. Masses of immigrants, mostly from Europe started to march down and set foot in a land that promised a fresh start and life without starvation. My grandfather’s chest was pounding, taking in the new colors, sounds and smells. All immigrants were directed onto trolleys that brought them to a large white building. Someone in the trolley pointed to this imposing edifice as they arrived and said, “sisserändajate hotell.” My grandfather didn’t speak Estonian but he understood it: “Immigrant Hotel.” Every pair of eyes he gazed at revealed a mixture of uncertainty, excitement and longing; much like mirrors to his own.
Five days had passed since my grandfather entered into this eerie place. Women dressed in white aprons and nursing caps would gather and direct groups in large dining halls, bring food and assign sleeping cots. Any chance my grandfather got to interact with these women, he tried to learn a few words in Spanish, though he wished he had a pen to write them down somewhere.
After dinner, a few immigrants would whip up an old accordion or a fiddle. This compelled my grandfather to stay late before going to his assigned cot. Some mazurkas, polkas and a few waltzes brought him to tears. Sounds from a distant land he had known his entire life, now a fleeting image in his mind. It had been three months since he held a parting gaze with his mother and father, not knowing if he would ever see them again. He was boarding a train when his mother placed that small teacup in his hands. The one he carries in his briefcase. It was the only valuable item his mother had. It was a vessel for his cultural heritage, and in a way, his mother’s identity.
“¿Señor?” his eyes opened quickly as a young man dressed in military uniform shouted from down the hall. He stood up and understood the motion to follow him. He picked up his briefcase and followed him through large halls with tall ceilings. A rushing feeling overwhelmed him: this was it, he was about to get a new identity, a fresh start —a new life. Other immigrants had whispered aboard the Cesare, “everybody was to receive citizenship and land upon arrival.” His mind raced calculating how long he would have to farm and save to be able to rescue his parents from starvation. As they arrived to a dimly lit room, a family of four was exiting. They looked Italian, all of them smiling. The father paused at the door and gave my grandfather a comforting nod.
“¡Adelante!” a voice invited him into the room. Behind a desk, a military man with a thick mustache was writing on a large book. Without looking up, the man asked, “¿Parla italiano?” A brief silence filled the room. “¿Ruso, polaco?” The man insisted. My grandfather pulled his red passport and handed it over. “Hungaro.” The man sighted, paused and then asked “Nombre, nimi, nazev” quickly cycling through different languages. My grandfather slowly uttered his name. “József Buranÿ.” Writing and still with his eyes on the book, the military man said, “bienvenido señor José Burany.” He stamped a small piece of paper and handed it to Jose. The man then turned and pointed at a large map on the wall, “Aquí van a estar sus tierras don Burany. En el sur.” To which my grandfather opened his green wide eyes. He looked at the map and he saw the land he was about to receive was in the very south of the continent. It would be cold and difficult to farm there. Freezing and humid winters had scarred him with memories of his parents barely surviving them. Even the little produce they amassed had to be given up to the state, to be redistributed. Everything, in fact, belonged to the Party. Anything of value was confiscated.
“Kérem” Jose kindly said. The man kept writing. “Por favor” my grandfather insisted in broken Spanish, this time louder. The man stopped and raised his gaze. “Sur” Jose uttered embracing himself, gesturing being cold. The man’s mustache moved slightly while considering Jose’s plea. Lowering his eyes back to the page, he continued writing.
Jose abruptly lowered his briefcase to the floor and opened it. The man, alarmed by Jose’s sudden movements, fixed his eyes on my grandfather's hands. They held a small but shiny teacup. A memory of his mother burying the teacup so that it wouldn’t be confiscated by communist soldiers filled Jose’s vision as he offered it to a different kind of, yet still, military man. The man looked at Jose’s eyes and slowly took the teacup. Inspecting it, the man asked, “¿Porcelana?” Jose guessed what this meant but decided not to lie. Looking slowly down, he shook his head; this teacup was not expensive porcelain. The man, inspected the tiny ornaments and flowers designed on the peculiar teacup. Alas, it wasn’t anything extraordinary. However, for Jose, this teacup had just revealed to have a very different kind of value. The man gently rested it on his desk and extended his hand, asking for the paper he’d given Jose. He tore it, stamped a new one and writing something down he said, “Muy bien, a donde va usted ahora, no va a pasar frío.” He pointed to a place in the map saying, “Santiago.” Jose nodded, receiving the new paper and almost whispering, “Santiago.”
He picked up his cardboard briefcase and walked towards the door. The dark red tiles of the floor were almost identical as the ones his mother was likely standing on that same instant, just on a different continent. These tiles were haughtily asking him what else in that briefcase would help him remember his country; his culture. His mother. His mother that had placed the teacup on Jose’s hands gently, as if it was her own soul. Until this moment, he had not thought about the fact that her eyes were the same deep blue as the teacup’s flowers. He felt helpless but couldn’t excuse himself from what he had done. Anger and shame swelled inside as he picked up his pace to exit this cold room.
