Singing’s always hard for me. Not physically. But to get it neutral, where it’s not too emotional and not too deadpan. Somewhere in between is what I’m looking for. It drives me crazy sometimes. In this case, I think it’s a little better than some of the shots I’ve had at it.
Category: Quotes
With a terseness corresponding to his stark musical style, he also insists that his songwriting is ‘an attempt to say something completely ordinary. Those are the memorable things.’
from an old interview in The Guardian with Bill Callahan
Campbell Kneale of Birchville Cat Motel speaks in an interview from 2002 on the influence of suburbia on his music.
I’ve always sought to find inspiration in my location. Currently that location is suburban Lower Hutt. Suburbia has a nasty reputation for being a congregation point for soullessness but I have come to disagree. I have seen brief glimpses of a very deeply ingrained spirituality here, not connected with any obvious religious affiliation, but connected with the big patterns of human existence. Work, sleep, travel, children, hospitality, home decorating… what would probably pass as ‘boring’ or ‘significant’ to your average E-popping, superficially urbanite, ravebunny, again links people with a much larger pattern of life that has continued unchanged, other than on the surface, for countless generations. I find the mundane very beautiful and very grand.
I admit to being simultaneously moved and repulsed by what Kneale says here. I’ll come clean: I am moved and want to be repulsed. I think I wanted to say something similar here, say and here (here, too) but I know, too I haven’t said a thing.
An interesting long interview by J.G. Ballard from 1974 (via Ballardian).
The whole notion, the distinction between fiction and reality, is turned on its head. The external environment now is the greatest provider of fiction. I mean, we are living inside of an enormous novel, written by the external world, [by] the worlds of advertising, mass-merchandising, politics conducted as a branch of advertising, and so on and so forth. The one node of reality left to us is inside our own heads.
He’s then asked whether this correlates to the idea of ‘inner space’ mentioned elsewhere to Ballard (and so important to other New Wave science fiction writers). He now nuances idea of interiority:
I suppose we are moving into a realm where inner space is no longer just inside our skills but is the terrain we see around us in everyday life. We are moving into a world where the elements of fiction in that world – and by that fiction I mean anything invented to serve imaginative ends, whether it is invented by an advertising agency, a politician, an airline or what have you; and these elements have now crowded out the old-fashioned elements of reality.
He is interrupted by his interviewer, but continues:
What I am saying is 20 0r 30 years ago the elements of fiction, that is politics within the consumer society or within one’s private life, occupied a much smaller space. I can’t quantify this exactly but it was sort of 50/50. But now I don’t think this is the case. I think we have seen the invasion of almost every aspect of our lives by fictions of one kind or another. We see this in people’s homes – the way they furnish their houses and apartments. Even the sort of friends they have seem to be dictated by fictions, fantasies, by standards invented by other people to serve various ends, not necessarily commerical. But we’re living more and more in a hot mix of fictions of every kind.
Now I think the writer’s job is to – he no longer needs to invent the fiction, the fiction is already there. His job is to put in the reality. The writer’s task now is to become much more analytic – he’s got to approach the subject matter, and especially the science-fiction writer because I think he’s the most important of all writers – he’s writing the true literature of the 20th century, the only important one.
Ballard now speaks of the role of the science fiction writer being analogous to a scientist – proposing hypotheses, such as that entertained in Crash, that car crashes might have some ‘beneficial role’, and applying them to the subject matter of fiction.
Putting in the reality – what does this mean? Trying to discover how people – his or her characters – might live in this new domain? Then the task of science fiction (speculative fiction) is to discover forms of individuating that are already happening. To hypothesise just as we are all hypothesising with our lives with respect to how we might live in our new world.
Simone Weil sought to turn her life into poetry. To live – to be willing to die – as the leader of a cadre of frontline nurses in occupied territory. This was in January 1943 – arriving in London from the USA where she escaped occupied France with her parents, it is physical danger she craves, to be parachuted behind enemy lines, or to care for the wounded in the thick of battle. Instead – what disappointment! – she is found clerical work for the Free French organisation.
