Time Theft Agent E2262 // Selected at BCNproduccio/10 La Capella Barcelona

"To haunt does not mean to be present, and it is necessary to introduce haunting into the very construction of a concept. Of every concept, beginning with the concepts of being and time. That is what we would be calling here a hauntology. Ontology opposes it only in a movement of exorcism. Ontology is a conjuration"

Jacques Derrida, Specters of Marx: The State of the Debt, the Work of Mourning & the New International, pg.202

Time Theft was a expanded piece presented as an installation, a publication, an unfinished novel, a silent film, a soundtrack on a tape and a live performance.
The aim of the expanded work was to display various ways and media all used for the construction of narratives to produce "History" for the means of manipulation and control as in J.Goebbels.
Roland Barthes's definition of the Third Meaning is intended to be a sensorial key about a Film composed on its entirety by film stills and the idea of lists and visual dialectics borrowed from the Surrealist ( as in W. Benjamin ) is used as basic structure for montage .

The Artist as Historian/Double Agent, the work of Art as History , the archive inside a film that accumulates past and re-places /re-makes constantly its own present time.

The Artist/Spie as The Man with a Movie Camera ( Dziga Vertov)
The Artist as disappeared Author as Narrator of its own Research Journal

The Installation around a film screening and the display of elements inside the space as a Simulated Political Stage to question how the Politics of the Theatricality of distribution on a space and its use can affect a whole artistic discourse.
In this case using the church architecture of the site as it was used for real by Anarchist during the Civil War generating the feeling of an Historical reenactment exercise .

The film reveals Barcelona's dark heart and memory of its Civil War ruins , mixing far past and immediate past reflecting on how History repeats itself and -re-appears .

Containing images taken by me during a whole "derive" around the Raval area plus many just taken from youtube film finds on net derives. Delivered as if a stream of conscience by the film it self, as a neutral apparatus containing all sort of images, detritus, ruins and ghost.
Civil War,District 5, Film, Death , Dance Apache,L'Age D'or, CNT, Addiction,Revolution, Spies ,Thieves, Aliens, Danger , La Criolla, Anarquist, Sci-fi, Torture, Industry,Ghost, Barcelona,MACBA, Bombs, Cocaine,Bullets, Ocaña, Jean Genet, Orwell , ...........The revolutionary feeling manifested

I consider this film Time Thef , the starting point of a phase in my practice that orientates its self towards the Essay Film .
I am adding here the text about such complex definition by London curator and writer
Kieron Corless ( London, August 2013 )

Introduction

The slippery term ‘essay film’ was first coined by the filmmaker Hans Richter in the 1940s, but it wasn’t until 1958 that one essay film in particular, Chris Marker’s Letter to Siberia (not available for this season), was designated and theorised as such by the French critic André Bazin. As the form developed and exploded through the political ferment of the 1960s and onwards, in the hands of such major figures as Marker himself, Jean-Luc Godard, Harun Farocki, Pier Paolo Pasolini, Agnès Varda, Fernando Solanas, Patricio Guzmán, Chantal Akerman and Straub-Huillet to name but a few, the question of what constituted an essay film became more pressing.

At first glance, it could be mistaken for a species of documentary; a personal cinema of ideas that foregrounds the director’s subjectivity through first-person narration, pursuing a certain argument or set of associations. That’s a workable definition, but to what extent is that speaking ‘I’ a performance, and therefore a distancing, fictionalising device not to be taken at face value? And how to account for those films that eschew voiceover, but still manage to convey a distinctively personal take on the world, such as Dziga Vertov’s Man With a Movie Camera?

Nowadays most commentators agree that the essay film is neither documentary nor fiction but sits somewhere on its own, evincing characteristics of both through its staging of an encounter between a self, filmed images and the world. Could we label it a genre? Probably not, since an essay film often seeks to unfix or disrupt categories, and is actively inimical to them. Think too of the sheer variety of this notoriously hybrid form – notebooks, sketches, diaries, letters, found footage, all grist to its mill.

