"My photographic creative process..."

Wrote this, thinking about how few people actually get the whole line of work behind a photo. Sorry it's in slovene. Might get in English some day. But I wrote half of this in the car.

Od zamisli do fotografije

Ustvarjalno zaporedje fotografinje Eve Klevske

Vsak fotograf ima svoj način ustvarjanja. Celo vsak portretni fotograf ima popolnoma svoj lastni način ustvarjanja. Nekateri so bolj pristaši spontane, 'snapshot' fotografije, drugi ogromno ur porabijo za priprave. Nekateri gredo radi v eksotične kraje in delajo portrete v skorajda studijsko idealni svetlobi, spet drugi ogromno truda vložijo v to, da v studiu 'ponaredijo' vtis kaosa in divjine. Obstaja veliko pristopov, slogov in variant fotografiranja enega in istega obraza. S tem izzivom se spopadajo predvsem fotografi slavnih oseb, ki so bile že tolikokrat posnete, da jih je težko uokviriti v nekaj izvirnega. A po čem eni fotografi izstopajo, drugi pa so povsem neprepoznavni? Zakaj so ene slike 'kr v redu', druge pa brezčasne? Ugled njihove veščine temelji na dejstvu, da so seznanjeni z vsakim korakom ustvarjalnega zaporedja in imajo, prav vsakega, trdno v vajetih.

ZAČETEK, ZAMISEL

Kadar snemam po svojem lastnem navdihu, se vse začne z zamislijo. Vidim, denimo, čudovito zimsko idilo in si mislim, uh, šment, posneti kar sam tale hrib je le prilaščanje zaslug narave. Ali bi mi uspelo, če postavim v jedro lep obraz, vse skupaj spremeniti v umetnost? Pričnem sestavljati skico in si zamišljati, kakšen bi končni izdelek naj bil. Ali želim, da je vreme sončno ali oblačno? Da je svetloba posredna ali neposredna? Da je model v ospredju v kontrastu z okoljem ali zlit z njim? Želim poudariti minljivost snega ali njegovo moč? Kaj želim povedati s sliko? Na kaj moram biti najbolj pozorna?

                Razlogi za fotografiranje so v glavnini a) moja velika ljubezen do pritiskanja na oni tevelki gumb; b) ker me je k sodelovanju povabil/a kolega/ica; c) ker so posnetki naročeni. Pri naročenih (plačanih) posnetkih, je na prvem mestu zadovoljnost stranke. Šele nekje daleč zadaj na drugem mestu je svobodno umetniško izražanje avtorja. Biti morajo popolnoma na nivoju, a pod tujimi pogoji. Ti pogoji so včasih izredno naporni. Večina služb je. A služba polni hladilnik, lastni projekti pa dušo. Potrebno je, še posebej na začetku kariere, jasno začrtati mejo med obema. Poleg tega ni nujno, če se s stranko ne strinjamo, da imam jaz prav, stranka pa se moti. Včasih – pogosto – se imam še marsikaj za naučiti. Pri delu s kolegi, če me denimo prosijo za arhiviranje ali promocijo njihove veščine, sta ti dve vodilni točki dosti bliže, saj se z njo/njim poznava in sva najinih slogov že vajeni/a. Lahko da gre za model, ki si želi več slik za svoj arhiv; za oblikovalko, ki je ponosna na svoje obleke ali nakit; lahko da gre za vizažistko, ki ne želi, da je po končanju njenega izdelka njena veščina pozabljena takoj, ko je obraz opran …

                Šele pod točko a) je moja presoja, moj navdih in moja ambicija edina, kar me usmerja. Tako tudi samo jaz odgovarjam za kvaliteto končnega izdelka. Tu si lahko dam duška, kolikor želim. Tu pilim in izboljšujem svoj slog in lahko eksperimentiram. In ni nujno, da te slike kadarkoli zagledajo luč sveta. Ne tičejo se nikogar in nikoli ne trdim, da so vrhunec mojih sposobnosti. Nanje sem po navadi ponosna do naslednjega fotošuta – ki mora biti, skoraj brez izjeme – boljši od prejšnjega.

IZBIRA PRIZORIŠČA: SVETLOBA

Do neke mere je izbira prizorišča (še vedno govorim o portretu) najmanj zanimiva in zelo pomembna. Ozadje ne igra vedno velike vloge na sliki – lahko da je celo videti, kot da ozadje sploh ne obstaja. Toda kulisa, najsibo slikovita ali nevpadljiva, drag studio ali hodnik v bloku, je le del scene. Največji del scene je svetloba. Najlepša kulisa na svetu ne bi imela nobene vrednosti, če bi ne bila osvetljena. Lahko, da gre le za lesk nekje v somraku, lahko da gre za popoln pasivni bum poletne sončne svetlobe v vsak kot. Manj, kot je prepuščeno naključju, bolj uravnovešen in predvidljiv bo posnetek. Kadar eksperimentiram, to nima take teže (nepredvidljivost zna prijetno presenetiti), a če nekje obstaja stranka, ki je želela točno določen poudarek na točno določenem delu, jaz pa nisem imela svetlobe v vajetih, lahko nastane nesprejemljiv zmazek. Osebno imam najraje sončno svetlobo na drugo žogo. Moj odbojnik, poln lukenj mačjih krempljev, je moj nepogrešljivi spremljevalec. S sabo ga vlačim že več, pa še vedno odkrivam njegove nove in nove sposobnosti. Celo ob uporabi bliskavice (če se sonce skrije), je skoraj vedno vmes odbojnik. Z njim iz enega vira luči dobim dva in lahko sama reguliram, ne glede na okolje, osvetljenost ključnih delov posnetka. Pri svojem slogu verjamem, da ne glede na preostanek slike, oči morajo odsevati svetlobo, četudi v najmanjši meri. Portret z 'mrtvimi' očmi, je zame povsem neuporaben.

IZBIRA MODELA

Ljubezen do fotografije je skoraj vedno povezana z ljubeznijo do lepih reči. Celo vojni poročevalci, ki iščejo grozote ali rumeni fotografi, ki iščejo obscenosti slavnih, morajo priznati, da ob pogledu na nekaj lepega, najprej sežejo po svojem aparatu. Človeški obrazi, seveda, so portretistu dobesedno magnetni. Včasih izpadem popolna čudakinja, ko ogovorim kakšno neznanko ali neznanca, češ da bi jih želela portretirati. Ampak se splača. Tako se iščejo novi modeli.

