Afterimage Vol. 45, No. 1


Light and Time: A Conversationwith Divya Rao Heffley

Jen Saffron

Since 2013, the Hillman Photography Initiative at the Carnegie Museum of Art (CMOA) in Pittsburgh has been experimenting with new ways of engaging artists photographically and showcasing new work to both arts audiences and communities. Light, movement, vision, time, perception, activism—how can these photographic principles inspire new ways of thinking about art, art audiences, and what museums can do and be? The photograph is inherently a journey through space and time. Where are images headed now, and what can we expect from public encounters of images in museums, as opposed to our personal phones and small screens? How might a museum respond to this rapidly changing medium, when a museum is, by its very nature, a slow-moving institution that collects past-based objects? Divya Rao Heffley, senior program manager for the Initiative, answered some of these questions in an interview with me on February 23, 2017, at the CMAO.

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Counter-operation: Harun Farocki Against the Network

Nace Zavrl

In a recent conversation with the editors of October, Eyal Weizman recounted an email he had received from the filmmaker Harun Farocki: “Let me take the first step. Instead of designing a film in the way a building is designed, I prefer to build a film in the way birds build a nest. Then he listed the components of investigation that were issues of media forensics and architecture. It included old images of the Negev desert from the World War I and II eras that we interpreted for a Bedouin land-rights case there.”

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Exhibition Reviews

Now Then: Chris Killip and the Making of In Flagrante

Jody Zellen

J. Paul Getty Museum
Los Angeles
May 23–August 13, 2017

In Flagrante is a monograph of fifty black-and-white photographs by Chris Killip documenting working-class communities in northern England in the 1970s and ’80s. After it was published in 1988, it was hailed as one of the most important books to chronicle the impact of deindustrialization on these working-class communities. In Flagrante was reprinted in 2008, becoming available to new audiences, and then rereleased in 2015 as In Flagrante Two, including three photographs not in the original. In In Flagrante Two, Killip wanted to correct design issues in the original (e.g., the images crossed the gutter) as well as address the notion that it was a criticism of Margaret Thatcher. Killip did this by including this factual text: “The photographs date from 1973 to 1985 when the prime ministers were: Edward Heath, Conservative (1970–1974), Harold Wilson, Labour (1974–1976), James Callaghan, Labour (1976–1979), Margaret Thatcher, Conservative (1979–1990).”

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Eternal Youth

Suzanne E. Szucs

Museum of Contemporary Art
March 11–July 23, 2017

It is an essential conundrum of photographs that they can simultaneously represent death and immortality. Moments captured photographically are both gone forever and eternally frozen in time. It is therefore ironic that upon entering the Eternal Youth exhibition at the Museum of Contemporary Art Chicago (MCA), the viewer is confronted by two paintings that perfectly convey this paradox. Eddie Peake’s Destroyed By Desire (2014) features the titular words, distorted in solid stainless steel with lacquered spray paint, while Paul Heyer’s Time Isn’t Real (2017) has the title words scrawled with paint in cursive. Media arts, rather than painting, best convey the immediacy, mystery, and quandaries of youth and they comprise the greatest portion of the exhibition. These two paintings, positioned toward the entrance, serve as visual gatekeepers, alerting viewers to the first two of the five major themes of the exhibition: “Fountain of Youth,” “Desirous Youth,” “Portraits of Youth,” “Marketing Youth,” and “Irreverent Youth.”

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Sara Greenberger Rafferty: Gloves Off

Alisia Chase

Samuel Dorsky Museum of Art
State University of New York at New Paltz
February 4–May 21, 2017

Curated by Andrew Ingall, Sara Greenberger Rafferty’s exhibition Gloves Off explores the ways in which comedy, fashion, surveillance, and big data can dehumanize us. The colloquialism is rooted in pugilistic masculinity, its etymology traced to a boxer’s willingness to brawl with bare knuckles. Using this title as a female, Rafferty insinuates that she’s abandoned any ladylike pretenses. Certainly, her deft interweaving of multiple media defies traditional categorizations, and elegant white opera gloves serve as chapter dividers in her video Identify (2017), rather than adorn a debutante’s arms. But overall, the work is so aestheticized—and so cerebral—that it never really leaves the realm of the mannerly. This is not a bad thing, however, and I would argue that Rafferty pulls off a rather difficult trick in making work that is as formally captivating as it is conceptually rigorous.

