A review of the Michael Werner exhibition at the Musée d'art moderne

La Collection Michael Werner
Musée d’art moderne, Paris
October 5, 2012 - March 3, 2013

It was a Sunday when I saw this exhibition. I prepared a good meal at home, with salmon, Brussels sprouts and potato purée. We drank two-thirds of a bottle of burgundy, and also split a craquant au chocolat. It was her birthday.

We descended from our apartment, and found that outside it was a relatively balmy 10 degrees centigrade. The sun peeked out between the clouds, and the pavement was wet. I felt fine. We walked to the Strasbourg–Saint-Denis station, where we took the 9 train and got out at Iéna. Exiting onto the street, we followed the downward pitch of the Avenue du President Wilson and arrived at the entrance to the museum in under a minute. Across the avenue I saw the Square Brignole Galliera: empty, gray, and brooding.

Once inside the building, we walked through a metal detector. I bought a ticket for nine euros, while hers cost just seven. In order to reach the exhibition we had to pass through the museum’s permanent collection, free and open to the public, packed with kitschy Delaunays. At the entrance to the exhibition, a woman tore our tickets in half, and we each took programs from a receptacle suited for the purpose. We entered a dark octagonal room in which were arranged some bronze sculptures. I couldn’t bring myself to care, and passed up a few stairs into the first proper room, wondering if I still agreed with Baudelaire, that sculpture is the most boring of the visual arts.

Gaston Chaissac,
"Grande porte de bois peint" (1953)

The first proper room featured grayish ink depictions of naked women by Jean Fautrier. I admired the quality of line in these figure drawings, and the way it would shift from thin to thick as it followed the sensual curves of the woman’s thighs. I don’t remember anything about the Francis Gruber works that followed that, except that they were also fairly dark.

The darkness of the previous two artists ill-prepared me for the next room, and I felt a distinct shock when I found myself facing the garish colors of Gaston Chaissac. As if my eyes were adjusting to the color, I gradually liked each painting more and more as I looked at them. There was a brownish one whose colors seemed “just right.” I finished my time in this room by writing Chaissac’s name on my program, so that I would remember it (it took me a few rooms to realize that it would be easier to just circle the name where it is printed in the program). I also noted the years of the two paintings I liked best: 1958-9 and 1943-4.

Derain followed in the next room: the largest room yet. at the center were arranged several dozen heads of bronze, with round, beady eyes, thick, flat lips, whimsical expressions. I remember thinking to myself, “these are pretty funny.” I saw two paintings that bothered me, and then I began to like the rest of the paintings that I saw. Derain has a special touch. Like Robert Delaunay he seems to have been unable to formulate his own style, and resorted to borrowing from others over the course of his career; but whereas Delaunay’s borrowing results mostly in kitsch, Derain usually succeeds in creating something worthwhile despite its derivativeness. He’s not a genius, but he’s much smarter, and probably funnier than Delaunay: I left the room with a heart warmed by the admiration I was feeling just then for André Derain.

The next room was the worst of all the rooms, featuring late paintings of Picabia. The program insists that Picabia “slaughtered the second sacred cow of the art world: style,” and indeed Picabia’s later paintings lack all semblance of style. Yet nothing is revealed by them in their stylelessness; one looks at them and one sees nothing worth looking at. I laughed aloud reading the program mention “his so-called bad paintings”: so-called bad paintings, or just simply bad paintings? Bad, bad paintings that no one needs to try to admire.

Louis Eilshemius, "Nymph with Pink Scarf" (1914)

After that, one of the shining moments of the exhibition: a wall of small scenes painted by Louis Eilshemius. Like pompier paintings attempted by a child, these works exude a trembling sentimentalism, earnest and sad, a breath of fresh air after Picabia’s painting-hell. Intimate pastoral clearings, dotted with blurry nudes. The program mentioned Duchamp’s advocacy of Eilshemius at the 1917 “Independents Exhibition” in New York (I think Marjorie Perloff may have mentioned him in her talk on Duchamp). This made total sense to me, and also made me think that I, too, would advocate for Eilshemius whenever I had the chance. This room alone made the visit worthwhile.