Vsak portretist ima svojo »preferenco«. Nekateri imajo raje visoke, vitke, neukročene plavolaske, drugi do potankosti izdelane profesionalne manekene, spet tretji nemirne najstnike, četrti bolj azijski, lutkast tip, peti rdečelaske, šesti divje potetovirance/ke iz zaporov, tovornjakarice, igralce, in tako naprej. Seveda vsak tip modela sodeluje z določenimi tipi končnega izdelka. Če stranka želi sončen, svež, igriv, nedolžen reklamni posnetek, je laže uporabiti svetlolas model velikih oči in psa. Za seksi, temačne, opojne slike so bolj na prvo žogo temnejši modeli čutnih ustnic v zaprtem prostoru. (To je le moje mnenje, seveda. Te smernice se za zviti v presto.) Nekateri fotografirajo izključno starejše ljudi, katerih koža je kot drago usnje. Nekateri fotografirajo celo povsem brez retuše – kar je bolj domena 'portretistov' kot 'modnih portretistov'. Teh predalčkov je ogromno. V največ primerih je dovolj en vir svetlobe in kateri koli obraz, da nastane zanimiv posnetek. Nisem ga še srečala obraza, ki bi mi ne bil škljockliv. A v primeru točk b) in c) ima zadnjo besedo seveda stranka. Če stranka želi posnetek družine za reklamo za vrtne palčke, ti pa narediš najboljši posnetek na svetu gejevskega para dveh ruskih metalk diska, oblečenih v celofan in verige, stranka mogoče ne bo razumela, kaj si kadil, ko si skušal spraviti v isti koš ta dva koncepta.

IZBIRA STAJLINGA IN MUA

Dolgo, dolgo makeup ni bil na mojem seznamu reči, ki so me pri fotografiji zanimale. Še vedno imam najraje 'naravni videz' (Ki je, mimogrede, makeup, ki zahteva izredno veliko veščine.) Nekateri fotografi porabijo za predpriprave glede makeupa toliko časa, kot sem ga jaz za postprodukcijo, v kateri sem retušo in ličenje opravila s fotošopom. Zadnje čase se to, predvsem zaradi druženja z nekaterimi izvrstnimi vizažistkami, pri meni spreminja. Radovedna sem, kaj nastane, ko obraz prej naličiš. V trgovinah kupujem ličila kot najbolj  pedantna dama, ki pa jih na sebi nikoli ne uporabim. Govorim 'vizažistčino', ne da bi kdajkoli uporabljala maskaro (Zapacka okular na fotoaparatu in utruja oči.). Na srečo se da to, da sem videti kot knjižni molj, brkljam pa po policah najbolj čislanih proizvajalcev, na hitro pojasniti z 'ne kradem vam, le fotografinja sem' in vsi sumničavi prodajalci si takoj oddahnejo: aaaaah. Stajling je še (skoraj vedno) prepuščen stranki ali tematiki fotografiranja. Ličenje pa je zadnje čase že dosti bolj v ospredju. Očarala sta me predanost in inovativnost proizvajalcev, ki včasih izumijo kaj res prekrasnega, kar že tako lep obraz spremeni v skoraj nezemeljsko sporočilnost. K temu sodita seveda tudi pričeska in nakit.

NA TERENU

Na terenu se lovi svetlobo, pozira in škljoca. Tam že ne dovolim več, da bi se vmešaval kdo iz podporne skupine. Takrat celo pozabim imena, na vse ostalo in se stiskam kar najbliže leči, kar se da. Do neke mere se ji povsem prepustim. Ji zaupam, da bo v tem delu fotoaparat opravil, kar on najbolje dela. Na terenu je velik del reči že izven mojega nadzora. To me hkrati navdušuje in razorožuje. Dokler ne pridem domov, ne morem vedeti, ali sem priprave in tegobe rešila spretno, ali me je kaj sunilo s tira. Majhen ekranček na hrbtni strani stroja ne izda veliko. Tam so vsi posnetki videti sprejemljivi. Reči, s katerimi se spopadam na popolnoma vsakem posnetku so: osvetlitev (je posnetek preveč temen, premalo?) ostrina (skoraj izključno na zrklu očesa, razen če ni sporočilnost stvar kakšnega predmeta), kompozicija. Naredim ogromno škljocev, včasih tudi več kot tisoč. Ogromno si jih je izredno podobnih. A hudič je v detajlih in med tistimi tisoči, četudi kasneje izberem le enega, za to obstaja zelo natančen, zelo dolg seznam razlogov, ki jih je težko opisati z besedami.

                Dolžina fotografiranja je povsem nepredvidljiva. Lahko traja dvajset minut, lahko dvajset ur. Lahko se zamenja ducat stajlingov, lahko se premikamo mimo ducat ozadij. Model lahko pleše, skače, plava, (se utaplja), se pači, igra, grozi, zapeljuje, beži, leži, boža žival, beži pred živaljo, pleza, se stiska ob steklo, se odseva, se skriva … Ni nobenih pravil. Skoraj vedno začnem z 'beauty shotom', kar pomeni, da najprej naredim nekaj popolnoma umirjenih posnetkov. Da se model in fotoaparat seznanita. Nato pa vse bolj v skrajnosti. Nov, prestrašen model, se bo teh skrajnosti izogibal, ali pa presegal, zato ga je potrebno za skoraj vsak posnetek usmerjati; izurjen model pa bo spontan in inovativen. Delo urjenega portretista je, da zna uživati v delu z obema.

