Martine Rousset

Filmmaker's visual diary aboard the Vangolu Express.

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Night is falling the landscape is disappearing leave the world and its memory the night, rags in its wake last page.

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The unfinished Julien Gracq text, the road 1970, a forest near the sea, the enigma of a trajectory, by this text in this lanscape and this landscape in this text, it's diging, since a double echo to a same root, deep, invisible, an absolute presence, a stones fire, then, text and landscape are foliage of the same language.

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Winter, fog, outside. The outline of eyes, sometimes we could ride those trails.

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With Istanbul, Martine Rousset puts on the brakes to the world's movement through a cinema of deceleration. At the boundaries between image by image movement and optical fusion, the rhythm of the film gives way to a suspended or floating time. Is it not certain that the idea of duration is more able to render a perception of the city that rather burns for intense emotion. It seems as if the camera cultivates a dreamy half-sleep. To this soft throbbing, blends however, variation of exposure as well. Therefore, at certain times, seeing becomes fragile and dangerous.

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"The sea is a language whose meaning we have lost" Jorge Luis Borges

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This is what the city offers the passing foreigner: gold and night to the visitor who has barely arrived. Fragments, the stone found by the wayside, raw. We pick it up and keep it. Can we read into the gleaming lights passing by? What is written? Whole images, raw images, far from art and style.

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Originally a text in fragments, more or less biographical, of different characters. Crossed stories, mixed times, memories and inventions. Coming from the voices encountered. They look like text like sisters. They are the voices of memory, the shadows cast by the characters, the voices of girls, the voices of indecision and evocation. We begin with this work: to read, to record (in analog, it takes breath). Here comes a place, a place found: the foliage of a vine in the South, crossed by the wind Mistral: a landscape. Where are we? Where the boy dies, would we see what he sees? Where was the child playing in the neighborhood? At the heart of the narrative, at the heart of the written word? That would happen. Harvesting images, shifting gears, Multiplying the generations with the listening of the voices, even in memory sometimes.

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To examine the image of this face, this look, there are fragments of raw stories, mineral lights, snatches of an endless dream ... The insistence clashes, until abstraction , To the decomposed time, to its chaos with the gleams of stone. From that face coming back, nothing was said. The look can not be deciphered. The illusion, even to the darkness, remains mute. Signs of an absent song.

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"With Un vent leger dans le feuillage, a fixed close-up which for three minutes decays a few leaves of their green color, Martine Rousset films the fluorescent vibration of the chlorophyll: the color shapes at the same time as it drips, it institutes the It is the admirable film that Maxim Gorky would have liked to see on July 3, 1896." Nicole Brenez

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Readings. Heinrich von Kleist / Robert Walser. Contiguous. They talk about imagination. Walser imagines Kleist, Kleist nobody, but Penthesilea. In the new desert islands that are the enclaves of flowers of the city. Roses of sidewalks. Wild spaces with anonymity, truncated and without paths, in the banal stones of any career, inscribe and break the voices of an abrupt literary, hermetic and arid fragments in the image of places, almost no of place. Images figures of writing. In the blind corner. Without access. Very few signs.

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The voices say a story. forget it. Of what time. And who speaks. Both of them. One or the other. later. Others may be. Of chance. Which would cross in this narrative. When. The times have intermingled. The winds meet. History. Pictures. The summer. Humble vacancy with furtive foliage. Fragile memory. Light is a trace of forgetfulness.

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On the one hand: A frame - and then windows in the frame - Spiked - from one to the other - Images designated - fenced, inside / out. Every moment broken - repeated. Always past. One after the other. Cruelty of the open boundary itself - and immediately some untimely object comes up against it - clog the sight - obliterate the frame. On the other hand: The note pursues an eternal moment. It's his game, run the frame, draw the embrasure, and so on. (...) she passes. Immediately in it she plays with nothing. Immediately outside she finds.

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"Readings. A place. Purity of lines. Fine angles. Dominance of whites and blues. Fragility of tapered glasses." A visual evocation of the writing of Katherine Mansfield.

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Landscapes. A utilitarian nature. Contemporary. Cruel images. Changing. Seasons. The watch could be eternal. Each image transparent and non-avenue. Only the sound volumes will unfold an obscure duration.

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An unknown writer written under the pseudonym of Laure at the beginning of the century. Readings. Geography. The places of a writing. The forces that create, traverse and lose it. The two image strips will be contiguous on the same screen. Their continuous and simultaneous operation. Two mirrors. The voices and their silences are reflected in it. Fade away.

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The last part of the Carolyn Carlson cycle. Last look. Oversight. Irreversible erasure. The song is immersed. Blinded.

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Portrait. She dances in the center of her area. Obscure to the look. She abandons us to her limit. Turn. Count the chips. Conjugate. Turn on yourself, in a blind echo. Cross the already deserted space.

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Traces of stories. The images themselves. Tear off. Stain. To paint. Makes light out of them.

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The first part of the Carolyn Carlson cycle. Between her and herself. Three images of the dance are repeated, come up against opacities that do not let themselves be crossed, are lost in transparencies from which there is no reflection. The sound describes their inevitable journey: this motionless movement.

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Filmmaker's visual diary during her visit to Samarcande.

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