the ecstatic unknowable
thoughts on the creative process
Monday, April 9, 2012
Conversation One: William Murch
In particular in this conversation Ondaajte talks to Murch about re-editing Apocalypse Now. In this still we see the disembodied figure of Aurore Clementé behind the mosquito net. In this version she stays a ghostly figure, in the original Martin Sheen's character grabs her and they made love. The choices an editor makes upon discovery of connections, in this one she becomes a ghostly hovering silhouette and then you are back on the boat. This ghostliness unlocked the possibility of a new language for the version to be cut 24 years after the original. Trusting in the originality of the vision and the process that is more amazing the more original that vision is - that is the miracle of film making for Murch.
The shooting style of this film involved actors looking straight into the frame, the unwritten rule of what not to do, except maybe in a comedy. The idea of "breaking the frame" - would happen often, yet it was never talked about on set. He thinks maybe it was because of the intense subjectivity of the film that this was possible and accepted
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Film Editing and Writing
With my thesis exploring writers who push the formal boundaries of the novel and my creative work having a strong attachment to the idea of the visual and what audiences can process in a given time frame this book is of great interest.
Ondaatje outlines how he had been obsessed "in that seemingly uncrossable gulf between an early draft of a book or film and a finished product. How does one make that journey from here to there?" (ph xii) Ondaajte would spend two years of any book her wrote, he outlines, in the edtiting stage. After spending 4-5 years writing in the dark he will then have to give it shape.....having a supervisor who is a passionate structuralist and being a formless, organic writer means that we are often at very different places when trying to look at what I am writing. Thankfully he has allowed me to just write for a while after seeing a couple of my attempts at trying to write to an imposed structure. Ondaajte talks about never having a strict, controlling governor present in the first draft of a book.
"I write as if it were a rehearsal, I attempt or try out everything, though of course a subliminal editing is taking place." (pg 37) He talks about, reassuringly for me anyway, that he never knows where a book will end or a concept or a plot
"I'm much more uncertain, insecure....I am continually being fed and diverted by the possibilities from the world around me - chance anecdotes overheard, the texture within a rumour - as much as by what my research reveals.....When writing I reject nothing." (pg 38)
He feels it is dangerous to show his work to anyone at this stage, until he has taken it as far as it can go. He doesn't want the outside influence of story or form to come to early - I get that!!! As Murch concurs it is all about balancing the generative impulse with the critical impulse. In editing film, he records his primary, emotional response to the rushes as he says "There is only one "first time."" (pg 45) - the rest are more surgical responses. The difference is that film is more bound by time than a book - a book is not finite so it can be more meditative. It feels more private - however they discuss the difference between watching a film on video and going to the cinema. They talk about a "cinematic state of mind." - the urge to be part of something larger than yourself but to be spoken to directly. Murch believes we are able to keep up with the incredible non-linear jumps in film because the same visual dislocations happen all the time when we dream. We spend eight hours every night in a "cinematic dream state" and so he concludes we are familiar with this type of reality. ( pg 50)
Walter Murch talks about the use of silence in film editing -- how strong and dangerous it can be. This reminded me of when I created a television advert for a play I had produced - Salt Creek Murders, where I chose to have no sound, just the subliminal wind from the salt plans on the Coorong. It worked, people turned immediately to their TV sets wandering what was wrong as they were so used to the nagging, incessant noise of the television. Murch as edited films such as The Godfather, Apocalypse Now and of course The English Patient where he met Ondaajte. He points out that it wasn't until the introduction of synchronous sound in film in 1927 that silence was ever used as there was continuous orchestral or music accompaniment underneath the images.
Murch, as an interesting aside came to film editing after an early love of playing with sounds tapes when he was 11. he believes that your chances of happiness are increased if you wind up doing something that reflects what you loved most when you are between 9 and 11 years old.
He talks about how many films were and still are edited by women, particuarly before sound, as sound was somehow a "man" thing, because it was seen as electric. Before then "it was a woman's craft...you knitted the pieces of film together. And editing has aspects of being a librarian, which used to be perceived as a woman's job." (pg 26)
Another interesting point, given my interest in women's crafting or playing with the novel form, certainly Dorothy Porter saw her sewing or crafting of stories together. In my novel for the thesis I am working with multiple points of view - Murch outlines how the more POV's the more time you can buy for your film with an audience. The more linear the film the shorter it should be. in his opinion. "Films with a single point of view are on borrowed time, if they are more than two hours long." (g 33) Or as he says a symphony can be longer than a sonata - it is just a richer tapestry.