POSTFESTUM

Doma fotografije naložim na računalnik in se lotim prebiranja. Snemam jih hkrati v dveh formatih: maksimalnem, ki ga odpre šele program, ter minimalnem, kjer lahko posnetke na hitro vidim takoj. Maksimalni so izredno veliki in jih na koncu hranim v priključenih diskih, saj zavzamejo ogromno prostora. Šele po kakšnih dveh letih jih pobrišem, predvsem zato, ker se mi zaradi napredka v slogu počasi zazdijo nesprejemljivi. Manjši pa so tako majhni, da sami po sebi niso za nikamor. Njihov raster je dobesedno kockast. Skoznje grem relativno hitro. Takoj prečitam, če sem kje zgrešila jaz ali če je model gledal / bil videti narobe. Ponagajati znajo sence, ostrina, koti, predmeti, mnogo tega. 99.9% je povprečnih. Iščem le tiste, na katerih se zadovoljno ustavim. Takšni takoj izstopajo. Vse na njih je v redu. (Vsaj po mojem trenutnem mnenju. Včasih navdušeno oddam delo in naročniki nikakor ne soglašajo z mojim ponosom. Včasih pa seveda sama ne bi izbrala takšnega pristopa, stranka pa me kar ne more prehvaliti.) Dober posnetek v jati prepoznaš intuitivno. Model žari, slika je polna energije, polna zgodbe, tehnično je zadeva dodelana. Lahko, seveda, da to velja tudi za celo vrsto posnetkov 'na traku', ki se le minimalno razlikujejo, vendar izmed njih poskušam izbrati tistega, ki je neponovljiv. Tistega, ki je izmed petdesetih skoraj identičnih, v mojih očeh pravi. Praviloma, kadar gre za organizirano fotografiranje, se potrudim in za vsak 'stajling' in vsak model naredim vsaj en posnetek. V tisku seveda ni temu tako – izberejo le tri ali šest najboljših, ne glede na to, kdo ali kaj je na njih. O tem odloča stranka. Kadar sem stranka jaz, delam fotografije, dokler blentavo ne zaspim na tipkovnici, na blogu pa potem objavim tiste, ki so mi zjutraj še vedno tako super kot noč pred tem, po šestih kavah.

RETUŠA

Od kar obstaja fotografija, obstaja tudi retuša. Še v šoli, davna leta nazaj, smo se učili retuširati celo izdelke na že narejen slike na papirju, ko digitalna fotografija sploh še ni bila na našem urniku. Računalniški programi so to prenesli na novo raven. Osebno mi je fotošopiranje skoraj tako ljubo, kot fotografiranje samo. Uporabljam dve vrsti retuše. Ena je sliko narediti bolj zanimivo. To je igranje, pri katerem se takoj vidi, da je igranje. Dodajanje efektov, barvanje las modela, dodajanje posrečenih ozadij, kalibriranje barv na skorajda nenaravno sijajnost, itd. Drugo je pa fotografijo popravljati, da bo videti 'nedotaknjena'. Popravljati sence, ki motijo pogled. Zabrisati mozoljčke in podočnjake. Popraviti, če se je kje razmazala šminka. Če ima model slabo kožo, zabrisati pore in gube (zato sovražim kadilce – na fotografski ravni imajo res slabo kožo). V povprečju porabim za to vrsto retuše dve uri za vsak posnetek. Razmišljam, kako moram biti videti v takih urah, ko delam. Strmim v ekran in odločno kljuvam po tipkovnici, medtem ko hitro klikam po ekranu. Tako zatopljena sem, da bi se lahko okoli mene dogajalo karkoli. Maček bi lahko pojedel psa. Na teveju bi lahko bil moj najljubši film. Moja najboljša prijateljica bi me lahko vabila na kavo. Svet bi se lahko medtem pričel vrteti v drugo smer, jaz pa se ne bi pustila motiti, saj se v tem tako zelo rada izgubim. Moje oči seveda grdo trpijo in v najhujših časih sem že razmišljala o dieti, v kateri bi en dan na teden očem prihranila vsakršne ekrane, a vseeno. To res rada počnem. Popravljam vsako trepalnico, ki je potrebna popravila, vsako smetko, vsako nesimetrijo, vsak uporniški koder las. Fotografija je v tem primeru pošastno povečana in laiki celo ne bi videli razlike, ko s takšnim popravilom končam. A verjemite. Če te napake ne bi bile popravljene, bi se opazile. »Kaj tega pa nisi videla?« bi rekel moj oče. »Drugič pazi na to.« Izpadla bi nedosledno in amatersko – nekaj, čemur se skušam oddaljiti.

IZBIRA KONČNEGA IZDELKA

Kot rečeno, »the morning after«, pregledam svoje delo in naredim izbor. To ni tisti izbor, ko sem se šele odločala katere fotografije retuširati temveč izbor, denimo, med dvema zelo podobnima, meni obema ljubima posnetkoma. Nenapisano pravilo velja, da se posnetki ne smejo ponavljati. Ne morem objaviti petih posnetkov enega in istega modela v podobni pozi, v istem makeupu, istem stajlingu, v isti sceni. To ne bi imelo nobenega smisla. Če že, ker seveda so tudi izjeme, to naredim kadar je model povsem nov in je njegova obrazna mimika tako pohvalno raznolika. Pomagam si s tem, da delam izreze različne bližine – recimo en portret v busti (do pasu ali celo kolen ali celo cel) in en izredni 'close-up'. Pozorna sem na želje naročnika, pa naj bom to jaz, kolegice ali plačljive stranke: če že naredim, recimo, izbor več posnetkov, bo na enem poudarek na modelu, na drugem želja naročnika (dobro viden makeup  ali obleke ali nakit, artikel, itd…), tretji pa bo fotografija, ki je najbolj povšeči meni osebno. Ni vedno nujno, da vsem tem željam ugodi en posnetek. Kadar stranka želi več fotografij, to seveda ne pomeni dobesedno več slik ene in iste stvari z leve, z desne in od zadaj.  (Razen če gre za dokumentacijo, seveda.) Tudi model, ko potrebuje fotografije za book, to ne pomeni dobesedno deset zaporednih slik v različnih pozah. Pomeni deset različnih slik v desetih različnih okoliščinah – preko katerih lahko pokaže čim širši razpon svoje veščine. Tudi fotografski portfejl ne more biti na en stol po popolne reflektorje posedenih ducat ljudi, fotografiranih v isti pozi. To je lahko kvečjemu razstavni opus nekega cikla. Kadar je namen, da se nekaj pokaže, ne gre toliko za 'kaj znam v šolskih pogojih', temveč 'to sem jaz, to je moje delo, moje izrazno sredstvo, v pogojih, ki sem jih, ki jih znam sama ukrotiti'.