His shoulder was gently pulled from behind. The officer stopped him at the door, “Aca se toma mate. Vaya con Dios Jose,” handing the teacup back to him. Slowly taking it, he breathed a few times before nodding one last ‘gracias.’
My grandfather stood in a crowded line, holding a briefcase made out of hardened cardboard. Inside of it, a few clothing garments and a shiny, rather small teacup. A few hundred people waiting patiently for a train to Santiago though no one was talking. He didn’t know it then but in that train station, three men were singing “La Violeta;” a Tango that tells the story of an immigrant that arrives to Argentina, in the belly of a metal beast.
Static Motion in Fricke's "BARAKA"
Ron Fricke's Baraka (1992) was groundbreaking when it first came out. Today, it serves as a retrospective on a frantic 1990's culture that very much applies to many of the current societal inherent behaviors.
This so-called "non-narrative" documentary undoubtedly narrates in its own way; while there's no evident plot, one can peal layers and easily find underlying multi-dimensional narratives. Its form was previously explored in the Qatsi trilogy and even in Fricke's own Chronos (1985). But this is the first really compelling signature documentary that still stirs political and anthropological commentary. Another jewel of cinema that one cannot and should not ignore.
One of the many clever devices used in the film, is the many static camera shots with frantic and repetitive motion, that when combined with masterful camera treatment (and obviously the music) create everlasting imagery and I argue, everlasting emotions.
A sort of "Static Motion" effect: what moves actually, is one's own emotions.
I Love Editing
"I love editing. I Think I love it more than any other phase of filmmaking. If I wanted to be frivolous, I might say that everything that precedes editing is merely a way of producing film to edit."
Stanley Kubrick, 1971, in an interview while he was still shooting 2001.
Makes you wonder, what is the latent significance of these four "floating" scenes throughout the film and their correlation? I am not planning to make a statement here, merely to see those four moments closer together. If you've seen the film, you might get what I'm referring to. If not, well go do that.
Could it be that mastermind Kubrick might have been playing around with the concept and symbolism of evolution and extinction, technology and human ambition? What a treat. For me this is evidence of a mastery in editing, because while the audience may not make a totally conscious decision about what all of this means, the message comes across nevertheless. Even in deep, subtle feelings, both while and after experiencing the movie.
The Truth
The truth has no opposites. It can neither be grasped nor can it be interpreted. It will remain universal, infinite and we may not even utter it; only experience it.
To Choose
"When a man cannot choose, he ceases to be a man" - Stanley Kubrick.
IIn photography, there are so many choices that we make consciously, though most times, we make them unconsciously. The edges of the frame are merely the start of the process of "choosing," or so we can argue. Some people claim they can attain a certain level of "objectivity" in photography; others may declare they are helplessly "subjective" when clicking the shutter. But these mental postures indeed ignore the countless instinctive impulses, or aggregates, that determine those decisions or non-decisions. It's easy to see how most everyday choices become illusions: we believe we can choose but are unaware we cannot. True, the chicken and egg hierarchical conundrum in objective/subjective rational behavior -let alone "artistic" or "intuitive"- may remain unsolved for now. However, one can choose not to cease to be a man, as Stanley suggests, by the effort to remain conscious of the elusive influences that are present at the moment of "choosing." This implies simply acknowledging, as much as we can, the reasons or not reasons (rationale v. irrational-e) of why and how, when, and what we choose.
As impossible as this might seem, it remains a horizon to aspire to: at every moment and especially just before releasing the shutter. For when feelings, thoughts, or instincts take over while holding the camera, if one isn't even aware of them, one ceases to be conscious about them: there is no choice within unconsciousness. In other words, unconsciousness equals non-existence.
For instance, if the wooden posts of the photo above represented each pressing of the shutter (and for simplicity purposes, one particular choice right before pressing it), the wire in between could represent all those subtle influences. We could close our eyes, hold on to the wire, and walk from one post to the next. And at the end of the field, we might look back and remember all those choices "we made" and the photographs "we took." The question is, for how long did we remain conscious of the wire that took us to the end of the field? Or of the steps we made with our feet and legs? Or the grip of the hands holding onto the wire? Even if it's just a split second, being cognizant makes us both objective and subjective simultaneously. And it becomes fulfilling when we humbly aspire to at least get closer to an ongoing, self-aware cognition; it becomes a purpose
To choose.
The Law
"Do what thou wilt" shall not be the whole of the law; wilt what thou do, shall be the law of my whole.