No wonder elusiveness and instability seem part of its DNA, as the essay film twists into tantalising new shapes, invents itself in the process of its own becoming, wrestles with the apprehension of its inevitable limitations. In other words – cinema at its most risk-taking, engaged and liberated, operating right on the medium’s nerve ends; probing, questioning, subverting, laying bare its own thought-processes. Hardly surprising, as this season attests, that so many of the world’s greatest directors have been unable to resist its lure.


Extract of the unfinished Novel :

Love , called Eros, the God, is so attracted unavoidably to Death ,the Thanatos, a huge black hole of nothingness like the most warm embrace ...

It is never the person we give the privilege of causing disturbance on our hearts the real culprit , it is us.. we know this by now, after the likes of Freud or Lacan , its our transference , our projections, on the blank screens of appearances we see things, symbols, signs and we eventually find lost parts of our selves , of our forgotten past and dreams.

And this is exactly what happened to her when she meet him, and after the meeting.. that trail he left.. that scent that for some reason seemed to take her, to guide her, in to the deep nights of secret meetings for debriefings about the real exact Revolution, as was so much needed at that times.

So, please , don't even think that due to some weird auto destructive tendencies or some extra powers about this man she did love, she decided to put her self on a list to go and jump in to death , to disappear , because he had also gone long ago...

As it was irrelevant where he was now, because it was what happened then, the essence of that times and the subdued influence he exerted over her with out his will .
It was more to do with how he smelled and tasted, his sun kissed skin , his deep black eyes, his hair and how he move, how he spoke, how he loved..

This is what was mysterious, thrilling, fascinating about the fate of agent E2162

Here starts my journal , that text that is printed as a memory of a journey ,
a journey to a territoire which I discovered and that travels with me for ever.
El Barrio Chino , in Barcelona is a place where my heart lives , my whole body is el Xino.

The place where I went so low and where I found my redemption.
The place where I betray and was betrayed, where I found the ghosts
who talked to me and trough out me.....
What time is now?
I don't know, it feels like there is no more time out there, now or yesterday
are melting with each other.

Long ago predates today and never wake up to a new morning but just
a looping old new day again.
The souls that posses me are taking me with them to precise stages and
situations they guide me and show me so that my eyes became yours
El barrio Xino is a whole world and even if the whole time pass by it
never a place had more of the same , repeating its geographic speciality
A labyrinth , a container of lives and experiences bordering the lowest,
the outcast , the free for all , the villains , the whores, the addicts ...
One day of spring 2182, I gravitated towards El Xino, and I will just drift
getting lost and found on its dark humid streets.

Old, very old buildings, intense smells of acid urine residuals ,putrified rubbish,
fried oil and some scent of flowers that I could not really place or see but where
floating like next to the sea salt humid air beaten up by the flying doves.