VODNI ŽIG

Na koncu fotografije kopiram in kopijo pomanjšam na internetno velikost, na katero odtisnem vodni žig. Včasih vodni žig pomaga pri celostni podobi, včasih je tam zaradi zaščite pred krajo in po navadi, ker se avtorja fotografije tu in tam kar pozabi imenovati. Splošna javnost se redko zaveda dela, ki je vloženo v nastanek dobrega izdelka. 'Sej to pa res ni tako težko, pritisniti na tavelki gumb.' Tako kot mislijo, da je nek film dober, ker v njem igra slaven igralec, vsi hvalijo osebo na posnetku, ne pa dela vloženega v le-to. Frizerji, vizažisti, stilisti, scenski delavci, asistenti, prevozniki, potrpežljivi lastniki parkirišč in lokacij, koordinatorji, maček, ki visi z odbojnika … največkrat ostanejo nepohvaljeni. A da ne bo pomote. Nekdo, ki zapozira pred telefonom, še ni model in nekdo, ki nekoga škljocne, še ni fotograf. Niti, če ima zelo drag stroj. Niti, če ima zelo lep model. Jaz, ki sem si najstrožji kritik, dobro vem, kdaj sem dorasla svojim kriterijem in kdaj le vadim. Ko gledam za nazaj po svojem blogu sem osupla nad evolucijo svojega napredka. In kakšna pot me še čaka. Vaja, vaja, vaja. Predvsem v podrobnostih, ki jih neuki opazovalec  zaznava le podzavestno.

Another dumb disaster in a night club. Has there EVER been a nightclub, bar the ones on tops of buildings, that weren't deathtraps?? Okay, so I can't think of more than two architects that I wouldn't run away from screaming, but being once married to one, does make you slightly paranoid about death trap architecture. The ex would often translate building to me, those very beautiful and those that he refused to go into, and why. It got me to thinking ... Such a vast number of buildings appear to have deadly bottle necks in case of panic. And such odd escape routes. Today, as I was standing in line and there was a building plan in front of me, which I studied in boredom, I figured - what if all these buildings are actually really safe. I mean, constructed really safe. But they just aren't explained. What if there are hundreds of discrete doors in cases of emergency, but aren't marked? Whose poor job is it then? 

           And also, how the heck do you get out of ANY tall building in this town, in case of fire in a stairwell?

           I swear, I'm gonna start walking around with a hammer and a rope again.

ROFL

Yesh, Gods, I am so in love with my husband. The things he does! I'm still laughing. We got home from his work (I walk over to him at the end of each of his shifts, so we get an extra half hour together) and while I was taking off my shoes, he went forth to the rooms and got comfortable. Then he declared the cat was in the room and did some damage. He said this very seriously, so it made me worry I actually forgot to close the room door properly. As it happens, the only real damage sustained was that of my pancakes plate - which was now empty and full of cat paw prints, left in caramel. I like 'Prometheus pancakes' lately - done with apricot jam, coffee icecream and caramel syrup. And indeed. The evidence the cat ate all the pancakes was apparent. Paw print everywhere!

           For a grown man to take an effort to hide his sweettoth crime (I left them for him anyways) and then have such a serious face and voice about it... And not to mention each of the paws were flawlessly impressed! Of course upon closer inspection every single impressio had a little bit of his fingerprint in it, but that's irrelevant details. I could kiss this man a million times, just for the silly details he brings into my winter. 

            That's why this post is short. I'm off to kiss somebody.

Couple more pickies from the Ice Queens shoot...

 

Ice queens shoot backstage

Couple of backstage snapshots. Needles to say, it was frigging freezing. I was aiming for aerial clarity and sunshine and the later inevitably means a lot lower temperatures than if it were overcast. I'm not even gonna say what the actual temperatures were. :)) But the models were troopers and I think the reason why I brought a hot water sac, dressed in a torro, became very quickly very apparent.

The team was:
Maya Kerin - hair
Martina Hladin - bodypaint and MUA
Tinka Teršek - MUA and logistics
Apolonija Koštomaj
moi

The models were:
Drej
Anita
Anja
Nuša
Jerica
Aleksandra
and another lovely lady whose name escaped and is being pursued... Vesna, I believe.

Location and "the kremschnitten" were by my mum and dad. Snow was by God. Thank you, God. I needed that. Also thanks to the dogs for not eating anyone and to Tina Maze for keeping my parents glued to the television for the duration of the shoot. 

The back-up team, dressed to the gills :)) Hair-dresser Maya, body-painter Martina and Tinka, who also now acts fully as a shoot coordinator and shiny-thingy wrangler.

This tuaren-like thingie was actually really really warm. And hence super popular.

The hair-mistress Maya is soon leaving us for greener pastures, so her precision work is constantly re-touched and re-retouched. She is whatever is more accurate than a perfectionist :))

Just when you think things couldn't possibly be any worse...

This expression that the models has is called "What the f** are they talking about, can't they see I'm turning to a statue here?!"

The moment the shoot was done, the model was dressed, given the hot-torro and taken indoors to thaw. No model was injured during this shoot.

I keep wanting to shoot the models without makeup, but am always so desperate to start making them up, I always forget. This was done post-festum, the lovely Anita.

couple extra close-ups from the Ice Queens shoot

Ice Queens Part 1.

I'll get to the part of who is who and who's done whom :)) But a long neat nap first :)) Okay. Here goes.

Drej. Hair by Maya Kerin (and I lot of persuasion to put white on it from my part, but, as usual, it was worth it :)) Makeup by Tina Teršek. Clothes are Drej's own.

Nuša, Maya's sister. Hair by Maya Kerin, MUA by Martina Hladin. The scarf is mine, I think.

Anita. Hair by Maya Kerin (who winced, when she saw me pulling the hood on, eheh), MUA by Martina Hladin. Another one of my scarves and Anita's own coat.

Anja; hair by Maya Kerin, MUA by Tinka Teršek. She's in Drej's coat and wearing my "Snufkin" scarf. This is a wonderful hat in fact, that I knitted with all my heart when it was minus seventeen and I had to work outdoors on a fair. Fun times.

Jerica. Hair by Maya Kerin (and snow falling from trees), MUA by moi and she's wearing the infamous "Red King's belt buckle" pendant and an impro dress around her shoulders. I love the stray lock. That stray lock was driving the hair-mistress nuts thorough the shoot.