Still, over the next four months, she finds time to write some of the work for which she is most famous – reflecting on theology and religion, translating sections of the Upanishads, analysing Marxism; 800 pages spring forth from her pen. At the same time, she reflects on force – her abiding concern – reading advanced mathematics and physics. Alexander Irwin, from whom this account is drawn, writes:
The manuscripts show that Weil’s handwriting flowed with an almost supernatural steadiness, rapidity, and assurance in this period: page after page streaming out virtually without hesitations or corrections. She often worked around the clock, staying through the night in the office in Hill street or walking home long after the last Underground train and continuing to work in her apartment for several more hours, all the while coughing steadily and violently.
The force and substance of her life were poured in an almost literal way into the writing that filled her notebooks, in a procedure reminiscent of the transmutations and requalifications of matter and energy on which she speculated obsessively in her metaphysical texts. The physical collapse that occurred on April 15, 1943, was surprising only in having been so long in coming. Weil had written herself to the brink of death.
Weil is diagnosed with tuberculosis. Hospitalised, though refusing the treatment that might help her, she undertakes to eat only as much as those rationed in France. She dies on August 24th, 1943.
Hubris via James Ward’s Heidegger’s Politics:
According to Otto Pöggeler, Heidegger would write, in a passage omitted from the published version of G53: "Perhaps the poet Hölderlin must become a Geschick of decisive confrontation for a thinker whose grandfather was born at the same time the ‘Ister Hymn’ and the poem ‘Andenken’ originated — according to the records, in the sheepfold of a dairy farm in Ovili, which lies in the upper Danube valley near the bank of the river, beneath the cliffs. The hidden history of Saying knows no accidents. Everything is dispensation [Schickung] ( "Heidegger’s Political Self-Understanding", p. 223).
We’ve come to the end of the day: let us say that in the course of that day something important has happened, something significant, the sort of thing that could be the inspiration for a film, that has the makings of a conflict of ideas that could become a picture.
But how did this day imprint itself on our memory? As something amorphous, vague, with no skeleton or schema. Like a cloud. And only the central event of that day has become concentrated, like a detailed report, lucid in meaning and clearly defined. Against the background of the rest of the day, that event stands out like a tree in the mist[….]
Isolated impressions of the day have set off impulses within us, evoked associations; objects and circumstances have stayed in our memory, but with no sharply defined contours, incomplete, apparent fortuitous. Can these impressions of life be conveyed through film? They undoubtedly can; indeed it is the especial virtue of cinema, as the most realistic of the arts, to be the means of such communication.
Tarkovsky
Brahma to Vishnu: ‘Without a sacrifice, nothing can received. To create a new world, what shall I sacrifice?’ Vishnu: ‘sacrifice me’. – ‘What shall I use as the sacrificial knife, the sacrificial altar and the sacrificial post?’ – ‘Use me’. – ‘Where do I find the sacred fire and the sacred chants?’ – ‘In me’. – ‘Who shall be the presiding deity?’ – ‘It will be me. I will also be the offering and the reward’.
Virginia Woolf: ‘I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don’t have complete emotions about the present, only about the past’.
Balthus: ‘I wanted to paint a dreaming young girl and what passes through her, not the dream itself. The passing therefore, not the dream’.
I’ve worked well, I can be pleased with what I’ve done. I’ve put down the pen, because it’s evening. Twilight imaginings. My wife and kids are in the next room, full of life. I have good health and enough money. God, I’m unhappy!
But what am I saying? I’m not unhappy, I haven’t put down the pen, I don’t have a wife and kids, or a next room, I don’t have enough money, it isn’t evening.
from Vila-Matas, Bartleby & Co
Roger Blin: ‘I know Antonin Artaud only through his trajectory in me which is endless’.
Francis Bacon interviewed by David Sylvester:
In the complicated stage in which painting is now, the moment there are several figures -[…] on the same canvas – the story begins to be elaborated. And the moment the story has been elaborated, the boredom sets in; the story talks louder than the paint. This is because we are actually in very primitive times once again, and we haven’t been able to cancel out the story-telling between one image and another.
A little later, he says almost exactly the same thing:
… so many of the greatest paintings have been done with a number of figures on a canvas, and of course every painter longs to do that. But, as the thing’s in such a terribly complicated stage now, the story that is already being told between one figure and another begins to cancel out the possibilities of what can be done with the paint on its own.
I wonder what Bacon means by claiming things are more complicated now than before? On another occasion, Bacon notes he doesn’t so much want to avoid telling a story
but I want very, very much to do the thing that Valery said – to give the sensation without the boredom of its conveyance. And the moment the story enters, the boredom comes upon you.