I passed through the following rooms with my eyes open. Grotesque three-dimensional paintings from Réquichot, three different artists (Jacques de la Villeglé, Raymond Hains, Mimmo Rotella) working with torn film posters and advertisements. It’s no coincidence that all three were doing the same thing independently: it’s a pretty obvious idea, one had by people everyday in the subway. Otto Dix and Günter Brus followed—seeming a bit exaggerated after Eilshemius, to say the least!—then Lucio Fontana, whose works were cruelly positioned in a curving hallway, making it all too easy to pass them quickly. The next large room featured great works by Beuys: East German paper used for wrapping foodstuffs, brown and flat with strange stamped motifs. Beuys’ ironic commentary on top. It just works: Beuys works and he always does, somehow. These pieces were unfortunately accompanied by some dull, dreary nineties’ conceptual kitsch from James Lee Byars. Not even worth a passing glance.

After that, a big room with big Baselitz paintings. All upside down, and all worth admiring. And after that, another big positive: a series of graphite drawings from Eugen Schönebeck, depicting Stalin, Mao, Mayakovsky, and more. Very great, making me circle his name enthusiastically in the exhibition program. The program speaks of manifestos written in the sixties against the German art establishment by Baselitz and Schönebeck. Where can I read them? Schröder-Sonnenstern also very great, and where else would you see these sick drawings? Höckelmann kind of a let down after this.

Henri Michaux, "Mouvements" (1951)

But this was succeeded by another shining moment: a half room of quiet drawings of Henri Michaux. Unfortunately, as we began to look at them we were followed into the room by two Russian bimbos passing in front of each drawing at a steady pace—slow, but never stopping—speaking very loudly. Their voices echoed through the room, destroying any attempt at admiring Michaux’s simple black forms on pale yellow. We just had to stop and wait, staring at the ceiling until these awful women passed on. These simple drawings are so effective. Unequivocally human forms represented by black lines and blots, spread across the tan paper. Delicate pastel and gouache on black paper. Sharp colors, the merest hint of figures. A devotional procession in reddish-orange on black, plodding towards an electric blue ladder climbing upwards to the right. Then on the facing wall, Michaux’s mescaline drawings. I tried to imagine him on mescaline, hunched over his desk, squinting as his white-knuckled hands gripped his pen and delicately described the forms that occupied his mind. Evocative work, earnest work, simple and alien. These made me think of a time in college when I drew a picture of my friend when we had both taken acid. My first attempt at drawing had failed disastrously: I could barely move my hand, and ended up with a minuscule cartoon of a planetary orb and a hot dog. I didn’t even know what I was doing. Somehow I relaxed, and drew from nature, effortlessly recording the smooth curve of my friend’s bald head, the spiky stubble of his beard and mustache. When he saw the drawing he told me, “you’ve captured something photographic.”

Marcel Broodthaers, from "Les très riches
heures du Duc de Berry" (1974-5)

The next room featured great and funny work by Jörg Immendorff. The program spoke highly of his “LIDL actions.” We admired his “Self-portrait of the Artist in his Studio”, which depicts himself, in his studio, painting a picture of striking factory workers. Then came Lehmbruck lithographs and sculptures, which passed me by. Lüpertz followed, with a grotesque sculpture of Mozart as a female bodybuilder. Some of his paintings were quite nice, and I appreciated his attempt to make sculptures of the forms described in his paintings.

Penck was strange, and I probably should have given him more attention—at least enough to find out how this artist would switch his primary source of inspiration, as the program noted, from scientific positivism to free jazz. I was distracted from his curving room by the intimate side room devoted to Broodthaers. Great, great works collected there. Conceptual but unpretentious. The saving grace of all intellectual art is a sense of humor. Very funny work, also mysterious. Would have liked to save it for later, contemplate it during the train ride home.

Then Leroy, Polke, Toroni (minimalism is alright, but Dia:Beacon makes too big a deal about it!). Polke succeeds with winning forms. He wins these late rooms. Van Vliet better than expected, but hard to think of him as anything other than an amateur (that’s bad, I know!). Freundlich I barely recall, and Kirkeby paints his own shapes over readymade canvases. I remember thinking, “that’s a pretty good idea,” and then almost immediately thinking, “no it’s not!”

Raymond Queneau, "Main et coquillage" (c. 1925)

Schmit and Queneau in the little corner before the gift shop/exit. (Tip: you can see these for free from the staircase leading down to the permanent collection, just bring binoculars!) Schmit was interesting, but the drawings were too stiff. More of a philosopher, a comedian, a writer. I would read his novel. Queneau is of course more of a writer, whose novels I’ve read, but these little paintings are so good. His hand in front of a bottle, various objects, gouache polaroids. Mundane and magnificent. A final shining moment. Had to settle for mental postcards.

