matte and somehow stupid, the This (this photograph,
tireless repetition of contingency
arated without destroying them both; the windowpane
me, in a severe tone: “Get back to Photography. What
(however naive it might be): a desperate resistance to
turn of the dead
neously make another body for myself, I transform myself
task) I have been photographed and knew it. Now, once
I could be “painted” (by Titian) or drawn (by Clouet)!
(perhaps only my mother?
erases the weight of the image—the Photomat always
turns you into a criminal
love, extreme love).
ture (comparable to certain nightmares). In terms of
death (of parenthesis): I am truly becoming a specter
art, as would be
thing) a science of desirable speakable which wants to be spoken. Well, then? Internet?
raphy only for “sentimental” reasons; I wanted to explore
tings, the actions.
it like an arrow, and pierces me. I like / I
don’t like. the Japanese No mask …
raphy is a kind of primitive theater, a kind of Tableau
beneath which we see the dead.
(1854) touches me: it is quite simply there that I should
very close range: the photograph is unary, since
I am interested in the texture of the airy.
what he is giving to me!
boy’s huge Danton collar, the girl’s finger bandage; I am
all culture, I refuse to inherit anything from another eye
name cannot really prick me. What I can
graphed Robert Wilson and Phillip Glass. the track shoes
already there. To Lewis Hine’s retarded children, I add
hst of other qualities, but not pensiveness; whence the
lute excellence (the boy is Mapple—
did I recognize her?
I recognized a region of her face
I never recognized her except in fragments, which is to
recognized her among thousands of other
I recognized her differ-
entially, not essentially.
sence of her identity, I was struggling among images par—
status—which is why I hate dreams. For I often dream
you, no wound.
which belonged only to myself)
a dead thing.
or again in person.
exactitude, but of
mediator, slavery was given without
was established without method.
emanation of the referent.
me, color is an artifice, a cosmetic
Own rays and not with a superadded light.
a new being, really: a reality one can no longer touch. t
urn tense of the photograph is the aorist),
blocks memory, quickly becomes a counter-memory
memories; they had my number; but I, who had just been
by these photographs,
with Rilke’s line:
violent things, but because on each
things by force, and
transformed ([…] mild does not
contradict its violence
me sugar is violent, and I call it so).
Death of the new image. For Death must be some—
flat Death. One
the sprouting silver grains, it flourishes a moment, then
Attacked by light, by humidity, it fades, weakens
denies ripening. —And no doubt
“that-has-been” will also disappear. It has already disap—
every photograph is this catastrophe.
harassed <sic> ceremonial of a few boring evenings, are
reading. This is obvious for old (“historical”) photo—
when my image is free (free to abolish itself), as it is the
I enlarge, and, so to speak, I retard, in order to have
Garden Photograph I am a bad dreamer
“like”? All I look like is your other photographs of myself
photographs I endure myself, or not, depending on
myself I want to give).
identity, an absurd, purely legal, even penal affair; like
the flash of the husband, the fa—
Charles Haas (the model for Swann).
depth of any possible meaning;
and the fascination of the Sirens” (Blanchot).
here is a fundamental belief, an “ur-doxa” nothing can
umbilical cord that the photographer gives
thought, an aim without a target.
ways potentially crazy:
verse notion: that whatever looks you straight in the eye is
new form of hallucination: false on the level of percep—
been”): a mad image, chafed by reality.
taking into my arms what is dead, what is
January 3, 1889, he threw himself in tears on the neck of
an impression of nauseated boredom,
fect illusions, or to confront in it
diate Desire (desire without
hairdresser’s, the dentist’s)
Jared Joseph is a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop MFA program in poetry, and is currently pursuing his PhD in Literature at the University of California at Santa Cruz. He is the author of, most recently, Drowsy, Drowsy Baby from Civil Coping Mechanisms. Recent poems have been published in Fence, Noo Journal, and Spork, while his and Sara Peck’s collaborative book, here you are, is available from Horse Less Press.
Image: chelle, morguefile.com