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A Handful of Dust: Photography after Man Ray and Marcel Duchamp

Harriet Riches

Whitechapel Gallery
June 7–September 3, 2017

Having recently moved from the capital, my return to London’s East End in the midst of a heatwave made me more aware than ever of its dirt: its grimy pavements and diesel-blackened stones, the grit in my eye, the graying film left on a handkerchief as a I blow my nose to remove the traces of the city that go unnoticed when living in its belly day-in and day-out.

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New Pictures: The Propeller Group, Reincarnations

Godfre Leung

Minneapolis Institute of Art
April 22–September 10, 2017

The Living Need Light, The Dead Need Music, the 2014 film by Ho Chi Minh City–based collective the Propeller Group, seems to nicely fit the post-Enlightenment museum’s modus operandi of cross-cultural comparison. Originally created for New Orleans’s Prospect biennial, the film suggests commonalities between its subject – elaborate, multi-day Vietnamese funerary practices — and the similarly carnivalesque character of its host city’s better known, so-called jazz funerals. Viewed within a museum, however, the film reveals a challenge to its new site’s historical function to transform certain kinds of objects into works of art, and others into uneasy art/artifact hybrids. New Pictures: The Propeller Group, Reincarnations pairs the film, recently acquired by the Minneapolis Institute of Art, with an installation of objects selected from departments across the museum’s encyclopedic collection. The installation extends the film’s theme of passing to give new meaning to Theodor Adorno’s old saw about the museum being a mausoleum, which a generation ago served as a theoretical shorthand for 1990s institutional critique.

Bringing together historically disparate objects associated with spiritual state-shifting—for instance an Egyptian model ship circa the twentieth century BCE; stone Buddhas from South, Southeast, and East Asia spanning a millennium; and a Kwakwaka’wakw transformation mask by Richard Hunt—the Propeller Group surprises by departing from conventional museum display, instead assembling the objects into a makeshift funerary procession. The “march,” led by an earthenware Northern Wei dynasty processional group, directly faces the film as if following the tracking POV shots that dominate it, and seems poised to enter its stylized tropical landscape. The projection screen becomes a permeable membrane, proposing for the museum’s objects, and their constituent cultures, the possibility of new hybridities beyond art/artifact.

The installation is most striking for the cavalierly playful and un-museological mode of spectatorship it initiates. At points, the objects sourced from the museum’s collection almost, but do not quite, touch each other; the viewer initially misrecognizes the installation as an unimaginably casual treatment of these priceless and irreplaceable objects, then becomes incredulous about their veracity, particularly as the Group has also included several objects of its own in the assembly. Flanking the central group, a pair of masks—from the Ivory Coast in the early twentieth century and Mali in its second half—rest atop stanchions that respectively stand in front of a sandstone Cambodian Prajnaparamita dating roughly six hundred years earlier and a Tang dynasty limestone monk, suggesting that the Buddhist goddess and monk are wearing the masks and partaking in the spiritual practices associated with them. Elsewhere, also supported by stanchions, a pair of marble hands performing the Karana mudra (or perhaps its descendant, the heavy metal “Satan” salute), holds another pair of hands, made of sandstone and performing a Vitarka mudra (which resembles the “A-OK” hand gesture). This pair of pairs, both of the Group’s own provenance, “replaces” the missing hands of a dismembered third-century Pakistani stone Buddha. These literal hybrids defamiliarize their constituent objects, preparing the audience’s imagination for the exhibition’s ultimate conceit: that these objects facing the projection screen are on the cusp of entering a portal, to transition into a nebulous third state distinct from their current lives as reified art/artifacts and their former ones as worldly objects and implements of spirituality.

Thematically, the Vietnamese funeral ceremony acts as a prism through which to the engage with the film, foregrounding its concern not with life or death, but with the transitioning of the soul between those two states. Its protagonist is a transgender professional mourner named Sam, whom we alternately observe performing as a fire dancer in the funeral ceremony and as the person it mourns. The fluidity of Sam’s gender parallels her depiction as simultaneously living and dead, foregrounding a more earthly function of funerals in contemporary Vietnamese society: to provide unique social spaces that openly accommodate transgender individuals, as performers in the country’s funeral economy. Funerals are also loud and highly visible beacons for a different kind of transition, namely that between the former communist regime, which had banned some funerary traditions and curtailed others, and the increasingly capitalist state initiated by the economic reforms of 1986.