As we left we saw a long line of fashionable fools waiting to enter the Palais de Tokyo (whereas the Werner exhibit had been practically empty). One young man wore skintight jeans, a peacoat, Harry Potter glasses, Hitler Youth buzz-cut on the sides, smoothed back pompadour on top, and a massive lumberjack beard, as if he didn’t want to take any chance of anyone ever thinking he might not be a hipster. Skip the contemporary kitsch parade and see the Michael Werner show, you fools!

Portraits from the Austrian avant-garde of the 60s and 70s

Peter Handke in the 1970s

Feminine "Sponti" disrupts the "Internationale Literaturforum" in Frankfurt am Main, 1967. Erich Fried on the left, Handke unimpressed at the microphone, H.C. Artmann above him

H.C. Artmann plays the "Armer Poet"

Gerald Bisinger, H.C. Artmann, and Gert Jonke in Berlin, 1970

Barbara Frischmuth, Gert Jonke, Klaus Hoffer at the "Frankfurter Buchmesse" in 1969

Gert Jonke

Jonke again

Ingeborg Bachmann in the kitchen of her Rome apartment, 1968

Konrad Bayer at the Gruppe 47 meeting in Saulgau, Germany in 1963, a year before his death

Wolfgang Bauer

Michael Scharang

The floorplans for possible uses of the Forum Stadtpark in Graz

Hubert Fabian Kulterer, publisher, academic, writer and actionist, the inspiration for Thomas Bernhard's short story "Der Kulterer"

The Vienna avant-garde in 1966: (L to R) Oswald Wiener, Dominik Steiger, Hermann Nitsch, Ingrid Wiener, Gerhard Rühm, Reinhard Priessnitz

"7 students play african-american music" in the "adebar" in Vienna, 1954. On trumpet: a young Oswald Wiener

Oswald Wiener in the 1960s

All images from Österreichische Literatur seit 1945: eine Annäherung in Bildern (Reclam, 2000)

Some manuskripte covers

manuskripte is an Austrian literary journal, first published in 1960, founded by Alfred Kolleritsch, based in Graz. More information here and here.

Thurston Dart - French Suites (Clavichord recording, 1961)

After being unable to find any good clavichord recordings elsewhere on the internet, I felt I should share this disk, despite this not being a "real" music blog. I'm not sure if these recordings have been reissued, but they are a great document of the capabilities of this neglected instrument. I originally acquired this LP when my friend Ian offered me my pick of a load of classical vinyl that Academy Records (the Williamsburg branch, where he worked) could not sell and was trying to get rid of. For shame, uncultured Brooklyn! This was one of the best of the batch.

From a 1962 review of Dart's recording:

The French Suites were actually called by Bach Suites pour le clavecin; but this does not mean that the nature of the keyboard instrument for which they were intended can be precisely specified. Terry was of the opinion that they "are suited to the harpsichord rather than the clavichord, for they invite the tonal contrasts which only the former could afford", but a convincing case could doubtless be put forward for the clavichord, since it was Bach's favourite domestic instrument and the Suites were initially written in a home album for Bach's second wife Anna Magdalena. Anyway, Thurston Dart's performances on the clavichord, though obviously without the range of colour of Kirkpatrick's recordings, make unfailingly satisfying listening by reason of their sheer musicality, their stylishness, their varied articulation and their wealth of expressive nuance. By omitting all repeats (and even the do capo Minuet in Suite I, though not that in Suite III), Dart saves a whole side over his rival—who, of course, was able to vary his registration for each repeat; but though the music is often so fine that one wants to hear it through again (and though, of course, dance-form movements, such as these all are, should properly have each half repeated), for gramophone purposes the shorter version has its advantages.

I've mentioned here before how I value a sense of intimacy in recordings of chamber music. Whether or not these pieces were intended to be played on the clavichord, this instrument produces the more intimate recording, as though it were more an approximation of Bach's own compositional process rather than the suites' first public performance.

Thurston Dart in 1964, via Semibrevity.

Information about Thurston Dart can be found here at the Semibrevity blog. Dart was apparently one of the earliest and most influential proponents of early music and period instrumentation, although his own work has not had very much exposure.