I forget this lovely lady's name, but Maya Kerin did her hair and I did the makeup. She's wearing an impro dress.

The gorgeous Aleksandra, wearing THAT coat. Snow was falling on both, her and the camera :)) Gotsta sayz, Mark shoots flawlessly, even in minus fifteen.

Sun was shining on today's doggie walk. Gloom might be lifting. Good.

I've given myself three literary challenges for the near future.

- Write a short story in which the lead character is multiplied by threefold until all the cool stuff becomes truly annoying/overdone. 

- Write a concept with multiple ending options for each chapter. Like a kid's treasure hunt, but better.

- Finish an English-written book and try to publish it abroad.

                                   ... now, that Gorgie is nigh translated and finished, damnit.

Movies update

Okay. Movies I've watched lately. And what I thought of them. In a hurry. (Before Drej kicks me for being late to another doggie walk. Man, how time flies when it's 6 am and you got all this wise things to say to the aether!)

Flight

Didn't understand this one. In the beginning, you have a really fucked up Denzel and a very pretty naked lady. They board a plane and the plane has it's day. Then he tries to recover, with a help of a pretty junkie, but although he's a hero, everyone suspects he did what he did 'cause he's a drunk. In the end, he admits he's a drunk and his son likes him again. Don't know what the fuck all this was about. but the plane crash was well shot (scary footage, really), and there's a scene with a cancer patient in a stairwell, whom I thought was amazing. Also, don't like seeing Goodman as a villain.

Argo 

Am I going to Hell, admitting I loved Ben Afleck here? Not just because he reminds me of my sister's boyfriend or because I just love that period of stripe-velvet beige jackets and thick beards. (Am making the General grow a beard.) I loved the bits where American public was saying oh, why don't the US super soldiers just go in, shoot everyone and save the hostages, while the reality of the situation was so very, desperately delicate. This was an unexpectedly good movie. No matter what degree of it was righteous. Argo fuck yourself.

Across The Universe

This is a really odd and oddly well done film. I'm in my Jim Sturgess mood, using a him-based character of Pruitt to narrate my fiction momentarily, and Jim Sturgess - something the directress of this film was well aware of - is a fiercely cute 'natural' actor. He may get lost in roles where he has to portray people he can't relate to, but when he's asked to play himself, you can't get your eyes off him. Even if he kisses like a gourami. Even everyone else in this weird coming-of-age, let's-communicate-via-The-Beatles-songs, fuck-Vietnam piece was adorable. And I don't even particularly like The Beatles.

Here comes the Boom

A meek teacher comedy abound a lazy, chubby guy who kicks it up a gear to help his friend and impress the school nurse. It's nothing to write home about, but it's a comedy and comedies are always nice. This coming from a person who lately watches The Philadelphia for breakfast. The actors were far more devoted to the concept than the screenwriters, so there's that. Also, there's some wrestling. And Neil Diamond. Was that song in Holy Smoke?

Zero Dark Thirty

(I heard someone say that although Mrs. Chastain is very nice, all the praise she is getting is rather hollow. All the movies she's doing, that do get such high praise, could just as well be done with any other actress. Same goes here.) I liked ZDT more than I thought I would, I liked the pace and I liked the concept of NOT developing characters. Namely, because when you're working on a field like that, you just DON'T get to know people. They are either ashamed of their past or they want to keep it private. Or they really aren't all that interesting. Uuu, you're a secret agent who tortures people! sexy! I bet you must have very interesting things to say and shit! ... No. Not really. Also, the whole debate about this being fiction - I don't think that was the point of this movie. In the end they never actually show who got shot. It could have been ANYBODY. A ghost. A blow up puppet. Anybody. That's the point. It all comes down to what some dedicated (fanatical?) employee will say and drop curtain. I think from that perspective, it was a good message. NOBODY knew what the heck that whole Osama chapter was about. Least of all tiny self-righteous patriots on a go.

Bachelorette

Didn't really watch more than a few flips through of this one. It's too bad. It has Rebel Wilson in it, that's why I tried, but this movie is just bad. All the other 'skinny, pretty' actresses are godawful. Too awful to watch.

End of watch

Really, really well done film. Loved it. Woke up an hour early just to be able to see how it goes. I read the plot beforehand, like I always do, because I cannot watch a movie, afraid something bad is going to happen. I don't know what life actually is like for the South Central LAPD, but I love the way these two poor guys narrate it. They see some of such nasty shit and it's just a normal day. Almost all of the roles were well chosen. maybe America Ferrera and Anna Kendrick stand out as too pretty and not really knowing what to do in such gritty set, but almost all the men remind me of people I used to work with one way or another. A big plus. though, don't watch this if you're not into tragic endings. Though of course that pretty famous actor survives.

Hotel Transylvania

Well drawn/voiced, lame script. 

Django Unchained

Kinda really good, fairly watchable, latest of absurd Tarantino movies. It helps if you're not trying to make any sense of the plot or listen too closely to the dialogue, but just about any scene with Christoph Walts is worth seeing four times.

The Impossible

An impressive footage of the tsunami washing over those poor people (twice), but most of the rest is just gruesome and overly uncomfortable footage of mangled people, decaying in infection and family drama. It's a good film, don't get me wrong, I just didn't like watching any of it. Not because I don't like to see disaster awareness, but just because I didn't like this side of it. Dunno. Something racists about it, I think. Can't explain. Like those natives are only good for being hotel servants, cooks and cleaning ladies, but when disaster strikes, all you can think about is getting faar away from their filthy, incompetent halls? I've seen disaster despair and it somehow lacks the Hollywood pathos in the real world.

Hitchcock was probably okay. Didn't see most of it. Helen Mirren was lovely as always, but everyone else, bar maybe D'Arcy, was kind of trying too hard.

Silver Lining Playbook

TRIED watching that, it just didn't come through. I just had no idea what it was supposed to say. And what was that man supposed to be? Hysterical? pathetic? Funny? Hopeful? Cute? Childishly naive and hence attractive? Or what the fuck? And the woman, whose meltdown was that she had sex with people. Is that like the ultimate fantasy? Crazy men move back to their parents and crazy women are sexy? Just didn't get it. I am not a fan of fast talking pointless words. Woody Allen may get away with it, but anyone else... Denis Leary, maybe.