Ondaajte then talks about what we have borrowed from Spanish Poetry - the idea of "leaping poetry" - "those sometimes surreal, sometimes subliminal connections that reveal a suprising or revealing path or link between strangers.." (pg 34)
The discussion leads into the idea of form -
"What we call form is love." (Ernst Toller) - How beautiful is that!
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Anne Sexton
Heart's Needle | ||
by W. D. Snodgrass | ||
For CynthiaWhen Suibhe would not return to fine garments and good food, to his houses and his people, Loingseachan told him, "Your father is dead." "I'm sorry to hear it," he said. "Your mother is dead," said the lad. "All pity for me has gone out of the world." "Your sister, too, is dead." "The mild sun rests on every ditch," he said; "a sister loves even though not loved." "Suibhne, your daughter is dead." "And an only daughter is the needle of the heart." "And Suibhne, your little boy, who used to call you 'Daddy' he is dead." "Aye," said Suibhne, "that's the drop that brings a man to the ground." 1 Child of my winter, born When the new fallen soldiers froze In Asia's steep ravines and fouled the snows, When I was torn By love I could not still, By fear that silenced my cramped mind To that cold war where, lost, I could not find My peace in my will, All those days we could keep Your mind a landscape of new snow Where the chilled tenant-farmer finds, below, His fields asleep In their smooth covering, white As quilts to warm the resting bed Of birth or pain, spotless as paper spread For me to write, And thinks: Here lies my land Unmarked by agony, the lean foot Of the weasel tracking, the thick trapper's boot; And I have planned My chances to restrain The torments of demented summer or Increase the deepening harvest here before It snows again. 2 Late April and you are three; today We dug your garden in the yard. To curb the damage of your play, Strange dogs at night and the moles tunneling, Four slender sticks of lath stand guard Uplifting their thin string. So you were the first to tramp it down. And after the earth was sifted close You brought your watering can to drown All earth and us. But these mixed seeds are pressed With light loam in their steadfast rows. Child, we've done our best. Someone will have to weed and spread The young sprouts. Sprinkle them in the hour When shadow falls across their bed. You should try to look at them every day Because when they come to full flower I will be away. 3 The child between them on the street Comes to a puddle, lifts his feet And hangs on their hands. They start At the Jive weight and lurch together, Recoil to swing him through the weather, Stiffen and pull apart. We read of cold war soldiers that Never gained ground, gave none, but sat Tight in their chill trenches. Pain seeps up from some cavity Through the ranked teeth in sympathy; The whole jaw grinds and clenches Till something somewhere has to give. It's better the poor soldiers live In someone else's hands Than drop where helpless powers fall On crops and barns, on towns where all Will burn. And no man stands. For good, they sever and divide Their won and lost land. On each side Prisoners are returned Excepting a few unknown names. The peasant plods back and reclaims His fields that strangers burned And nobody seems very pleased. It's best. Still, what must not be seized Clenches the empty fist. I tugged your hand, once, when I hated Things less: a mere game dislocated The radius of your wrist. Love's wishbone, child, although I've gone As men must and let you be drawn Off to appease another, It may help that a Chinese play Or Solomon himself might say I am your real mother. 4 No one can tell you why the season will not wait; the night I told you I must leave, you wept a fearful rate to stay up late. Now that it's turning Fan, we go to take our walk among municipal flowers, to steal one off its stalk, to try and talk. We huff like windy giants scattering with our breath gray-headed dandelions; Spring is the cold wind's aftermath. The poet saith. But the asters, too, are gray, ghost-gray. Last night's cold is sending on their way petunias and dwarf marigold, hunched sick and old. Like nerves caught in a graph, the morning-glory vines frost has erased by half still scrawl across their rigid twines. Like broken lines of verses I can't make. In its unraveling loom we find a flower to take, with some late buds that might still bloom, back to your room. Night comes and the stiff dew. I'm told a friend's child cried because a cricket, who had minstreled every night outside her window, died. 5 Winter again and it is snowing; Although you are still three, You are already growing Strange to me. You chatter about new playmates, sing Strange songs; you do not know Hey ding-a-ding-a-ding Or where I go Or when I sang for bedtime, Fox Went out on a chilly night, Before I went for walks And did not write; You never mind the squalls and storms That are renewed long since; Outside, the thick snow swarms Into my prints And swirls out by warehouses, sealed, Dark cowbarns, huddled, still, Beyond to the blank field, The fox's hill Where he backtracks and sees the paw, Gnawed off, he cannot feel; Conceded to the jaw Of toothed, blue steel. 