How was her involved on this could have not been ever explained
if he will not had crossed her path at a very special moment of her life...
As simple as this may sound, him, out of the bluest blue, him the unexpected been,
him, influencing her trough out his hands and kisses and his deep bright beetle eyes ....
They did not enjoy such long times together , most was, as she pointed out after his proposal .
like love in war times, love in a short time timing and context and then a long distance a long time passing by , as she had also had said then,like love before we just die...
She agreed , even knowing she would regret it both ways , if rejecting it , the whole nothingness up on her for ever.
And if agreeing as she did , having almost for sure ( will she had not already knew -??) having to live with that passion, that memories, that burning desire for "that" which had gone like a lone sailor at that harbour..the harbour where maybe as sailors fate could always be: never ever come back to again.
So all this happens on his absence, on his shape up on a reconstructed figure, fragments of very black lazy hair , a strength where her body felt covered and protected wile squashed by his , kisses so deep that she did wanted to die even by then, and a feel on his penetrating her that she recognised as the ultimate dream come true with out knowing how she could even know how was this feeling and how and why was this exactly what she wanted and how she wanted it.
And how all this could transform in to politics and then later in to a total militancy ???
Still a mystery as the one of the saint trinity ..a sort of transubstantiation , all of it unexpected , as him and as the rest of her twist of fate after him....
She was more aware, she had been for a wile, but this feeling of loneliness and inloveness mixed up together make her eyes open wide and her mind awake and alert for things, feelings and issues that before seemed pointless or just impossible to reach.
One of them been Revolution...
Revolution, she used to think, is not possible any more, we are too much under control, we love too much out little easy narcissistic lives and comforts ...
and even if I know ( she said so many times ..) we are just bloody happy slaves .. there is not much we can do about it no ??
But for some reason, ( we know is because of him, because he, we had not said this before, exudes this feeling of strength and wilderness , self contained but intense , because he reminds her of a romantic hero, a mysterious revolutionary, a quiz... but she is not aware yet .. ) she developed this un- comfort , this aggressive feeling .. this sickness to what she witness , as the every day life
squizo extreme poles every where around her .
And one day , as if this was just also on her way , next to how unexpected and ephemeral had been her meeting with that man she knew she will not forget for at least a long long wile if ever, this other man appear ( a man almost as a negative version of her by then so long ago tasted unknown hero, a man so feminine, hermetic like an sphinx and excitingly dangerous) and this was by then how she
got recruited and how she did give her self to all this risk and commitment and ultimately to her own death . Her own death as an exchange for her believes and also ( she did not know this ) as the part of the deal she silently made when she gave her self to that unknown man, sailor, love just for few hours and for never ever again as this was implicit on his words on his kisses on his own distant
impossible life.
Marlene, was a man, and he had an immense ambitious agenda:
Revolution
can you believe it?
She was baptised agent E2162 and her mission was double directions as her self was half burgueois and half gipsy .. two ways, two, love and hate : deep down high society and the left overs ,the fringes and the un- rested .
So she did started and she did got drip by drip, day by day more involved and more hard headed .
And drip by drip, even if all we do anyway is going to the same place, her death was getting closer and closer like a mathematic diagram she had traced a kiss after a kiss that one night , at that one humid harbour with that man she had promessed to die for, after their ritual made and sealed .

Time Theft Agent E2262 // Selected at BCNproduccio/10 La Capella Barcelona

"To haunt does not mean to be present, and it is necessary to introduce haunting into the very construction of a concept. Of every concept, beginning with the concepts of being and time. That is what we would be calling here a hauntology. Ontology opposes it only in a movement of exorcism. Ontology is a conjuration"

Jacques Derrida, Specters of Marx: The State of the Debt, the Work of Mourning & the New International, pg.202

Time Theft was a expanded piece presented as an installation, a publication, an unfinished novel, a silent film, a soundtrack on a tape and a live performance.
The aim of the expanded work was to display various ways and media all used for the construction of narratives to produce "History" for the means of manipulation and control as in J.Goebbels.
Roland Barthes's definition of the Third Meaning is intended to be a sensorial key about a Film composed on its entirety by film stills and the idea of lists and visual dialectics borrowed from the Surrealist ( as in W. Benjamin ) is used as basic structure for montage .

The Artist as Historian/Double Agent, the work of Art as History , the archive inside a film that accumulates past and re-places /re-makes constantly its own present time.

The Artist/Spie as The Man with a Movie Camera ( Dziga Vertov)
The Artist as disappeared Author as Narrator of its own Research Journal

The Installation around a film screening and the display of elements inside the space as a Simulated Political Stage to question how the Politics of the Theatricality of distribution on a space and its use can affect a whole artistic discourse.
In this case using the church architecture of the site as it was used for real by Anarchist during the Civil War generating the feeling of an Historical reenactment exercise .

The film reveals Barcelona's dark heart and memory of its Civil War ruins , mixing far past and immediate past reflecting on how History repeats itself and -re-appears .