Thurston Dart - French Suites (1961)

A1.  Suite No. 1 in D Minor (Allemande - Courante - Sarabande - Menuets I & II - Gigue)    8:34
A2.  Suite No. 2 in C Minor (Allemande - Courante - Sarabande - Air - Menuet - Gigue)    7:24
A3.  Suite No. 3 in B Minor (Allemande - Courante - Sarabande - Anglaise - Menuet & Trio - Gigue)    8:54

B1.  Suite No. 4 in E Flat Major (Allemande - Courante - Sarabande - Gavotte - Menuet - Air - Gigue)    8:03

B2.  Suite No. 5 in G Major (Allemande - Courante - Sarabande - Gavotte - Bourree - Loure - Gigue)    10:14

B3.  Suite No. 6 in E Major (Allemande - Courante - Sarabande - Gavotte - Polonaise - Bourree - Menuet - Gigue)    9:23

HERE

Those garish, sickly smiles

"Man sieht einen Menschen und denkt, was für ein sympathischer Mensch, und bald sieht man (als würde einem auf den Kopf geschlagen!), was für ein gemeiner Mensch, was für ein lächerlicher Mensch, was für ein niedriger Menschentypus."

You see a person and you think, what a nice person, and soon you see (as if it smacked you on the head!), what a cruel person, what a ridiculous person, what a lowly kind of person.

Thomas Bernhard, Watten

 

Gustav Leonhardt RIP

1928-2012

TB Wave / Kleiner Österreichischer Staatspreis

Es ist nichts zu loben, nichts zu verdammen, nichts anzuklagen, aber es ist vieles lächerlich; es ist alles lächerlich, wenn man an den Tod denkt. [...] Die Zeitalter sind schwachsinnig, das Dämonische in uns ein immerwährender vaterländischer Kerker, in dem die Elemente der Dummheit und der Rücksichtslosigkeit zur tagtäglichen Notdurft geworden sind. Der Staat ist ein Gebilde, das fortwährend zum Scheitern, das Volk ein solches, das ununterbrochen zur Infamie und zur Geistesschwäche verurteilt ist. Das Leben Hoffnungslosigkeit, an die sich die Philosophien anlehnen, in welcher alles letzten Endes verrückt werden muß. Wir sind Österreicher, wir sind apathisch; wir sind das Leben als das gemeine Desinteresse am Leben. [...] Wir haben nichts zu berichten, als daß wir erbärmlich sind, durch Einbildungskraft einer philosophisch-ökonomisch-mechanischen Monotonie verfallen. Mittel zum Zwecke des Niedergangs, Geschöpfe der Agonie, erklärt sich uns alles, verstehen wir nichts. Wir bevölkern ein Trauma, wir fürchten uns, wir haben ein Recht, uns zu fürchten, wir sehen schon, wenn auch undeutlich im Hintergrund: die Riesen der Angst. Was wir denken, ist nachgedacht, was wir empfinden, ist chaotisch, was wir sind, ist unklar. Wir brauchen uns nicht zu schämen, aber wir sind auch nichts und wir verdienen nichts als das Chaos. 

____________ 

There is nothing to praise, nothing to damn, nothing to accuse, but much that is ridiculous; everything is ridiculous, when one thinks about death. [...] Our era is feeble-minded, the demonic within us a perpetual national prison, in which the elements of stupidity and carelessness have become a daily need. The state is a construct which is forever condemned to miscarriage, the people one that is endlessly condemned to infamy and feeblemindedness. Life is a hopelessness, on which the philosophies are dependent, in which all must finally become insane. We are Austrians, we are apathetic; we are life as the general disinterest in life. [...] We have nothing to report, except that we are pitiful, brought down by the imaginative powers of a philosophical-economic-mechanical monotony. Means to a destructive end, creatures of agony, everything is explained to us and we understand nothing.  We populate a trauma, we are frightened, we have a right to be frightened, we see already, if only as dim shapes in the background: the giants of fear. What we think is already thought, what we feel is chaotic, what we are is unclear. We don't need to be ashamed, but we are nothing and we deserve nothing other than chaos.

Excerpted from the acceptance speech for the Österreichischer Staatspreis, 1968.

Translation altered from that of Carol Brown Janeaway in My Prizes.