6 Easter has come around again; the river is rising over the thawed ground and the banksides. When you come you bring an egg dyed lavender. We shout along our bank to hear our voices returning from the hills to meet us. We need the landscape to repeat us. You Jived on this bank first. While nine months filled your term, we knew how your lungs, immersed in the womb, miraculously grew their useless folds till the fierce, cold air rushed in to fill them out like bushes thick with leaves. You took your hour, caught breath, and cried with your full lung power. Over the stagnant bight we see the hungry bank swallow flaunting his free flight still; we sink in mud to follow the killdeer from the grass that hides her nest. That March there was rain; the rivers rose; you could hear killdeers flying all night over the mudflats crying. You bring back how the red- winged blackbird shrieked, slapping frail wings, diving at my head— I saw where her tough nest, cradled, swings in tall reeds that must sway with the winds blowing every way. If you recall much, you recall this place. You still live nearby—on the opposite hill. After the sharp windstorm of July Fourth, all that summer through the gentle, warm afternoons, we heard great chain saws chirr like iron locusts. Crews of roughneck boys swarmed to cut loose branches wrenched in the shattering wind, to hack free all the torn limbs that could sap the tree. In the debris lay starlings, dead. Near the park's birdrun we surprised one day a proud, tan-spatted, buff-brown pigeon. In my hands she flapped so fearfully that I let her go. Her keeper came. And we helped snarl her in a net. You bring things I'd as soon forget. You raise into my head a Fall night that I came once more to sit on your bed; sweat beads stood out on your arms and fore- head and you wheezed for breath, for help, like some child caught beneath its comfortable wooly blankets, drowning there. Your lungs caught and would not take the air. Of all things, only we have power to choose that we should die; nothing else is free in this world to refuse it. Yet I, who say this, could not raise myself from bed how many days to the thieving world. Child, I have another wife, another child. We try to choose our life. 7 Here in the scuffled dust is our ground of play. I lift you on your swing and must shove you away, see you return again, drive you off again, then stand quiet till you come. You, though you climb higher, farther from me, longer, will fall back to me stronger. Bad penny, pendulum, you keep my constant time to bob in blue July where fat goldfinches fly over the glittering, fecund reach of our growing lands. Once more now, this second, I hold you in my hands. 8 I thumped on you the best I could which was no use; you would not tolerate your food until the sweet, fresh milk was soured with lemon juice. That puffed you up like a fine yeast. The first June in your yard like some squat Nero at a feast you sat and chewed on white, sweet clover. That is over. When you were old enough to walk we went to feed the rabbits in the park milkweed; saw the paired monkeys, under lock, consume each other's salt. Going home we watched the slow stars follow us down Heaven's vault. You said, let's catch one that comes low, pull off its skin and cook it for our dinner. As absentee bread-winner, I seldom got you such cuisine; we ate in local restaurants or bought what lunches we could pack in a brown sack with stale, dry bread to toss for ducks on the green-scummed lagoons, crackers for porcupine and fox, life-savers for the footpad coons to scour and rinse, snatch after in their muddy pail and stare into their paws. When I moved next door to the jail I learned to fry omelettes and griddle cakes so I could set you supper at my table. As I built back from helplessness, when I grew able, the only possible answer was you had to come here less. This Hallowe'en you come one week. You masquerade as a vermilion, sleek, fat, crosseyed fox in the parade or, where grim jackolanterns leer, go with your bag from door to door foraging for treats. How queer: when you take off your mask my neighbors must forget and ask whose child you are. Of course you lose your appetite, whine and won't touch your plate; as local law I set your place on an orange crate in your own room for days. At night you lie asleep there on the bed and grate your jaw. Assuredly your father's crimes are visited on you. You visit me sometimes. The time's up. Now our pumpkin sees me bringing your suitcase. He holds his grin; the forehead shrivels, sinking in. You break this year's first crust of snow off the runningboard to eat. We manage, though for days I crave sweets when you leave and know they rot my teeth. Indeed our sweet foods leave us cavities. 