Containing images taken by me during a whole "derive" around the Raval area plus many just taken from youtube film finds on net derives. Delivered as if a stream of conscience by the film it self, as a neutral apparatus containing all sort of images, detritus, ruins and ghost.
Civil War,District 5, Film, Death , Dance Apache,L'Age D'or, CNT, Addiction,Revolution, Spies ,Thieves, Aliens, Danger , La Criolla, Anarquist, Sci-fi, Torture, Industry,Ghost, Barcelona,MACBA, Bombs, Cocaine,Bullets, Ocaña, Jean Genet, Orwell , ...........The revolutionary feeling manifested

I consider this film Time Thef , the starting point of a phase in my practice that orientates its self towards the Essay Film .
I am adding here the text about such complex definition by London curator and writer
Kieron Corless ( London, August 2013 )

Introduction

The slippery term ‘essay film’ was first coined by the filmmaker Hans Richter in the 1940s, but it wasn’t until 1958 that one essay film in particular, Chris Marker’s Letter to Siberia (not available for this season), was designated and theorised as such by the French critic André Bazin. As the form developed and exploded through the political ferment of the 1960s and onwards, in the hands of such major figures as Marker himself, Jean-Luc Godard, Harun Farocki, Pier Paolo Pasolini, Agnès Varda, Fernando Solanas, Patricio Guzmán, Chantal Akerman and Straub-Huillet to name but a few, the question of what constituted an essay film became more pressing.

At first glance, it could be mistaken for a species of documentary; a personal cinema of ideas that foregrounds the director’s subjectivity through first-person narration, pursuing a certain argument or set of associations. That’s a workable definition, but to what extent is that speaking ‘I’ a performance, and therefore a distancing, fictionalising device not to be taken at face value? And how to account for those films that eschew voiceover, but still manage to convey a distinctively personal take on the world, such as Dziga Vertov’s Man With a Movie Camera?

Nowadays most commentators agree that the essay film is neither documentary nor fiction but sits somewhere on its own, evincing characteristics of both through its staging of an encounter between a self, filmed images and the world. Could we label it a genre? Probably not, since an essay film often seeks to unfix or disrupt categories, and is actively inimical to them. Think too of the sheer variety of this notoriously hybrid form – notebooks, sketches, diaries, letters, found footage, all grist to its mill.

No wonder elusiveness and instability seem part of its DNA, as the essay film twists into tantalising new shapes, invents itself in the process of its own becoming, wrestles with the apprehension of its inevitable limitations. In other words – cinema at its most risk-taking, engaged and liberated, operating right on the medium’s nerve ends; probing, questioning, subverting, laying bare its own thought-processes. Hardly surprising, as this season attests, that so many of the world’s greatest directors have been unable to resist its lure.


Extract of the unfinished Novel :

Love , called Eros, the God, is so attracted unavoidably to Death ,the Thanatos, a huge black hole of nothingness like the most warm embrace ...

It is never the person we give the privilege of causing disturbance on our hearts the real culprit , it is us.. we know this by now, after the likes of Freud or Lacan , its our transference , our projections, on the blank screens of appearances we see things, symbols, signs and we eventually find lost parts of our selves , of our forgotten past and dreams.

And this is exactly what happened to her when she meet him, and after the meeting.. that trail he left.. that scent that for some reason seemed to take her, to guide her, in to the deep nights of secret meetings for debriefings about the real exact Revolution, as was so much needed at that times.

So, please , don't even think that due to some weird auto destructive tendencies or some extra powers about this man she did love, she decided to put her self on a list to go and jump in to death , to disappear , because he had also gone long ago...

As it was irrelevant where he was now, because it was what happened then, the essence of that times and the subdued influence he exerted over her with out his will .
It was more to do with how he smelled and tasted, his sun kissed skin , his deep black eyes, his hair and how he move, how he spoke, how he loved..

This is what was mysterious, thrilling, fascinating about the fate of agent E2162

Here starts my journal , that text that is printed as a memory of a journey ,
a journey to a territoire which I discovered and that travels with me for ever.
El Barrio Chino , in Barcelona is a place where my heart lives , my whole body is el Xino.

The place where I went so low and where I found my redemption.
The place where I betray and was betrayed, where I found the ghosts
who talked to me and trough out me.....
What time is now?
I don't know, it feels like there is no more time out there, now or yesterday
are melting with each other.