I didn't get Looper either. 

Nor could I watch more than 2 minutes of Lincoln. I saw more of A. Lincoln: the vampire hunter than I saw of Lincoln. Which was bad.What IS it with Spielberg lately?

 

I am still to watch: Les Mis', Compliance, Mama, Farewell, My Queen (they say it's good?), John Dies At The End, Warm Bodies,

Hinode

Like :)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GCn3hVCwyP8

I swear my forks have started turning into spoons. This is not a metaphor. I mean it. In my drawer, there are like, 15 spoons and THREE forks. I would understand if things were just missing. Happens in a household. Takes me four hours to match all the socks I've washed. But for spoons to be accumulating? That I don't get. I mean, if you were a fork and you could change into anything, would you opt for changing into a spoon? That makes no sense at all.

Character intro from "Babel."

I wanted to elaborate on the introduction paragraph I mantra-ed while waiting at the doctor's office with the General. The initial idea went in the manner of:

I have been thinking about my friends … Has there ever been a villain more beautiful than the General? A child more wise than Fidie? A monster more honourable than Garrosh? A criminal more honest than Genonnsuke? A pervert more righteous than Cole? Two queens more human than the Annes? More homely globetrotter than Snufkin? A virgin more motherly than Spotter? A God more earthly than Lord Murphy? A dream more flesh-ridden than dD? A revolutionary more sentimental than Pruitt? A secret more perfect than those of prince Prometheus? And my dog? That dog is ridiculously cool. That dog takes the cake. Quite literally.

But then I decided to stretch a little and introduce all the characters as if easing them down onto Pruitt. (The latest addition and the opening narator to the story of Babel.)

Here goes. It's a draft, so no criteria if you're gonna read, needed.

          That moment, that decisive moment, which can claim identity to the whole person ... That moment can be just about anything. It doesn't even have to be a concern of time. It can be the fossilisation of soul around somebody, right then, right there. Objects just get stuck to the frame. That moment, utterly personal, utterly irrelevant to history or others around us. That moment is what weights out everything else in ones short, tactlessly short and often otherwise regretful existence.

         I was thinking about my friends. These people I know. How will I explain them to Pruitt? I can't explain them as if they were normal people … That would be like explaining a fish to an ant. Eh. That would be like explaining a fish to an art. Short stories, though – just one moment short – however, can perhaps assist me a decisive unit.

          The moment when I am walking on a lowland country road; nothing before me, nothing behind me, just the road. That moment, when the General's studious face is perfectly lit by the console and he is making sure everything is functioning properly as part of his evening routine. That moment, when Spotter, pregnant like a whale, is dancing Charleston to Candyman, a song that goes against everything she was brought up to believe, laughing her blond curls off. That moment, when Cole Sherridan, leaning on a streetlight in the middle of Soho, on a gray Friday morning, spots the red car making a turn into the faraway alley and he throws away the cigarette and moves forth. That moment, when The German Anne pauses in her clinic, wearing a dirty apron and a tired smile, and everyone else - the snotty orphans, the exhausted volunteers, the toothless students - are busy and happy around her. The moment in which an Oxford professors polaroids an image of Henry VIII's ill-fated second wife, to open a lecture and turns to the auditorium, turns towards The English Anne in the audience, and she gives him a calm, sad, echo-like smile. The moment in which Fiddler’sCrazyLittleSister, twelve year old witch and comparative biologist, reaches to high shelves and from the point of view of a jarred sea monster, she looks like the most wonderful jarred monster herself. The moment in which prince Prometheus, the pansperming pale god-alien, more perfect than Helvetica, is lying on his lake deck, clothless, and looking up, reaching up, contemplating what stars really are; to him. The moment in which Gennonsuke, smoking a pipe, standing on a good vantage point over his slave pigment-berry farm, feels me coming up behind him and grins. Lord Murphy smiling. Anytime. Anyplace. dDaniel, the retired dream king, with the help of his friend Dieter Niers, conjuring enough strength to lift a pen and write down the first word he’s ever written. The moment in the rain, when Snufkin, the coolest wanderluster I’ve ever met, is pulling a canvas up between trees, using a method he taught me, and the rain is brilliant on his face. The moment Garrosh Hellscream first notices me. That kite! The moment Satra Goymer puts a lid on her DNA treasure trove of all once-were living things on Earth-that-was, carefully conserving them. The moment when Tobi, the holographic ghost of a virus, lifts her electrical wings. The moment Lord Herne, greatfather of all things born, bites an apple. Aranna drawing. Ganimed sleeping. Even the moment in which professor Agyle lectures about Anne Boleyn, even that one. And me walking, with a warm wind in my bare shoulders and my bag and clothes making me seem like a hobo threw up on a hobo. Me moving. Me placed perfectly in no particular corner of any Earth. My hair, my tattoos, my camera, my flipflops, my caffeine-molecule jewelry. The music in my ears. Me on a road.

        If I could show these moments to Pruitt, he would certainly understand a helluva lot better about whom these people are. Or I could just go: This is Cole Sherridan. He likes short conversations, long walks and to kill bad people. He used to have sex with his younger brother, but the younger brother was killed, trying to help me. Or this is Fidi. She’s a witch, her soul is a hornet and she can never age, because if she did she’s turn into a hysterical teenager and someone would probably burn her on a stake. She collects seeds, though. And lives in a tower. True to the point.

         And Pruitt? How would this introduction farce work in the opposite track? Pruitt, Pruitt, who is the smallest, scrawniest boy I’ve ever met? I, who am otherwise appalled by too thin males? General is very large, very tall, very excellently built. The two could not be too unlike. There are certain angles, certain moments in which the tiny revolutionary seems so cute … but as soon as he moves, all you see are those incredibly odd greasy black curls, the bushy brow, the humongous black eyes and the smallest mouth one can ever get on a grown man. I can’t describe Pruitt to my friends as if he is a person. Can hardly to that to my own brain. He is something lost you find washed ashore and put in a sure pocket. A button. The tiny revolutionary who unhinged a world. A flee in Skall’s coat, the coat of the wolf who eats the sun. A woolly cap on the flee of the wolf who swallows the sun. Pruitt, Pruitt. You actually make me nervous in front of the group that finds me odd. What are we going to do with you?