Bacon explains how he seeks to ‘concentrate the image down’ ‘to see it better’ by drawing in rectangles and cutting down the scale of the canvas. Heads and figures painted within a space-frame are not supposed to evoke figures trapped in a glass box – Eichmann at his trial, for example. There is never any illustrative intention in his work. Asked about the breaks between the canvasses of his triptychs, he notes, ‘They isolate one from the other. And they cut off the story between one and the other. It helps avoid story-telling if the figures are painted on three different canvasses’. This is the case even with his Crucifixion triptych – there is no explanation of the relationship between the figures, Bacon insists.
This is why Bacon so deeply regrets painting a swastika on an armband on one figure, and a hypodermic needle piercing the arm of another: each time it was the image that was important, not the illustration it was supposed to present, or the narrative it was supposed to unfold.
… I wanted to put an armband to break the continuity of this red round the arm. You may say it was a stupid thing to do, but it was done entirely as part of trying to make the figure work – not work on the level of interpretation of its being a Nazi, but on the level of its working formally.
Likewise for the titles of his paintings – his ‘Triptych Inspired by T.S. Eliot’s Sweeney Agonistes’ was entitled thus by his gallery, who had asked him what he had in mind when he painted it, for identificatory purposes only.
Francis Bacon in conversation with Michel Archimbaud.
When I begin, I might have some ideas, but most of the time the only idea I have is of doing something. There’s nothing well-ordered in my head; I respond to some kind of stimulation, to a mark, that’s all.
[Clarifying the notion of instinct:] … in the first version of painting of 1946 […] I was doing a landscape and I wanted to make a field with a bird flying over it. I had put a whole heap of reference marks on the canvas, then suddenly the forms that you see on that canvas began to appear; they imposed themselves on me. It wasn’t what I set out to do. Far from it. It just happened like that, and I was quite surprised by what appeared. In that case, I think that instinct produced those forms. But that’s not the same as inspiration. That has nothing to do with the muses or anything like that; no it happened quite unexpectedly, like an accident. I set out to do one thing, and then, in a completely astonishing way, something quite different happened. It’s both accidental and at the same time completely obvious. That, to me is instinct …
[Note too Bacon’s hostility to what he calls ‘metaphysics’ and his cautious welcoming of the notion of the unconscious. Above all, he declares himself an enemy of ‘mystery’ and ‘mysticism’.]
The artist’s studio isn’t the alchemist’s study where he searches for the philosopher’s stone – something which doesn’t exist in our world – it would perhaps be more like the chemist’s laboratory, which doesn’t stop you imagining that some unexpected phenomena might appear; quite the opposite, in fact.
Bacon notes, with respect to artistic ‘knowledge’ that it isn’t cumulative, as it is in science. What matters is style; great painters are not better than one another. The questioner reminds him of what Braque used to say, ‘Echo replies to echo, everything reverberates’. This meets with Bacon’s approval.
[I’ve always liked what Bacon says about the contagiousness of art and images:]
What the great writers have produced is a sort of stimulation in itself. Reading them can make me want to produce something myself; it’s a sort of excitement, perhaps even like sexual excitement, like something very strong anyway, a sort of very powerful urge, but with me that doesn’t take the form of attempting to illustrate texts in some way.
You are bombarded by images all the time. There are only a few, though, which stick in your mind and have some influence, but some do have a considerable effect. It’s difficult to say anything about this effect because it isn’t so much the image which matters, but what you do with it, and what effect some images have on other images. It’s possible, for example, that the fact of having seen the image of the Sphinx could change your way of seeing a man who passes you in the street. I think that every image, everything we see, changes our way of seeing everything else. My perception is completely altered. Certain images, perhaps even everything that I see, might imperceptibly modify all the rest. There’s a sort of influence of image upon image; it’s a great mystery, but I’m sure that’s what happens.
Certain works of Picasso have not only unlocked images for me, but also ways of thinking, and even ways of behaving. It doesn’t happen often, but I have experienced it. They released something in me, and made way for something else.
[Bacon notes he copied the works of the Old Masters when learning to paint.] It’s true that many painters have taught themselves in that way, but I didn’t. I’ve never felt the need. I’ve always believed that one cannot take on the genius of others, unfortunately. [Bacon goes on to disparage his own obsession with Pope Innocent X by Velazquez.]