Das dreißigste Jahr

"If I had not immersed myself in books, in stories and legends, in newspapers, in reports, if everything communicable had not grown up in me, I should have been a non-entity [ein Nichts], a collection of uncomprehended events. (And that might have been a good thing, then I should have thought of something new.) That I can see, that I can hear, are things I don't deserve, but my feelings, those I truly deserve, these herons over white beaches, these wanderers by night, the hungry vagabonds that take my heart as their highroad. I wish I could call out to all those who believe in their unique brains and the hard currency of their thoughts: be of good faith! But they have been taken out of circulation, these coins that you jingle, you simply don't know it yet. Withdraw them from currency along with the images of death's heads and eagles which they bear. Admit that it's all over with the land of Greece and the land of Buddha, with enlightenment and alchemy. Admit that you are merely living in a country furnished by the ancients, that your views are only rented, the pictures of your world hired..."

Adapted from Michael Bullock's translation, Holmes & Meier, 1987.

Cosas

>>>Ernst Tugendhat interview (from 4 years ago) @ signandsight

Villa Tugendhat, Brno.

Here [in Germany] there's a lot of bragging in universities. In England and the USA, people have a different way of addressing you, particularly with me, because my style of thinking is rather Anglo-Saxon. Many German colleagues have it easier in America because there people think, oh, that's some German profundity that's so profound that it can't be understood anyway. [...]

As far as the behavioural sciences are concerned, I think that people are too rash in looking for analogies – for example between human morals and animal altruism. That is what Konrad Lorenz, among others, did. As for brain research, I think it's rather crazy what's going on today. [...] They can only find out what types of processes are going on in which parts of the brain. But then those professors of brain physiology appear and present theories about the nonexistence of human freedom. And those theories are only based on the fact that they see themselves as scientists and believe in determinism.

>>>Philippe Meyer on France @ French Politics

Un pays qui prend Bernard Tapie pour un entrepreneur, Bernard-Henri Lévy pour un philosophe, Jacques Attali pour un penseur, Claire Chazal pour une journaliste, Alain Minc pour un économiste, etc. ne peut s'étonner d'avoir Nicolas Sarkozy comme président de la République.

(And in related news, Michel Serres thinks that at this particular junction in history we need to figure out if Astérix was a fascist.)

>>>Autumn's coming @ The Trad

>>>Edwin Fischer 78s @ 78 toeren klassiek

Artmann describes himself

I recently borrowed The Best of H.C. Artmann, a German (despite the title) anthology of Artmann's work (Suhrkamp, 1970), from my university library. The book did not yet have a bar-code, and so had to be entered into the computing system before it could be checked out. When the student at the desk finally handed me the book, I noticed that my stamp was the first to be placed on the yellowed library slip inside the back cover of the book. The book had probably been sitting in the library since 1970. "Does this mean that I'm the first person ever to check out this book?" The student nodded. I felt as though I had discovered something precious, a small treasure that had awaited my curiosity so patiently.
Artmann is an undervalued writer, one of the first as well as last writers of the post-war Viennese literary avant-garde. He founded the Wiener Gruppe, along with younger writers such as Konrad Bayer and Gerhard Rühm, and served as the president of the Grazer Autorenversammlung. Wikipedia reports that he also apparently founded an "Anti P.E.N. Club", about which I would love to know more, but can't find any information about it (if anyone can enlighten us about this group, please do).
Below is a translation I've just done (hastily, I might add, so please feel free to offer any corrections if I've botched something) of a short Selbstbeschreibung written for the collection das suchen nach dem gestrigen tag oder schnee auf einem heissen brotwecken. eintragungen eines bizarren liebhabers, published in 1964. (Source text from H.C. Artmann, The Best of H.C. Artmann, Suhrkamp: Frankfurt, 1970). (German original follows English below).