            Well, for starters, we are going to walk into the Anomaly and have breakfast. As asked for last night, everyone else is also here. Only Garrosh and General are missing. Their excuses fairly similar.  “This is the place where I make and sell pancakes. Hey, gang! These are my friends or co-workers. Gang, this is Cyril Pusilin Pruitt. Satra would have loved to murder her current husband and elope with this one, but she asked me to keep him safe until she figures out how to enjoy summer love in her very, very winter season.”

            He paused midway a greet. “You can speak Satra’s name here?”

            “Oh, yeah. You only mustn’t say her name after 2157.”

            “What year is this?”

            “2013.”

            “Hm.” He looked around. Needles to say, my shop is very cushy. “It’s nice.”

            “Yeah. I’m a time-traveller and I still consider this time my home.”

            Certain people, namely Fidi and Spotter, waved excitedly. Some of the others, namely Cole and the English Anne, regarded the newcomer with suspicion. The German Anne, gesturing towards me with Satra’s mother’s thick black folder, invited me to sit down opposite. Moving forth, I pushed the boy towards the first two. “You can order any kind of pancakes you’d like. If you don’t know what that means, the girls will help you. Here, you can make great friends with Spotter. She’s about your age and she’s single.”

            “She is also … some fourteen months pregnant.”

            Spotter giggled and grinned. She instantly liked the boy, but then again she instantly liked everybody. I chuckled, too. It was true. Her otherwise lean body looked like a snake swallowed a pony. “When are you due, honey?”

            Putting a large biscuit in her mouth, gnawing on it, she mumbled: “Last week.”

            “Slow riser. I dig,” winked Gennonsuke. Then he thought of something and asked, quickly: “Do you think it’ll be born in an egg?”

            Fidi, who was also eating, sat up. She had to try very hard not to laugh, knowing she will choke and cough the crumps into a galaxy on the table in front of her. Gennonsuke tapped her on the back.

            I pulled a straight face from a pocket to considered this. “Hm. Dunno. Was he in a form of a goose when you guys had fun?” I asked Spotter. She took another biscuit, looked at Fidi and they both rolled their eyes and she moved away to get a plate for Pruitt. Pruitt looked at me for subtitles. He sat down very carefully, in case he got an overwhelming urge to run for his life in the direction of sanity. Disregarding it as uninteresting, I explained: “Spotter is one of very many of Lord Murphy’s cub-bearers, which he sired calling himself a Goose. There was a golden egg involved in there somewhere and he’s a Greek God, so you can never be too careful with him. Have you decided what you want?”

            “Um. That thing you once gave me… The thing from the small bag with hot water?”

            “An instant decaf?”

            “I’d have that.”

            “So,” asked the little witch, who was now sitting opposite and reaching into the same cookie basket as him. “What did he do?” We behaved as if Pruitt wasn’t right there, but he didn’t mind. And we didn’t do it out of rudeness or any such aloof manner, but because Fidi wasn’t sure he would be able to answer these kinds of questions himself. He was looking around, taking this odd mixture of safe homeliness and utter bizarreness in. She then added – which did draw his attention, but he dismissed it as a peculiarity, no better or worse than anything else: “How did he die?”

            “He burnt down the world.”

The German Anna, after she opened the folder and prepared to explain it to me, said: “The first nuke of 2157.”  And everybody went aaaaaaah!

          I sat down next to Pruitt, opposite the German Anne. Others remained in their places, but did pay attention. We brought this folder to her last night. Pruitt got a good night’s sleep, a bath and homemade bread with walnuts and sultanas at her clinic. He peeked outside, but it was a snowy mid-century London, so he wasn’t certain what he’s seeing and went back to bed. I slept, too, albeit not alone, and Anne was reading Satra’s mother’s notes for me. Later I will give them to everyone else also, to see what we can make of them, but for now, I only needed them to be read to me by someone with a beautiful voice.

            “So,” she began. “I went through this. I didn’t sleep at all. This is Jokasta Gomez’s unpublished research.”

            “Ye. She gave it to us on the day she died. I mean, she knew she was going to die. We told her about the nuke and she intentionally walked right in it.”

            Fidi gasped at Pruitt: “You killed Satra Goymer’s mum?!”

            “No!”

            “Anyways,” continued the German Anne, shooshing the kids, “there are things in here which are fairly frightening. Many things.”

            “Like?” asked Cole.

            “Like she found a cure for cancer.”

            Most people stopped eating. The German Anne revised: “Well, she challenged several kinds and according to these notes, successfully. Some of her post-grads were aiding her, although it didn’t seem like they knew what they were working on.”

            “How?” asked Fidi.

            “Do you know what a hyperparasite is?”

            “A neurotic parasite,” said Cole. “A lawyer?”

            The little girl snapped at him: “It’s a parasite that feeds on parasites!”

            Anne pointed at the screen in the folder. “Dr. Gomez wrote a hypothesis on hypercancers, specifically hypertumors and offered several avenues of approach to the theory by experimenting on various cultures herself. No lab-engineering, no nanite tech, just actual natural off growth. She milked this concept to the marrow. Also she cultivated numerous viruses that’d purposefully attack other viruses, radically diminishing their prowess.”

            “Successfully?”

            “Sometimes successfully. But she wasn’t doing this under government funds, so her options were limited. What she did, though, was write every little thought she had on the subject down, and I am thinking she always wanted Satra to have these.”

            “Because if anyone will be able to make anything with this, it will be her.”

            I nudged Pruitt. “If there wasn’t for you, the lady would never have the chance to see Satra again.” I considered, what if Dr. Gomez still hid the folder somewhere where Satra would be able to find it in 2000 years? But not even the mother could foresee Satra will bend the rules of hyper sleep into a loop.

            Fidi asked: “Do you think if Satra officially finds the cure for cancer, they’ll stop prosecuting her?” She turned around to look at most of us, but it was Cole who shook his head and looked down. “That bitch invented Gates, anti-radiation foil, Rhys converter and established a high flying whorehouse that’s been around for two hundred years. She could cure death and it would still just be a drop in the bucket.” He changed the subject. “What else, Anne?”

            “Well, loads of cool stuff that eventually gets discovered anyways. LIKE the Hot gates. Obviously they’ve been discussing this concept before ...”

