jeudi 13 mai 2010
lundi 10 mai 2010
Vortrag von Anne Immelé (12. Mai 18:00)
Die künstlerische Arbeit der in Mulhouse lebenden Künstlerin Anne Immelé antwortet auf diese Fragen in unterschiedlicher Weise: Immelé beschäftigt sich mit Raum, Zeit und Wasser in unterschiedlichen Aggregatzuständen. Bilder ihrer Werkreihe „La Série des Lacs“ (2001-2003) zum Beispiel inspirierten den Philosophen Jean-Luc Nancy zu seinem Buch “Die Annäherung” (2008) und zu Behauptungen über Fiktionen des Fluiden, die nicht permanente Zirkulation und Transparenz, sondern Stillstand und Unergründbarkeit privilegieren.
Anne Immelé wird ihre künstlerische Arbeit unter diesem Blickwinkel reflektieren und darüber hinaus ihre jüngsten fotografischen Projekte vorstellen. Dieser Vortrag ist Teil der Berliner Gazette-Initiative “Fiktionen des Fluiden” und findet am 12. Mai 2010 um 18 Uhr im Rahmen von The Knot im Kunstraum Kreuzberg/Bethanien statt.
mercredi 5 mai 2010
|Video installation at Le Quai|
"This work is a reflection about the idea of the well, the hole, in the same time like a point of concentration and a source of reflection. I made photos on an Island in Nantes, this island was a japanese garden, and I keep this idea of the garden, in order to deal with the notions of macrocosm and micrososm. The video is still oscillating between depth and surface, and like the video is composed by alternate short photos and black images, the video create a fllicker effect in all the projection space. / Le Puits, propose une expérience perceptive pour le visiteur. C'est l'espace accueillant la projection qui tout entier entre en vibrations avec la projection, devient clignotant. Le visiteur est soumis à ce clignotement rapide, cet effet "Flicker", pouvant devenir hypnotique, qui emplit l'espace et entre en résonance avec les corps. Le puits, où l'on se perd, lorsque l'on se penche sur l'eau sombre du puits, on est happé, absorbé, le puits est un point de concentration et en même temps une source de réflexions, il contient et reflète l'univers. Le puits est aussi le mystère, il renvoie à l’invisible, au « je ne sais pas » : on sait qu’il y a une source mais on ne sait où, elle reste invisible, et profonde, elle se dérobe au travers de ce miroir noir." Claire Willeman
samedi 1 mai 2010
© Anne Immelé, Mesquer, marais
|© Anne Immelé, Mesquer, marais|
" I think that I cannot preserve my health and spirits, unless I spend four hours a day at least,—and it is commonly more than that,—sauntering through the woods and over the hills and fields, absolutely free from all worldly engagements. You may safely say, A penny for your thoughts, or a thousand pounds. When sometimes I am reminded that the mechanics and shopkeepers stay in their shops not only all the forenoon, but all the afternoon too, sitting with crossed legs, so many of them—as if the legs were made to sit upon, and not to stand or walk upon—I think that they deserve some credit for not having all committed suicide long ago.
I, who cannot stay in my chamber for a single day without acquiring some rust, and when sometimes I have stolen forth for a walk at the eleventh hour or four o’clock in the afternoon, too late to redeem the day, when the shades of night were already beginning to be mingled with the daylight, have felt as if I had committed some sin to be atoned for,—I confess that I am astonished at the power of endurance, to say nothing of the moral insensibility, of my neighbours who confine themselves to shops and offices the whole day for weeks and months, and years almost together. I know not what manner of stuff they are of—sitting there now at three o’clock in the afternoon, as if it were three o’clock in the morning.
(... / ...)
Nowadays almost all man’s improvements, so called, as the building of houses, and the cutting down of the forest and of all large trees, simply deform the landscape, and make it more and more tame and cheap. A people who would begin by burning the fences and let the forest stand! I saw the fences half consumed, their ends lost in the middle of the prairie, and some worldly miser with a surveyor looking after his bounds, while heaven had taken place around him, and he did not see the angels going to and fro, but was looking for an old post-hole in the midst of paradise. I looked again, and saw him standing in the middle of a boggy stygian fen, surrounded by devils, and he had found his bounds without a doubt, three little stones, where a stake had been driven, and looking nearer, I saw that the Prince of Darkness was his surveyor.
(... / ...)
Hope and the future for me are not in lawns and cultivated fields, not in towns and cities, but in the impervious and quaking swamps. When, formerly, I have analyzed my partiality for some farm which I had contemplated purchasing, I have frequently found that I was attracted solely by a few square rods of impermeable and unfathomable bog—a natural sink in one corner of it. That was the jewel which dazzled me. I derive more of my subsistence from the swamps which surround my native town than from the cultivated gardens in the village.
(... / ...)
Yes, though you may think me perverse, if it were proposed to me to dwell in the neighborhood of the most beautiful garden that ever human art contrived, or else of a Dismal Swamp, I should certainly decide for the swamp. How vain, then, have been all your labors, citizens, for me!
My spirits infallibly rise in proportion to the outward dreariness. Give me the ocean, the desert, or the wilderness! In the desert, pure air and solitude compensate for want of moisture and fertility. The traveller Burton says of it—“Your morale improves; you become frank and cordial, hospitable and single-minded…. In the desert, spirituous liquors excite only disgust. There is a keen enjoyment in a mere animal existence.” They who have been travelling long on the steppes of Tartary say: “On reentering cultivated lands, the agitation, perplexity, and turmoil of civilization oppressed and suffocated us; the air seemed to fail us, and we felt every moment as if about to die of asphyxia.” When I would recreate myself, I seek the darkest wood, the thickest and most interminable and, to the citizen, most dismal swamp. I enter a swamp as a sacred place,—a sanctum sanctorum. "