Download e-book Nos Clichés préférés (2007-2010) (French Edition)

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Ristelhueber accompanies news coverage of civil and international wars.


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She gathers cuttings and photos from newspaper articles, and reflects on each conflict before physically going to the conflict zone. The artist does not travel as a war correspondent: she has an obsession for traces, scars, and erosions that connect recent destruction with the dilated temporality of the territory. In WB, Ristelhueber traveled to the West Bank, where she searched for less explicit marks left by the conflict, and the separation of Jews and Palestinians by the building of a dividing wall in She photographed barriers erected by the Israeli army to block the circulation of Palestinian vehicles: constructions made of piles of stones, partially overgrown with grass, that interrupt the traffic and integrate into the region's roadscape.

Printed on wallpaper, the photographs, like the theme they portray, infiltrate the exhibition hall with unlikely spaces and perspectives. It upsets me to find the gate to the farm open. I think of the entrances to the condominium, and for a moment that wide open gate is more impenetrable. I feel that, when I walk through the gateway, I won't be going in somewhere, but I'll be leaving every other place behind.

Now I can see the whole valley and its boundaries, even so, it's as if the valley enclosed the world and now I was off into the outside. After this stupid hesitation, I realise that's just what I want. I step on the farmland and, to feel. Except it's stuck in the ground, encrusted and embedded in dry mud.

When I left the farm for the last time five years ago, I must have left the gate open and nobody ever came close to it. For five years I abandoned and forgot all this. Perhaps the inertia of the farm in my mind, rather than the long drought, accounts for this harsh light and the flat landscape. After overcoming the gate, I'm not sure of my way in. Maybe the breach is.

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The sun's still on the mountain tops, while night climbs up the slopes like crude oil. I sit down on the round stone where I sat when I was small, when I used to think that night first filled up the valley, than overflowed into earth and heaven. Lives and works in Zagreb, Croatia.


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  • As raw material for his work he takes the residual images of these promised futures: product prototypes, texts, model buildings, sometimes shown as ruins, sometimes as the settings of absurd scenes. Despite dealing with notions of disillusionment and the loss of collective memory in those very places. Each of the videos depicts relationships between figures of the future who come across the building and adopt it as a pilgrimage site, watchtower and place to pass the time.

    Joseph Joubert was born in Montignac in and died seventy years later. He never wrote a book. He only prepared himself to write one, single-mindedly searching for the right conditions. Then he forgot this purpose as well.


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    In his search for the right conditions to write a book, Joubert discovered a delightful place where he could digress and end up not writing a book at all. He almost put down roots during his. And the point is, as Blanchot says, what he was searching for, the source of all writing, that space where he could write, that light which ought to be circumscribed in space, demanded of him and confirmed in him dispositions which made him unsuitable for any ordinary literary work or distracted him from the same.

    In this respect Joubert was one of the first totally modern writers, preferring the centre to the sphere, sacrificing results in. Lives and works in Vilnius, Lithuania.

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    Eastern Europe is the setting of choice for the artist's films, which convey the politically turbulent experience of the collective recent history of his home country, Lithuania. His laconic films use documental material such as images, records, memoirs, and first-hand accounts in order to compose and reconstruct biographies. The Dud Effect is set in a former Soviet military base in Lithuania, where nuclear missiles were trained on the West during the Cold War. Evgeny Terentiev, a former soldier and protagonist of the film, recalls, demonstrates, and reenacts, with rigor and precision, the command sequence required for nuclear launch; a potentially globally catastrophic command that went ungiven, despite its historical imminence.

    However, it is still curious that Joubert should not have written a book, since he was, from very early on, only attracted by and interested in what was being written. From a very young. The artist also uses the public and urban scale as a laboratory, developing hybrid works that use fusion to problematize the physical condition and nature of his supports. His work posits his own body, the primary source and instrument of all expression, as a recurring problem to be investigated through its gestures and capacity to transform the world. Cosmorelief is an installation that unfolds in video, sculpture, drawing.

    The work crosses and superposes organic structures that allude to the body with and upon representations of elements from mechanical bases, generating images that are, to an extent, fantastical. Continuous shots and aerial views are recurrent strategies in the work of Cinthia Marcelle. Through these devices, the artist can take a distanced look at the rules and recurrences of the world; at all that repeats itself to the point of becoming almost imperceptible; at the layers that accumulate in a dark body of memory.

    In the place of effective erasures, the artist legitimizes and interprets leavers of vestiges and traces. Sobre este mesmo mundo is an installation that results from the act of erasure. Beneath a long blackboard, drifts of. In the white smudge on the blackboard, we can still make out versions, sayings and landscapes that have been left behind. In the video Buraco negro, two characters out of shot dialogue through puffs and sneezes before a piece of that same chalk. The dialogues inspire visual diagrams in white on black that, shared in a small room behind the blackboard, keep the inscription of acts of speech and reply in history open and free of hierarchies.

    There was a crime. But there were also the lovers. Lovers and their happy ends have been on my mind all night long. As into the sunset we sail. An unhappy inversion. It occurs to me that I have not travelled so very far after all, since I wrote my little play. Or rather, I've made a huge digression and doubled back to my starting place. It is only in this last version that my lovers end well, standing side by side on a South London pavement as I walk away.

    All the preceding drafts were pitiless.

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    But now I can. That I never saw them in that year. That my walk across London ended at the church on Clapham Common, and that a cowardly Briony limped back to the hospital, unable to confront her recently bereaved. That the letters the lovers wrote are in the archives of the War Museum. How could that constitute an ending? What sense or hope or satisfaction could a reader draw from such an account? Who would want to believe that they never met again, never fulfilled their love? Who would want to believe that, except in the service of the bleakest realism?

    I couldn't do it to them. I'm too old, too frightened, too much in love with the shred of life. I have remaining. I face an incoming tide of forgetting, and then oblivion. I no longer possess the courage of my pessimism.

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    There is no one, no entity or higher form that she can appeal to, or be reconciled with, or. There is nothing outside her.

    go here In her imagination she has set the limits and the terms. No atonement for God, or novelists, even if they are atheists. It was always an impossible task, and that was precisely the point.