            Pruitt leaned towards me and whispered. “How far into the future can you see?”

            “To 4012.”

            “Why so?”

            “It’s a long story. But this café? We have one here, now; had one in 3009 and one still strong in 4012 – ish.”

            “Regarding the future?”

            “Yes.”

            “And regarding the past?”

            “Oh, past is easy. We can visit the past, as long as we have a solid story written down, any day.”

            The German Anna lifted the folder so that we could see the screen that was there in. On the screen were sketches of flat rectangular object with busy cross-sections.”These are so called Echtrae Plates. I think with these she was planning on declaring war on overpopulation and poverty.” The German Anne paused. We were all listening to her now. She had our attention like a schoolteacher – a role she was natural at. “These plates are like building blocks, like Legos, for space stations. Each and every one is able to connect with the other and each and every one of them has an inner network able to transfer air, water and electricity. They are made of a foam she designed, which is sound and radiation proof and in case of severe damage, melts and blocks the damaged pipelines in the area. It’s covered with a shrapnel proof foil and a number of other fancy stuff I wouldn’t know how to explain to you guys over one breakfast. She designed these, and the film to act as connector between them in occasion of assembly, to be manufactured almost priceless in very vast supplies. Next, she designed a space station, which would basically be a living-station for workers. She structured it incredibly mathematically, so as to maximize the functionality, using yaodongs, ‘house caves’, as fundamental model. And she said that if she could get the funding to create two hundred of these living containers in the arrangement she designed, people living there, for shelter, food and every day commodities, would sign contracts to work as assemblymen for the NEXT such station – because you didn’t really need much training to follow the plans. This way, soon, and fast, she could house a viral number of families to create an ever larger supply-and-demand scheme for workers. Since they’d basically be working for no monetary motive, they would be a virtually costless workforce. Yet at the same time they would – self sufficiently – exist in a very clean, warm and comfortable social happenstance.”

            After a little while of listening closely to Anne, (some of those words were very big) I thought out loud: “But that idea has by now been rendered obsolete. There is no need for this type of solution, not in 4012.”

            Pruitt grabbed his hair and sunk his chin almost to the table. Desperate, struck he cried quietly to Fidi: “I killed Satra Goymer’s mum!”

            Fidi nodded ‘yes, unfortunately you did.’

            “She could have saved it! Why didn’t they listen to her?! All these ideas she had! She could have saved it! I didn’t need to plant that bomb! You say I ultimately made the world better, but that lady could have done it without all the … fucking genocide!”

            We decided to ignore him. Cole told me, over him:” Yes, perhaps not around Frère Loup.” (Referring to the shiny pretty administrative capital planet of 4012.) But I can think of several rim dwellings that wouldn’t mind a chunk of space to claim as comfortable. Lemme have that.”

            Gennonsuke reached for the file and stood up next to Cole. “Yes, we are keeping this one.”

            Spotter made her own favourite kind of pancakes and brought them to Pruitt who now, after slowly realising what he’s done, began to go into hysteria. I can’t imagine it’s easy being the one who pushed the button on the curtain call of Ragnarok. Especially the morning after.

            “The kid is looking a little green,” said the English Anne. “Why don’t you take him somewhere not Earth, so he can put some distance between reality and his own peace of mind?”

            “Might as well take him somewhere and leave him there,” suggested Cole. “Lock him in some Zen cloister in Pandaria. We can come get him later, when he’s gray and calm.”

            “If she takes him to Garrosh, Hellscream might eat him,” considered Spotter.

            “We are keeping him. End of discussion.”

“Don’t you already have a pet?” barked Cole. Everyone turned to look at Starbark, who was napping in the corner. What remains to be identified was in bits around her, partially already consumed, partially to be done so after a mini break. The ruckus hardly interrupted her sound sense of serenity. This creature, 90% wolf and 17% beagle, had her priorities straight.

            “He’s not a pet. He’s a person. Would I pity him, if he was a pet?”

            “Probably not.”

            “No. So give me a break.”

            Cole grabbed me by my shoulder in a faux friendly manner. “Well, I would suggest you take him to your favourite porn-horror hideaway scenario, in 2156, but I just remembered. He blew up that one.” The mean man prepared to leave and buttoned up his leather jacket. It made him appear leaner than ever and he still looked uncomfortably sickly. “I am too old to still have thoughts like these, but oh, how I wouldn’t mind watching him being chased around that fuckugly building by Qashkei.”

            Pruitt was happy Cole left and happier still they exchanged no more words. “Who’s Qashkei?” he carefully enquired. I showed him a photo on my iPad. Having never seen an alien, at least not biologically, the boy’s massive eyes got even larger. “What the …”

            “He’s okay. I’m very fond of him and he’s very loyal. Sometimes he helps us on our more violent missions. Occasionally he enjoys chasing people though claustrophobic architecture and rips out their skulls and spines, but he does have a more amiable side.” I decided not to add ‘it’s just not the part that attracts me’ on the first day.

            Pruitt leaned away from me and regarded me with no small amount of reservation. He suddenly remembered his initial instinct – that between Satra and me, he found a lot more normality in Satra.     

            “And who are all they? Are they all from the future? ...” He looked at Spotter, who will always have her 812 AD vibe about her. “Or the past?”

            “Some of them are. Some are from stories. “

            “What … kind of stories?”

            “Whichever kind. Any genre. Any length. One man’s imagination can be another man’s sparring field. A woman can have a lot of fun in her spare time there. Can be good money, too. So we do that, sometimes. Delve in questionable fiction.”

            Cole Sherridan smirked, adding from the exit. “Whose turn for you to be messing with tonight is it, then?”

            “Well, it’s Tuesday. I’ve a second date with Azog the Defiler in his younger days. When he still had most his limbs and they were still calling him the Filer.” I winked at Pruitt. “A Librarian joke.”

            Pruitt, who has never in his life read a story of fiction, (That he knew of. We’ll get to the part of propaganda), frowned. Ambiguously, as he clearly had no way of knowing any Azogs, defiling or otherwise, he said: “Why would you do that?”

            I re-routed the subject and shrugged: “Venture fiction? Can’t think of any reason to overlook such a chance. There can be many things there, you know, worth checking out.”

            “Such as?”

            I grinned. “Isn’t it obvious? Well, such as antagonists.”