[An interesting aside:] … I’ve never liked Surrealist painting. I’m not interested in Dali or Ernst. I think it’s the writers of this movement who were the best. All the texts, manifestos and reviews that they wrote, dreamed up and published and the great interest in reading and writing amongst Breton and his circle – that, in my opinion, constitutes the most interesting aspect of Surrealism.
All of us compose our works in a dream, even if we compose them while awake. And ‘the man from Porlock’, the inevitable interrupter, inwardly visits all of us, even if we never have visitors. All that we truly think or feel, all that we truly are – as soon as we try to express it, even if only to ourselves – suffers the fatal interruption of that visitor who we also are, that person from the outside who is inside us all, more real in life than we ourselves, than the living summation of all we’ve learned, all we think we are, and all we’d like to be.
Reading Pessoa’s essay ‘The Man From Porlock’ reflecting on the visitor who, Coleridge records, interrupted the composition of ‘Kubla Kahn’, but caused it to break off, I was interrupted myself by my Visitor, but in an eminently pleasant way …
Marguerite Duras, from Practicalities:
This book helped us pass the time. From the beginning of autumn to the end of winter[….] none of the pieces deals with a topic exhaustively. And one reflects my general views about a particular subject[….] At the most the book represents what I think sometimes, some days, about some things[….] The book has no beginning or end, and it hasn’t got a middle either. If it’s true that every book must have a raison d’etre, this isn’t a book at all. Nor is it a journal, or journalism – it doesn’t concern itself with ordinary events. Let’s just say it’s a book intended to be read[….] I had doubts about publishing it in this form, but no previous or current genre could accommodated such a free kind of writing, these return journeys between you and me, and between myself and myself, in the time we went through together.
I’d like to write a book the way I’m writing at this moment, the way I’m talking to you at this moment. I’m scarcely conscious of the words coming out of me. Nothing seems to being said but the almost nothing there is in all words.
When I was writing The Lover I felt I was discovering something: it was there before me, before everything, and would still be there after I’d come to think things were otherwise – that it was mine, that it was there for me. It was more or less as I’ve described, and the process of writing it down was so smooth it reminded you of the way you speak when you’re drunk, when what you say always seems simple and clear.
Marguerite Duras, from Writing:
One does not find solitude, one creates it. Solitude is created alone. I have created it. Because I decided that here was where I should be alone, that I would be alone to write books. It happened in his way. I was alone in the house. I shut myself in – of course, I was afraid. And then I began to love it. This house became the house of writing. My books come from this house. From this light as well, and from the garden. From the light reflecting off the pond. It has taken me twenty years to write what I just said.
Still, in Trouville there was the beach, the sea, the vastness of the sky and sands. That’s what solitude was here. It was in Trouville that I stared at the sea until nothing was left. Trouville that I stared at the sea until nothing was left. Trouville was the solitude of my entire life. I still have that solitude around me, impregnable. Sometimes I close the doors, shut off the telephone, shut off my voice, don’t want anything.
Write all the same, in spite of despair. No: with despair. I don’t know what to call that despair. Writing to one side of what precedes writing is always to ruin it. And yet we must accept this: ruining the failure means coming back toward another book, toward another possibility of the same book.
Marguerite Duras, from an interview in Two By Duras:
Alcohol is irreplaceable. It’s perfect. But it’s death. I’ve almost always written on alcohol, and I’ve always been afraid. I’ve always been afraid that alcohol would prevent me from being logical, I’ve been afraid that it would show in my writing. Now, without alcohol, I’m no longer afraid. But the moment I stopped drinking I was afraid I’d stop writing. The writing in books such as The Lover is, as a line of Baudelaire calls it, ‘belle d’abandone‘, beautiful in its abandonment, in its loss. I’ve no idea if this abandonment has always been within me, forgotten. But it surfaced when I wrote The Lover. I wrote it without meaning to write, it happened[….] I didn’t think about the style, I didn’t think about how I’d write it, and when I started writing I felt that the book itself was the style. I had the impression of not writing at all, I don’t remember having ‘done the writer’, as the Italians say.
The heart of The Lover is myself. I am the heart and all the rest of the book, because there’s no literature there: only writing. These days no one writes. Or almost no one. There are books, books made out of books, and behind them there is no one.
… the clandestine nature of writing. I can only write for people if I don’t know them.