Experientially, the film grounds all of these stakes acoustically, engaging spectators in its velocity, parallel to the procession of objects in the installation, while also taking them on a musical journey that allegorizes the cultural hybridity of the funerary practices it depicts. The first section of the film features what its credits refer to as “traditional music.” In a feat of exquisite sound design, the Group isolates the individual instruments that comprise the band with stunning precision and distributes them across a four-channel surround sound setup to suggest a 360-degree soundscape, thereby placing the spectator within a circle of musicians. The second section begins with Sam and the film’s other leading figure, the bandleader who doubles as master of ceremonies, lip-synching to a well-known recording of the contemporary Vietnamese pop song “Một cõi đi vê” (“A Place for Leaving and Returning”), as performed by Khánh Ly, the Diva of Saigon. Khánh Ly’s version of the song transitions into a brass band rendition that begins mournfully but becomes raucous and celebratory. Somewhat subtly, as the brass band begins, the distribution of the soundtrack across the four channels shifts to the foreground of the soundscape, now only 180 degrees, placing the spectator within the procession and following the syncopated rhythms of the marching band through a veritable underworld of funerary performers, ceremonies, and rites.

The film directly addresses New Orleans in its third and final section, as the band leading the funeral procession begins to play the jazz standard “It Ain’t My Fault” while Sam’s snake-adorned casket lowers into the Mekong Delta. Only when the end credits roll does the soundtrack reappear in the pair of speakers behind the audience, reminding the spectators that the film has taken them on a journey from the enclosed, circular acoustic space of the altar ceremony, traditionally hosted in the deceased’s home, to the linear space of the brass band-led funeral procession, and finally to the release of the body to the Mekong and of the soul to its next incarnation. Analogous to this journey, the film musically narrates a cultural shift from “traditional” music to modern and hybrid, to be followed by the Group’s own insertion of the New Orleans jazz standard into the Vietnamese funerary repertoire.

The film’s closing emphasizes the common legacy of French military funerals, and therefore also of French colonialism, in the two former outposts. The center-margin hybridizations invoked by the Group, in which French traditions and their constituent belief systems have transformed and have been transformed by indigenous customs, are inverted by the Group’s own hybrids, suggesting a hypothetical future alliance between Vietnam and New Orleans as members of the global South. The installation extends this alliance to the cultural descendants of the objects “collected” by the encyclopedic museum—which is, of course, also an artifact of colonialism—and conscripts the Minneapolis Institute of Art to participate in the postcolonial project that Dipesh Chakrabarty has called “provincializing Europe.”1 What forms these new hybrids might take seem beside the point; the exhibition’s concern is with transitions between the epistemologies of its host (the museum) and those to come, which it leaves unnamed. In these transitions, the museum might be the only thing that remains an artifact.

GODFRE LEUNG is a Minneapolis-based critic and associate professor of art
history at St. Cloud State University.

NOTE 1. Dipesh Chakrabarty, Provincializing Europe: Postcolonial Thought and Historical Difference (Princeton,
NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000).

Merce Cunningham: Common Time

Suzanne E. Szucs

Walker Art Center
February 8–July 30, 2017

In 2010, I went several times to the Walker Art Center to see Tacita Dean’s affecting video installation Merce Cunningham performs STILLNESS (in three movements) to John Cage’s composition 4’33” with Trevor Carlson, New York City, 28 April 2007 (six performances; six films) (2008, 4 min., 33 sec.). Anyone familiar with John Cage’s groundbreaking composition will know that it is four minutes and thirty-three seconds of silence, and, therefore, different each time, composing the chance beauty of simply being alive during a randomly chosen period of time. Viewing the work, I had background knowledge of Cage, the art pioneer, but I was less familiar with his life partner, Merce Cunningham, the renowned choreographer and dancer. I was completely unaware of the complex and innovative relationship Cunningham had developed with the camera throughout his career; however, I was immediately struck by the unflinching beauty of the old man dressed in a lavender shirt sitting gracefully for the camera. How could a body, reposed in stillness, exude such energy, grace, and exquisite beauty even across the mediation of film?