9 I get numb and go in though the dry ground will not hold the few dry swirls of snow and it must not be very cold. A friend asks how you've been and I don't know or see much right to ask. Or what use it could be to know. In three months since you came the leaves have fallen and the snow; your pictures pinned above my desk seem much the same. Somehow I come to find myself upstairs in the third floor museum's halls, walking to kill my time once more among the enduring and resigned stuffed animals, where, through a century's caprice, displacement and known treachery between its wars, they hear some old command and in their peaceable kingdoms freeze to this still scene, Nature Morte. Here by the door, its guardian, the patchwork dodo stands where you and your stepsister ran laughing and pointing. Here, last year, you pulled my hands and had your first, worst quarrel, so toys were put up on your shelves. Here in the first glass cage the little bobcats arch themselves, still practicing their snarl of constant rage. The bison, here, immense, shoves at his calf, brow to brow, and looks it in the eye to see what is it thinking now. I forced you to obedience; I don't know why. Still the lean lioness beyond them, on her jutting ledge of shale and desert shrub, stands watching always at the edge, stands hard and tanned and envious above her cub; with horns locked in tan heather, two great Olympian Elk stand bound, fixed in their lasting hate till hunger brings them both to ground. Whom equal weakness binds together none shall separate. Yet separate in the ocean of broken ice, the white bear reels beyond the leathery groups of scattered, drab Arctic seals arrested here in violent motion like Napoleon's troops. Our states have stood so long At war, shaken with hate and dread, they are paralyzed at bay; once we were out of reach, we said, we would grow reasonable and strong. Some other day. Like the cold men of Rome, we have won costly fields to sow in salt, our only seed. Nothing but injury will grow. I write you only the bitter poems that you can't read. Onan who would not breed a child to take his brother's bread and be his brother's birth, rose up and left his lawful bed, went out and spilled his seed in the cold earth. I stand by the unborn, by putty-colored children curled in jars of alcohol, that waken to no other world, unchanging, where no eye shall mourn. I see the caul that wrapped a kitten, dead. I see the branching, doubled throat of a two-headed foal; I see the hydrocephalic goat; here is the curled and swollen head, there, the burst skull; skin of a limbless calf; a horse's foetus, mummified; mounted and joined forever, the Siamese twin dogs that ride belly to belly, half and half, that none shall sever. I walk among the growths, by gangrenous tissue, goiter, cysts, by fistulas and cancers, where the malignancy man loathes is held suspended and persists. And I don't know the answers. The window's turning white. The world moves like a diseased heart packed with ice and snow. Three months now we have been apart less than a mile. I cannot fight or let you go. 10 The vicious winter finally yields the green winter wheat; the farmer, tired in the tired fields he dare not leave will eat. Once more the runs come fresh; prevailing piglets, stout as jugs, harry their old sow to the railing to ease her swollen dugs and game colts trail the herded mares that circle the pasture courses; our seasons bring us back once more like merry-go-round horses. With crocus mouths, perennial hungers, into the park Spring comes; we roast hot dogs on old coat hangers and feed the swan bread crumbs, pay our respects to the peacocks, rabbits, and leathery Canada goose who took, last Fall, our tame white habits and now will not turn loose. In full regalia, the pheasant cocks march past their dubious hens; the porcupine and the lean, red fox trot around bachelor pens and the miniature painted train wails on its oval track: you said, I'm going to Pennsylvania! and waved. And you've come back. If I loved you, they said, I'd leave and find my own affairs. Well, once again this April, we've come around to the bears; punished and cared for, behind bars, the coons on bread and water stretch thin black fingers after ours. And you are still my daughter. | ||
She talks about how after reading W.D. Snodgrass' poem "Heart's Needle", she ran to her mother-in-law's house and brought her toddler home after nearly three years. Saying "That's what a poem should do - move people to action." (pg 77 Middlebrook) This led her to take action towards writing the autobiographical material she craved
Lowell on confessional poems
"All that gives light to those poems on agonising subjects is the craft." ( in middlebrook, 78)
The Curtain by Milan Kundera
"What is left of a work of art once it's stripped of its form?" (154)
He talks about the "epistolary novel" and its possibilities
digressions
episodes
ruminations
ideas
memories
says that many are caught up in the "despotic authority of the story" (pg 166) Kundera is interested beyond that, in the moment, the digression.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Crossbred Genre
1) Young Girl Wanda by Oodgeroo Noonuccal
2) The Beauty of the Husband by Anne Carson
3) This Floating World by Libby Hart
4) Fever 103 by Sylvia Plath
5) Macbeth by William Shakespeare
6) You Want me White by Alfonsina Storni
7) I like your body by e. e. cummings
8) Monkey’s Mask by Dorothy Porter
9) Gently by Yosano Akiko
PASSION
The spark of excitement for this collaboration was the theme. Passion. Then an array of rolling factors, a festival director that was keen for performance, a closet lover of poetry in Kamahl, a composer who had wanted to work in Byron and with Kamahl and a need by the ensemble to connect with someone who knew poetry and could bring a female sensuality to the piece. There was also the key that this work was to be produced in a festival, an area where much of my work theatrically has taken place. Festivals are playgrounds for producers and those interested in blurring artistic boundaries.