I work a lot, very hard. I’ve always enjoyed working. Now I work without alcohol. I hope I’ll be able to continue to work without alcohol. Because of my liver. I’ve ended up with a very small liver. That’s terrible! Terrible because alcohol is so positive, so perfect, such a major occupation. There is nothing like alcohol. Just look at all the drunks in the taverns. They talk to themselves, they are perfectly happy, they are in harmony with their beings. They are like kings. They are the authentic kings of the world.
Munch employed a rather special method of coming to grips with the reality of nature – he allowed nature to patinate his pictures, leaving them exposed to the elements during the working process. This drastic method tested their resistance to the real world. ‘Paintings should be able to take up the fight with the sun and the moon’, he remarks.
… he was furious with the Nasjonalgalleriet in Oslo for varnishing his pictures. In his eyes, this treatment prevented the paintings from breathing, causing them to choke upon their own illusion of self-sufficiency. He experiments with various techniques of painting – amongst other things, with casein as a binder – ensuring that the greatest possible degree of pigment adheres to the canvas. Porosity becomes something to strive for – a living, breathing technique[….] Munch experiments, and masters various forms of porousness in his painting – he thins the paint with so much turpentine that the binder is sucked out of the priming and the colour is left almost without adherence.
The double-sided fatal and careless relationship to his work may derive from a resigned awareness of their place in the world. They exist, which is why he could casually throw them on the floor and trample all over them, or lay them like lids on a boiling pot of soup – which happened every now and again at Ekely.
from Poul Erik Toejner’s essay in Munch in His Own Words
Some notes from Beckett Remembering:
[Krance on Beckett:] He described his lifelong commitment to writing less and referred to the principle of failure, ‘to write things out, rather than in’.
[Albee, astutely]: I’ve never felt Sam to be a pessimistic playwright. A pessimist does not try to write. The true pessimist wouldn’t take the trouble of writing. Writing is an attempt to communicate, and if you’re a pessimist you say communication is impossible: you wouldn’t do it.
[Bowles, from his Diaries]: He talks of his books as if they were written by someone else. He said that it was the voice to which he listened, the voice one should listen to[….] ‘It is as if there were a little animal inside one’s head, for which one tried to find a voice; to which one tries to give a voice. That is the real thing. The rest is a game.’
from Appelfeld, A Table For One:
Writing is a huge effort. But, unfortunately, even at my age, I cannot say that I’ve discovered the secret of writing. In writing, you are tested each time anew. A page where the words are set down on it right and flows – that is almost a miracle. When I finished the novella Badenheim 1939, I wept from sheer tiredness.
I never made a fuss about my writing. Everything I wrote was in cafes, mostly quite cafes, but also in bustling, crowded cafes. It never bothers me when people talk. Many writers have tortured their families because the noise made it difficult for them to concentrate. True, literary writing isn’t regular writing, but then, neither is it a disease requiring the hushed silence of those around it. I have a great deal of respect for an artist who doesn’t impose his moods on those around him. Writing is a struggle, and it should be between you and yourself, without involving additional people.
When I was a child, my grandfather told me that God dwells everywhere. ‘In the trees as well?’ – ‘In the trees too’, he replied. – ‘In the animals too?’ – ‘In animals too.’ – ‘In man as well?’ – ‘Man,’ replied Grandfather, ‘is the partner of God.’ – ‘Man is God?’ I was shocked. ‘No. But he has a little of God in him.’ This conversation has been etched in my memory. Grandfather was a believer – he believed with his whole heart and all his soul. That belief of his was expressed in every gresture: the way he gripped any object, opened or closed a book, picked up a child and placed him on his knees. Sometimes I feel I have inherited his religious feelings from him. I never learned much from abstract ideas; the figures from my childhood and the experiences in the Holocaust are what stand before my eyes and have molded my thoughts.
[Perhaps Appelfeld is religious through the details of his books. Perhaps to record them is itself a kind of belief.]
After a few hours of writing, I would take a stroll, walking up to Agrippas Street, meandering about for an hour or two. Then I would return home. The stroll was a continuation of the writing.
There’s no doubt that the Temple and prophecy are the pinnacle of faith, but only metaphysical poetry can attain such heights. Prose needs solid ground; it needs objects and a space whose dimensions you can relate to. The peaks of prophecy and revelation are just not possible in prose. Biblical prose, in contrast to prophecy, is factual; it recognises the weaknesses of man and does not demand divine attributes of flesh and blood. One can listen to the prophets, but it’s impossible to draw near to them.