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Book Reviews

Judith Aston, Sandra Gaudenzi, and Mandy Rose’s i-docs: The Evolving Practices of Interactive Documentary

Edited by Judith Aston, Sandra Gaudenzi, and Mandy Rose
Columbia University Press, 2017
312 pp./$90.00 (hb), $30.00 (sb), $29.99 (e-book)

Patricia R. Zimmermann

People and process outflank technology.
That’s the key intervention that this important new anthology, i-docs: The Evolving Practices of Interactive
, offers into the dizzying, endlessly mutating terrain of new media documentary.
The book emerges as one of the many projects emanating from the i-Docs research group at the Digital Cultures Research Centre at the University of the West of England, with which the editors are affiliated. This research group has a provocative website for debates on all things i-doc, a Facebook group, and an edgy symposium (mounted in 2011, 2012, 2014, and 2016) that convenes practitioners, artists, industry, and scholars.

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David Bacon’s In the Fields of the North/En los campos del norte

Photographs and text by David Bacon
Spanish Translation by Rodolfo Hernandez Corchado and Claudia Villegas Delgado
University of California Press, 2016/El Colegio de la Frontera Norte, 2016
450 pp./$34.95 (sb)

Janet Zandy

“Which Side Are You On?,” Florence Reece’s famous song based on an old spiritual was, and is, a declaration of partisanship. “No neutrals” she sang. “The workers offered all they had. They offered their hands,” she recalled1. She wrote that song in 1930 when she and her husband Sam were organizing coal miners in Eastern Kentucky. Today, Lorena Hernández, a single mother from Oaxaca Mexico, fills buckets with blueberries in the fields of California, for “as long [each day] as my body can take it” (144). She describes her hands as “tired and dirty and mistreated” (148).

Reece’s questioning first line has been hijacked for other political interests than labor justice. It’s called a phony equivalency, the assumption that there are two equal sides with equal perspectives. But, as documentary photographers well know, not all sides are equivalent. There is no phony equivalency in the informed perspective of David Bacon in his most recent book of stunning photographs and testimony, In the Fields of the North/En los campos del norte.2 In his introductory essay, “In the Fields of the North: A Photographer Looks Through a Partisan Lens,” Bacon quietly and justly claims his place in a long legacy of partisan photography, particularly of farm laboring. Dorothea Lange, Hansel Mieth, Otto Hagel, Pirkle Jones, Max Yavno, Paul Fusco, Roger Minick, Leonard Nadel, George Ballis, Ken Light, Richard Steven Street, and Ansel Adams all produced photographs of resistance to the invisibility of farm labor, particularly in California. Partisanship was and is intrinsic to their work. Some provided photographs as illustrations, such as Adams’s pictures illustrating Paul S. Taylor’s field research, “Mexicans North of the Rio Grande,” published in the sociological journal Survey Graphic.3 Adams’s photographs were taken nearly ninety years ago, but little has changed in the circuitry of poverty and exploitation underpinning the food we eat.

For thirty years, Bacon has listened and observed the hard labor and rough living conditions of people in motion, forced by poverty in the South to work in the fields of the North. In this beautifully designed bilingual—Spanish and English—book, Bacon skillfully integrates voices and images, balancing the particulars of individual stories and the aesthetics of penetrating portraits.

The book’s division into seven chapters takes the viewer/reader from the first chapter’s critical question: “Where Does our Food Come From?” to specific fields of labor in subsequent chapters: “Just Across the Border” (from migrant workers’ perspectives) in San Diego and the Imperial Valley, Coachella and Blythe, Fresno and Arvin, Oxnard and Greenfield, Watsonville and Sonoma. The concluding chapter, “These Things Can Change,” situated primarily in Washington State, traces the struggle of workers to form an independent union, Familias Unidas por la Justicia (Families United for Justice). Bacon ends with the children of strikers, smiling, standing on a fence, holding a handmade sign reading “Justicia Para Todos.” This is the spine of Bacon’s dialectic: the tension between the labor of the fields and the pleasures of consuming fruits and vegetables.

The “North” of the title, at once a metaphor and a geography of necessity, is key to seeing Bacon’s photographs from the perspective of those living in the South who, forced by poverty, migrate to the North. Those in motion speak twenty-three languages and come from thirteen different Mexican states. They live in rickety shacks, informal settlements (colonia), cramped mobile home parks, in ravines, under trees, and sometimes inside or by the side of the fields, sin techo (without a roof). They pick strawberries, weed onion fields, prune grape vines. They cover their bodies as protection against the intense California heat, constant dust, and pesticides. Some bathe in polluted streams because there are no facilities.