JOHN TRANTER, "DISTANT VOICES"
After reading John Tranter's excellent DCA (Distant Voice, 2009, UOW) last night and continuing to go deeper into it today I have questions to ask about how I can possibly write about my creative process without looking at the "theatre" that I have created. Tanter's exegesis talks about his influences over a rich, ground breaking career that spans decades. he references himself in the third person and his body of work enables him to do this. I am not at all at this stage in my career, nor is there a legacy such as his to talk of. In reading this DCA a few things became clear that i need to discuss with my supervisor.
QUESTIONS FOR SUPERVISOR
1. Do I need to use one overarching theoretical position, or can I look to Tranter's more biographical/literary influence model?
2. At what stage is it really possible to write "about" the creative project without pre-empting and shaping it?
3. Can I look at a structure that in essence has three parts and focus on a "part" that for now maybe looks at influences such as Porter or Carson and my previous relationships to interpretation of their work.
4. How separate is Teresa Bell, as creator of CB, to the work that precedes and is happening around it? Is the purity of this project the core and the rest a distraction?
5. A constant within my creative work has been a strong need to combine forms and spaces. Is this not what I am doing in CB? And yet is there something in my very bower bird style of following the loose thread of an idea that I need to talk about and not be simply confined in this E to creative writing. Partic if part of the interest, as it is in Tranter's DCA anyway, is the creator and their process.
THE CROSSBREED
The chosen works of The Monkey's Mask and The Beauty of the Husband for the performance for Byron, and indeed the Award Winning adaptation I created with Gavin Blatchford of Libby Hart's song-line This Floating World are all examples of generic mixture of verse, novel and narrative. Porter call's her breakthrough verse novel a lesbian detective story, Carson has created "a fictional essay in 29 tangos" and Hart a songline.
The need for stipulating that a novel must be made up of prose is slipping away fast as Catherine Addison points out in the conclusion of her summary on "The Verse Novel as Genre: Contradiction or Hybrid?"
(Style: Vol 43, No 4, Winter 2009).
"So fast is this crossbred genre growing at the present time that it may soon become the norm to compose novels wholly or partially in verse."
Or as Libby Hart writes in the first poem in her songline (Five Islands Press, 2011)
"There is really only one ocean,
only one body of water.
No need for that human blather to label all things."
DREAM WORK
The obsession to label and group that is driven from theorists as well as marketing and funding channels for the arts often stifles the artistic in the creation process for one needs to define what they are producing before it is produced and i believe this is not the way many work, certainly not the way I work.
“It’s like that joke about the violin maker who was asked how he made a violin and answered that he started with a piece of wood and removed everything that wasn’t a violin. That’s what I do when I am writing a novel, except somehow I’m simultaneously generating the wood as I’m carving it.” (Paris Review Int pg 110)
William Gibson writes his book from the first sentence in an optimal state of a “lucid dream.”
Dorothy Porter talks of the supernatural potency of channeling power of writing and how her “poetry knew more about me than I consciously knew about myself. It knew my secret self, its history and its likely future.” (On Passion, p7)
I am aware that a lot of these musings sound like cop outs or distractions from finding a way of harnessing what it is I am wanting to say within the E. Dorothy Porter's long term partner and fellow writer talks about this need even within the creative work itself of getting over the "blackberries" in order to find the heart of what you want to say. In talking about Porter she says
"I think it is the way that most writers work, but then there were times that she went straight for the heart, and she would look in wonderment...I mean she would say, "Have I actually got this first time?" And sometimes she actually did....so full of the promise when the work is going so well but always the threat of you losing it. And I think a lot of artists actually feel this."
The poem that Goldsmith is referencing is Porter's Blackberries which ends
"I hold in my hand
the greedy, bleeding
pen
that has always
gorged itself."
SUMMARY; THE NEED FOR AN ANCHOR
Going back to my key reading for today, Tranter's DCA E, I am drawn towards the third part of his E, titled "Dream-Work" where Tranter outlined the three poets who have most influenced his work; Arthur Rimbaud, 'Ern Malley' and John Ashbery. I feel that this "part"of the E (as opposed to the other two, the first being on the Creative Project itself, the second on his 40 year career) is the one I feel like investigating in my own E. At this stage I have identified a key influences that I wish to examine Dorothy Porter, the connections in my working life to her as a person, a teacher and as Tranter outlines about Ashbery for him at this start of his "Distant Voices", an anchor.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Introduction
This blog will be a reflection on my creative process whilst doing a Doctor of Creative Arts (DCA) at Wollongong University under the supervision of Dr Joshua Lobb. It will be notes, thoughts and sometimes unedited, rushed whimsy but I will try to move towards a more structured, solid thesis along the way.