Your interest in the written word is well known—for instance, in your “Catalogue” series, where you visually explored this material as a political space. Here, the focus is on newspapers, but re-examined through the lens of a work by Susan Silton titled “A potentiality long after its actuality has become a thing of the past.” Why did you choose to focus exclusively on newspapers?
The question underlying all these works is: how long does it take to look at something? Using printed media—photographs or texts—allows me to retain control over the duration. This duration creates space for an awareness of structures, whether cinematic or political. With*A POTENTIALITY*, I sought to convey my experience of looking at a graphic work by Susan Silton—the reprinted newspapers—which entailed adding the element of time to her work.
How did you rework the newspaper front pages? How did you select them, and how did you work out the framing? The editing?
After numerous attempts and iterations behind the camera, I discovered—against all expectations—that the most powerful and evocative images were those most fragmented by the close-up. Ultimately, viewers do not seek legibility above all else; they seem to find it more rewarding to have to search for the meaning within the images. I framed the shots to show at least as much negative space as printed characters on the screen. I wanted to view the words through a dual structure, alternating between what I would call the “image-object” and the “meaning-object.” Sometimes they are merely black marks on a white background, while at other times they are elements of meaning that refer to things in our world. I love the interplay of images, whether on screen or simply in the viewer’s mind. Regarding*A POTENTIALITY*, film theorist Denise Spampinato wondered whether the “framing and un-framing of the textual document might be linked to a dual desire: to read the text very closely, yet also to erase the act of reading it.” The timing is almost mechanical, remaining roughly the same for every image: ten seconds. That was the duration the editing software assigned to each image, and it struck me as sufficient time for a proper look.
For the second part, you chose the opera*The Emperor of Atlantis* (1943–44) by Viktor Ullmann, with a libretto by Peter Kien. You are presenting only the fourth and final section. Could you explain this choice? What drew you to this version performed by the Leipzig Gewandhaus Orchestra under the direction of Lothar Zagrosek? The voices?
The recording by the Leipzig Gewandhaus Orchestra is one of only two versions I know of. This work is rarely performed. I chose the section of the opera where the Emperor bids farewell because I am fascinated by this strange love song addressed to Death, and by the figure of this mad emperor—a thinly veiled allusion to Adolf Hitler—who reminds me of our current president. Music critic Andrew Porter summarizes*The Emperor of Atlantis* as follows: “The plot is not an allegory strictly speaking, but rather a death-haunted parable about a mad, murderous monarch who perhaps finds redemption at the end, and who bids farewell to the world through a parodic, Faustian vision of a natural paradise no longer spoiled by mankind; had this dream come true, all humans would have been dead. The Emperor of Atlantis, ruler of much of the world, declares a global war and proclaims that his old ally, Death, will lead the campaign. Death, offended by the Emperor’s presumption, breaks his sword; consequently, people can no longer die. Confusion ensues: a male soldier and a female soldier from opposing sides sing a love duet instead of fighting, while the sick and the suffering find no rest. Death agrees to return to mankind on one condition: that the Emperor be the first to die. He accepts and sings his farewell.”
In this second part, you opt for an absence of images, apart from the grain of the 16mm film. Could you explain this choice?
Given the opera’s theme, I felt that no image could adequately represent what is taking place; for me, it borders on the “unimaginable.” A film without images was well-suited to this theme, which leaves us speechless. At the same time, the film’s formal strategy involved creating a structural link between the dots printed on the page and the grain of the film itself—acting as a base degree or “zero level” of representation. The film*is* the image—I want the viewer to pay close attention to that. The celluloid strip is a moving image.
There is no transition between these two distinct parts. Why this choice?
The two parts are exactly equal in duration: the silent newsreel footage occupies the same span of time as the aria. In an early version of the film, they played simultaneously, but the music lacked impact when serving merely as background. I therefore shifted the sound to the second part, allowing the image and the music to each inhabit its own space-time.
Why did you shoot in black and white?
To begin with, the newspaper is in black and white. And black and white is also the simplest form for both presenting and representing film grain; it is emblematic of small formats.
To return to the film’s title—derived from a work by Susan Silton—can it be said to echo our present? Should it be seen as a warning?
Yes, absolutely. Silton’s title—itself drawn from Hannah Arendt’s book*Eichmann in Jerusalem: A Report on the Banality of Evil*—serves as a warning: such atrocities can occur, even when the lessons of history have been learned.*The Times* headlines from 1933 feel eerily familiar today, as reports of far-right violence against other groups and signs of fascists rising to power appear casually interspersed with other news. When reading a newspaper from 1933, the modern reader is reminded of the darkness that was then about to descend upon Germany and the world.
Interviewed by Nicolas Feodoroff