Bacon’s photographs incorporate, but do not foreground, the machinery in the fields, extensions of laboring hands. These images are not bucolic or pastoral landscapes of contented peasants; they are representations of what Laura Velasco Ortiz in her Afterword calls, “savage capitalism” (440). Ortiz underscores the contradiction embedded in the heart of California’s sophisticated technological economy: the immediacy of piece-rate labor in the foreground, the wealth of high-tech industry in the background (440). Whether Purépechas from Michoacán or Mixtecos from Oaxaca, what field workers have in common is the physicality of labor. Bacon’s photographs speak the language of the body at work. He offers a visual epistemology of labor. One can only imagine where Bacon positions his own body, and how he develops trusting relationships with workers and their families—who are not nameless—but are specifically named and seen by Bacon. This is not a photographer’s self-reference. Rather, it is, to modify John Berger’s language, a process of “imaginative attention” and having “a seeing eye.”4

Bacon’s black-and-white photographs put to rest any assumptions about the bifurcation of documentation and aesthetics. Consider his horizon lines, literally and metaphorically—as borders, separators, crossings, symbols, and as intersections of fields and bodies. The horizon suggests, dialogically, the desire for stasis and the necessity of movement. In photograph 045, a crew harvests romaine lettuce in a Coachella field. In the foreground, shadows of light and dark mark the romaine, a crouched worker, and his knife. In the background, four other workers, one wearing a back support, break the horizon line with their bodies. Another crew harvests melons. The figure in the foreground, head shielded by a US flag scarf, wearing a light-colored sweatshirt, empties pale melons into a white bucket. His body, in an unintended warrior pose, intersects a diagonal dark horizon line (photograph 086). That line speaks to Bacon’s appreciation of Alexander Rodchenko’s advice, “We must take photographs from every angle but the navel” (20).

Bacon’s portraits, like those of Milton Rogovin, convince because Bacon has earned trust inside and outside the fields. Consider his close framing of the faces of a Mixtec couple from Oaxaca, their personal dignity and their weathered skin; they pick raisins in Fresno (115). Consider Lino Reyes, his wife and five children, Mixtec migrants from Oaxaca, who all live in a garage on the outskirts of Oxnard, California. Reyes and his wife work in the strawberry fields (167). Consider the hands of Armando (and Bacon’s descriptive caption), as he “manicures a bunch of table grapes, clipping out the dry or unripe ones” (photograph 040). Consider what it takes to stand all day with arms outstretched in grapevines. Consider the necessity of multiple layers of clothing in fields where the temperature can reach 107 degrees. Consider Bacon’s sensitivity to details—Alejandra Espinoza’s headscarf is printed with little hearts and baby bears (unnumbered photograph).

Organic farming protects workers from sprayed chemical fields, but also involves more stooped labor. Bacon deconstructs assumptions about organic produce from a worker’s perspective: “a healthy, attractive, organic potato . . . is much more a product of workers’ labor than the non-organic kind” (40). And he reminds the organic produce-consumer that “low wages and abuse are as prevalent in organic agriculture as they are in the non-organic sector” (46).

Wherever you open this book and gaze at the photographs, you will see images of masked workers, especially women, fabric over head and mouth, only the eyes penetrating through slits in the wrapped cloth. Bacon’s photographs unmask these human beings.

In the Fields of the North is also a collective and collaborative work. Bacon, a trained union organizer, has worked for decades with the Frente Indígena de Organizaciones Binacionales (Binational Front of Indigenous Organizations, a Mexican migrant organization), and California Rural Legal Assistance (CRLA). Bacon writes, “They helped design this project at the beginning, the lawyers and especially the community workers in CRLA, the activists in FIOB, participated in taking the photographs and recording the interviews at all levels” (446). These memorable, aesthetically powerful photographs are Bacon’s, but it is in keeping with his sense of solidarity that he shares credit. (Imagine other photographers acknowledging the work of their printers or studio assistants.) This acknowledgment reflects the communal sensibility of the workers themselves. This is not about hyper-individualism, or “making it”; it is about making some or just enough to send back to the family in the South. This is a Whitmanian sense of “adhesion,” of the necessity of solidarity. It is an aesthetic of relationality.