____________________

My homeland is Austria, my fatherland Europe, my place of residence Malmö, my skin color white, my eyes blue, my courage varied, my mood moody, my intoxications correct, my endurance strong, my concern erratic, my longings like the compass rose, in a flash content, in a flash vexed, a friend of cheerfulness, in principle sad, affectionate towards girls, a big moviegoer, a lover of the twist, a lousy swimmer, a marksman at the shooting range, careless at cards, a zero at chess, not a bad bowler, a master at battleship, shot up in war, cut up in peace, a hater of police, a despiser of authority, an emetic to the left, itching powder to the right, uneasy with parents-in-law, a father of children, a Judas to mother, loyal like Pilatus, soft like Puccini, laid-back like Doctor Ward, shy at first, energetic towards morning, evenings always thirsty, bored at concerts, happy at the tailor, baptized in St. Lorenz, divorced in Klagenfurt, in Poland poetic, in Paris a breather, in Berlin floating, in Rome more timid, in London a bird, in Bremen a raindrop, in Venice an incoming letter, in Zaragoza an awaiting fuse, in Vienna a cracked plate, born in the air, teeth acquired through waiting, hair combed forward, beard tried on like a tie, lived standing with women, squeezed alphabets out of trees, observed carousels in woods, crawled up stairs with lisbonite women, waited for the morning with tourainian women, exploded and shot through the roof with glasgowian women, betrayed catanian women, astounded cairene women, idolized bernese women, advised praguian women, said grüßgott, stolen figs, discovered revolvers, stepped out of boats, cursed kites, fabricated masks, rented catacombs, invented festivals, lost apartments, loved flowers, destroyed records, driven 150, smelled trash, admired lanterns, compared moons, broken noses, abandoned umbrellas, operated malay, devised positions, squashed candies, shaken jukeboxes, been thankful, felt mortal fear, run like the deer, had lungs in the mouth, tarried amid roses, tinkered with toys, bungled dress-arms, read Mickey Spillane, thrown out Goethe, written poems, said bullshit, performed theater, smelled like puke, broken a bottle of Grappa, whispered mi vida, pulled faces, stammered ciao, gone away, said a, did b, thought c, became d.

Everything that one undertakes turns out differently as one hopes…

____________________

Meine heimat ist Österreich, mein vaterland Europa, mein wohnort Malmö, meine hautfarbe weiß, meine augen blau, mein mut verschieden, meine laune launisch, meine räusche richtig, meine ausdauer stark, meine anliegen sprunghaft, meine sehnsüchte wie die windrose, im handumdrehen zufrieden, im handumdrehen verdrossen, ein freund der fröhlichkeit, im grunde traurig, den mädchen gewogen, ein großer kinogeher, ein liebhaber des twist, ein übler schwimmer, an schießständen marksman, beim kartenspiel unachtsam, im schach eine null, kein schlechter kegler, ein meister im seeschlachtspiel. im kriege zerschossen, im frieden zerhaut, ein hasser der polizei, ein verächter der obrigkeit, ein brechmittel der linken, ein juckpulver der rechten, unbehaglich schwiegereltern, ein vater von kindern, ein Judas der mütter, treu wie Pilatus, sanft wie Puccini, locker wie Doctor Ward, schüchtern am anfang, schneidig gen morgen, abends stets durstig, in konzerten gelangweilt, glücklich beim schneider, getauft zu St. Lorenz, geschieden in Klagenfurt, in Polen poetisch, in Paris ein atmer, in Berlin schwebend, in Rom eher scheu, in London ein vogel, in Bremen ein regentropfen, in Venedig ein ankommender brief, in Zaragoza eine wartende zündschnur, in Wien ein teller mit sprüngen, geboren in der luft, die zähne durch warten erlernt, das haar nach vorne gekämmt, die bärte wie schlipse probiert, mit frauen im stehen gelebt, aus bäumen alphabete gepreßt, karussells in wäldern beobachtet, mit lissabonnerinnen über stiegen gekrochen, auf tourainerinnen den morgen erwartet, mit glasgowerinnen explodiert und durchs dach geflogen, catanesinnen verraten, kairenserinnen bestürzt, bernerinnen vergöttert, an pragerinnen herangeraten, grüßgott gesagt, feigen gestohlen, revolver entdeckt, aus booten gestiegen, papierdrachen verwünscht, masken verfertigt, katakomben gemietet, feste erfunden, wohnungen verloren, blumen geliebt, schallplatten verwüstet, 150 gefahren, unrat gewittert, lampione bewundert, monde verglichen, nasen gebrochen, parapluies stehengelassen, malaiisch betrieben, positionen ersonnen, bonbons zertreten, musikautomaten gerüttelt, dankbar gewesen, heidenangst verspürt, wie der hirsch gelaufen, die lunge im maul gehabt, unter rosen geweilt, spielzeug gebastelt, rockärmel verpfuscht, Mickey Spillane gelesen, Goethe verworfen, gedichte geschrieben, scheiße gesagt, theater gespielt, nach kotze gerochen, eine flasche Grappa zerbrochen, mi vida geflüstert, grimassen geschnitten, ciao gestammelt, fortgegangen, a gesagt, b gemacht, c gedacht, d geworden.

Alles was man sich vornimmt, wird anders als man sichs erhofft...

Une femme douce (1969)

Bresson