Long ago predates today and never wake up to a new morning but just
a looping old new day again.
The souls that posses me are taking me with them to precise stages and
situations they guide me and show me so that my eyes became yours
El barrio Xino is a whole world and even if the whole time pass by it
never a place had more of the same , repeating its geographic speciality
A labyrinth , a container of lives and experiences bordering the lowest,
the outcast , the free for all , the villains , the whores, the addicts ...
One day of spring 2182, I gravitated towards El Xino, and I will just drift
getting lost and found on its dark humid streets.

Old, very old buildings, intense smells of acid urine residuals ,putrified rubbish,
fried oil and some scent of flowers that I could not really place or see but where
floating like next to the sea salt humid air beaten up by the flying doves.

How was her involved on this could have not been ever explained
if he will not had crossed her path at a very special moment of her life...
As simple as this may sound, him, out of the bluest blue, him the unexpected been,
him, influencing her trough out his hands and kisses and his deep bright beetle eyes ....
They did not enjoy such long times together , most was, as she pointed out after his proposal .
like love in war times, love in a short time timing and context and then a long distance a long time passing by , as she had also had said then,like love before we just die...
She agreed , even knowing she would regret it both ways , if rejecting it , the whole nothingness up on her for ever.
And if agreeing as she did , having almost for sure ( will she had not already knew -??) having to live with that passion, that memories, that burning desire for "that" which had gone like a lone sailor at that harbour..the harbour where maybe as sailors fate could always be: never ever come back to again.
So all this happens on his absence, on his shape up on a reconstructed figure, fragments of very black lazy hair , a strength where her body felt covered and protected wile squashed by his , kisses so deep that she did wanted to die even by then, and a feel on his penetrating her that she recognised as the ultimate dream come true with out knowing how she could even know how was this feeling and how and why was this exactly what she wanted and how she wanted it.
And how all this could transform in to politics and then later in to a total militancy ???
Still a mystery as the one of the saint trinity ..a sort of transubstantiation , all of it unexpected , as him and as the rest of her twist of fate after him....
She was more aware, she had been for a wile, but this feeling of loneliness and inloveness mixed up together make her eyes open wide and her mind awake and alert for things, feelings and issues that before seemed pointless or just impossible to reach.
One of them been Revolution...
Revolution, she used to think, is not possible any more, we are too much under control, we love too much out little easy narcissistic lives and comforts ...
and even if I know ( she said so many times ..) we are just bloody happy slaves .. there is not much we can do about it no ??
But for some reason, ( we know is because of him, because he, we had not said this before, exudes this feeling of strength and wilderness , self contained but intense , because he reminds her of a romantic hero, a mysterious revolutionary, a quiz... but she is not aware yet .. ) she developed this un- comfort , this aggressive feeling .. this sickness to what she witness , as the every day life
squizo extreme poles every where around her .
And one day , as if this was just also on her way , next to how unexpected and ephemeral had been her meeting with that man she knew she will not forget for at least a long long wile if ever, this other man appear ( a man almost as a negative version of her by then so long ago tasted unknown hero, a man so feminine, hermetic like an sphinx and excitingly dangerous) and this was by then how she
got recruited and how she did give her self to all this risk and commitment and ultimately to her own death . Her own death as an exchange for her believes and also ( she did not know this ) as the part of the deal she silently made when she gave her self to that unknown man, sailor, love just for few hours and for never ever again as this was implicit on his words on his kisses on his own distant
impossible life.
Marlene, was a man, and he had an immense ambitious agenda:
Revolution
can you believe it?
She was baptised agent E2162 and her mission was double directions as her self was half burgueois and half gipsy .. two ways, two, love and hate : deep down high society and the left overs ,the fringes and the un- rested .
So she did started and she did got drip by drip, day by day more involved and more hard headed .
And drip by drip, even if all we do anyway is going to the same place, her death was getting closer and closer like a mathematic diagram she had traced a kiss after a kiss that one night , at that one humid harbour with that man she had promessed to die for, after their ritual made and sealed .