There is joy, culture, and custom too. Children wear traditional dance costumes at the Santa Cruz Guelaguetza (190–191). Victoria de Jesús Ramírez weaves a reboso (shawl) on a traditional Triqui belt loom as a child looks over her shoulder to learn her skill (185). Trilingual Raymundo Guzmán, a farm worker from Oaxaca, intends, with his friend Miguel Villegas, to be the world’s first Mixteco rappers (unnumbered photograph). He wants to be “a rapper with a conscience,” like his idol Tupac Shakur, and to push up “like a flower that grew in concrete” (168).
Through his clear, concise writing, his informed captions, and his powerful photographs, David Bacon witnesses lives, not working human machines. He, too, is a harvester and a gleaner. What is the efficacy of his labor? His photographs are more than accumulations of decisive moments. They are about the work of photography to create spaces for alterable moments—when the understanding of the viewer shifts, when a particular visual epistemology expands. He asks us for deeper sight and insight, and a willingness to hear Raymundo Guzmán: “I want to live, not just survive . . . We have to move forward” (168).

JANET ZANDY, emerita professor, Rochester Institute of Technology, is the author of Hands: Physical Labor, Class, and Cultural Work (2004); Unfinished Stories: The Narrative Photography of Hansel Mieth and Marion Palfi (2013), and other books on working-class culture.

NOTES 1. Florence Reece, interview by Kathy Kahn, “They Say Them Child Brides Don’t Last,” in Kathy Kahn, Hillbilly Women (New York: Avon Books, 1973), 4-11, quoted in American Working-Class Literature, An Anthology, ed. Nicholas Coles and Janet Zandy (New York: Oxford University Press, 2007) 393-99. 2. See also David Bacon, The Children of NAFTA: Labor Wars on the U.S./Mexico Border (Oakland: University of California Press, 2004; Communities Without Borders: Images and Voices from the World of Migration (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2006; Illegal People: How Globalization Creates Migration and Criminalizes Immigrants (Boston: Beacon Press, 2008); and The Right to Stay Home: How US Policy Drives Mexican Migration (Boston: Beacon Press, 2013). 3. Paul S. Taylor, “Mexicans North of the Rio Grande,” Survey Graphic 19 (May 1931): 138–39, cited in Richard Steven Street, Everyone Had Cameras: Photography and Farmworkers in California, 1850–2000 (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2008), 131. 4. John Berger, Portraits: John Berger on Artists, ed. Tom Overton (London: Verso, 2015), 54.

Media Noted

Laura Raicovich’s At the Lightning Field

By Laura Raicovich/Coffee House Press/2017/104 pp./$12.95 (sb)

Mary Gregory

No matter how strongly a work of art connects with its audience, it’s never exactly what the artist sent out. The receiver always morphs the message, always puts something of their own in the package. We can see through the lens of another’s vision, but it’s always with our own eyes.

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Michel Chion’s Words on Screen

By Michel Chion/Columbia University Press/2017/245 pp./$90.00 (hb),
$30.00 (sb), $29.99 (e-book)

Matthew Dwight Moore

Writing has always existed in cinema, Michel Chion reminds us in his new book, Words on Screen. It is no more
artificially synthesized into films than language is into the world of children, and it is with a child’s eye that he admits he wishes to reassess the role of words in films. To that end, Chion has focused entirely on classifying (albeit idiosyncratically) the myriad ways words function in films.

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From the Issue

Media Received


Click here for our full Media Received Listings

Portfolio: Beyond The Drama

Saara Mäntylä

View this portfolio


Current Issue, Vol. 45, no. 5

4 3 2 CRY: Fracking in Northern Colorado by Kathy T. Hettinga

Vol. 45, no.5

Xilunguine by Paul Castro


Image Text Ithaca Symposium

Film as Verb: Documentary Imperfection in the Post-Factual Era by Gabrielle McNally

Speculations and Inquiries on New Participatory Documentary Environments

Toward a Theory of Participatory New Media Documentary

Documentary Untethered, Documentary Becoming

Collaborative Documentary Practice: Histories, Theories, Practices


Silos by Andria Hickey and Matthew Chasney

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