Cafe Peter was my first school for writing. There I learned that simple words are the precise ones, and that daily life is our most true expression.
Paul Celan: ‘Perhaps poetry, like art, moves with the oblivious self into the uncanny and strange to free itself. Though where? in what place? how? as what? This would mean art is the distance poetry must cover.
Rosemarie Waldrop, commenting: ‘He always finds himself face to face with the incomprehensible, inaccesessible, the "language of stone". And his only recourse is talking. This cannot be "literature". Literature belongs to those who are at home in the world’.
from Josipovici, The Singer on the Shore
Char, from Partage formel: ‘A new mystery sings in your bones. Cultivate your legitimate strangeness.’
Nabokov: ‘I have often noticed that after I had bestowed on the characters of my novels some treasured item of my past, it would pine away in the artificial world where I had so abruptly placed it[….] Houses have crumbled in my memory as soundlessly as they did in the mute films of yore, and the portrait of my old French governess, whom I once lent to a boy in one of my books, is fading fast, now that it is engulfed in the description of a childhood entirely unrelated to my own.’
Woolf: ‘I can only note that the past is beautiful because one never realises an emotion at the time. It expands later, and thus we don’t have complete emotions about the present, only about the past’.
… as far as the artistic, poetic value, I consider Nostalghia to be superior to The Sacrifice. Because Nostalghia is built on nothing, the film only exists insofar as the poetic image exists and that’s all. Whereas The Sacrifice is based upon classical dramaturgy.
… my films are not a personal expression but a prayer. When I make a film, it’s like a holy day. As if I were lighting a candle in front of an icon, or placing a bouquet of flowers before it.
I have often been asked what the Zone represents. There is only one answer: the Zone doesn’t exist. It’s Stalker himself who invented his Zone. He created it in order to take some very unhappy people there, and to impose on them the idea of hope.
… my main point is that a true artist does not experiment or search – he finds.
The Mirror is about my mother. It is not fiction; it is based on reality. There is not a single fictive episode in it.
I am seeking a principle of montage which would permit me to show the subjective logic – the thought, the dream, the memory – instead of the logic of the subject.
I think joy is a lack of understanding of the situation in which we find ourselves.
[Of Nostalghia] This is the first time, in my experience, that I have felt to such a degree that the film itself was capable of being the expression of psychological states of the author. The central character assumes the role of the alter-ego of the director.
… when I see a horse, it seems to me that I have life itself before me.
[Of Andrei Rublev] In a manner of speaking, the horse is the witness and the symbol of life throughout the film. By returning to the image of the horses in the last shots, we wanted to highlight that the source of all Rublev’s art is life itself.
from Andrei Tarkovsky: Interviews, ed. John Gianvito
In 1928 Knut Hamsun’s wife wrote a secret letter to a friend of hers: ‘he has not a single so-called friend . . . he cannot be bothered to write letters to friends, and . . . in the course of time all people have become a matter of indifference to him. This may be a fault, but it is simply how Hamsun is . . . His work is his only friend, his only love, and the rest of us just have to accept this.’
Kafka, from a letter:
When I opened my eyes after a short afternoon nap, still not quite certain that I was alive, I heard my mother calling down from the balcony in a natural tone: ‘What are you up to?’ A woman answered from the garden, ‘I’m having tea in the garden.’ I was amazed at the ease with which some people live their lives.
But now think of Henry Green, who is able to write with such expressions as ‘I’m having tea in the garden’. What kind of gift is his?
In our world, though – and in this respect Proust and Kafka inhabit our world – matters are different: few can spot what is truly original when it first appears, and the burden on the artist is for that reason much greater: should he trust his instinct, which has so often let him down, or the judgement of others, which seems so massively authoritative and yet is so often at odds with his own?
[Kafka and other Modernists, as revealed in their letters and diaries] seem to have been able to develop and grow through an innate trust in the act of writing itself, in their willingness to embrace confusion and uncertainty and to find a new voice in the process.
from Josipovici, The Singer on the Shore
Neutrality
‘Is there an element of putting on the work clothes when it’s time to record, then?’ – ‘I’m trying to get rid of that. I’m try to reach a state of neutrality where I’m living my work, existing within it and for it. I’m trying not to make a separation between the two.’ (Scott Walker)
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