Today I reminded myself why it is that I crave independence, freedom and solitude. Why it is that I pepper my life with human interaction but at the end of the day seek the gentle hum of Miles Davis in an empty kitchen. Dinner for one is often painted as a recipe for disaster. Echoes of ‘but aren’t you lonely?’ ring in my ears. Sometimes I fall victim to those notions, so drummed into our psyche that they appear as absolute truth. As I prepare to leave my surroundings for three weeks I cherish those final moments to myself. A cool summer breeze edges in through the kitchen door, Kind of Blue filling the silences of a deserted house. Once again I sit in a home that is not mine, now accustomed to a daily existence lived from a single bag. Without realising it, I slipped into a love for new spaces; unfamiliar to the untrained eye, but with comfort undeniably resting in every corner. Isolation is often denoted as a time for reflection. Countless notebooks slowly fill up, decorated with a penmanship resembling my father’s. Closed into myself and another empty room, it is here that I come to terms with all those moments which now lie dormant as memories. The thing about being in your own company is that it remains reserved from judgement. Gone are the concerns of social conduct; mistakes being somewhat simplified as choices. Now, I embrace a new day with the sound knowledge that all I must rely on is my own two feet, centred calmly in coral trainers. If it is love and happiness that we seek I can safely say that I have already found them, at my very fingertips, with each isolated word layered on an awaiting page. 

On Making it to the Credits of Inherent Vice

Seeing Inherent Vice this week made me want to compile a list of films I didn’t initially understand, but still loved. The first that came to mind was Donnie Darko, which left me feeling bewildered following my first viewing. The sense of confusion Kelly provoked came nowhere near to what Paul Thomas Anderson achieves in his latest mystery. Based on Thomas Pynchon’s novel of the same name, Anderson has made no attempt to decipher the confusion of a modernist’s pen. The question then arises — is it worth going to see a film that has a pattern of cinema goers walking out before its close?

For me, films have always been about escapism. Anderson finds a combination to perfectly achieve this. His characters somehow remain believable despite their ridiculousness. The continual addition of familiar actors, within roles that are distinguished from their defined careers, sets Inherent Vice apart from its predecessors. Individual narratives denote every player as their own stereotype, from a bald bodyguard with a swastika tattooed on his face, to an ex heroin addict with a new set of teeth. Despite an excess of names to remember and points of reference to recall, this only serves to reflect the confused mental state of a perpetually stoned Private Investigator. At that point Joaquin Phoenix delivers a leading performance which is wonderfully simple in form, yet complex in deliverance. Each aspect of the film is utilised to its comic effect, so that the narrative is enjoyable at every turn. Alongside a series of settings that are all intricately sculpted, and a portrayal of 70s America that does not pander to the more attractive elements of the time, Inherent Vice simultaneously exists within and transcends reality. The accompaniment of a soundtrack that sometimes overtakes the scenes in its brilliance establishes a viewing experience that is wholly immersive. 


Then what of the claim that Anderson’s latest endeavour makes no sense? Epitomising a protagonist defined as a ‘doper’, what Anderson achieves through his nonsensical plot is a cult classic that is The Big Lebowski tenfold. Taken as a mystery, Anderson utilises the incoherence of Pynchon’s novel to a result that is constantly gripping. The detachment that this enforces between viewer and subject is reflective of the same distance exhibited by the characters. Choosing not to take the familiar route of hippy free love in which everything seems like a pleasant dream, the depiction instead sits securely in the realms of the outsider. It is here that Anderson is able to manifest a film that is as endearing as it is indecipherable. For these reasons, not only is Inherent Vice worth watching, it is doubtlessly a classic to see countless times. Hopefully with each viewing we may better understand the sophistication of the director’s talent. 

Guy Bourdin: Image Maker

There are certain exhibitions that you end up raving about for weeks to follow. The realisation that Guy Bourdin: Image Maker is one of them occurs almost as soon as entering through the door. This is unsurprising, given that Somerset House have put together the largest retrospective of Bourdin's work to be held in the UK. Featuring over 100 never before seen pieces, the show spans an extensive 40-year career. 

As a fashion photographer, Bourdin made his mark in his distinct style, intertwining a cinematic approach with the stylistic workings of the fashion world. Displaying work from 1955 to 1987, it can be seen how Bourdin uses landscape to establish narratives within his work. His process is not so separated from a filmmakers, which becomes apparent when his images are placed alongside his sketchbooks. Noting that everything he did was carefully calculated, illuminates the minute detail that went into creating a single shot. This marks an ability to reveal so much through a single image. Here the fashion world comes to life. It is not merely marked by its aesthetic appeal, but rather invites the viewer to look beyond the surface. Quick snapshots of women, the backs of their heads, or giving a single look filled with intent, reveals it's more about what you aren't seeing. Bourdin has a way of drawing the viewer in; as if there's a joke you want to be in on, or a secret he will only hint at. There is a distinct playfulness to all of the images. They are colourful and full of life. They reveal Bourdin not simply as a fashion photographer, but as a storyteller. I am reminded of Tarantino's films, in the way that a foot can be suggestive of so much more, sparking ideas of the person behind it. Drawing comparisons with directors places his work simultaneously within the realm of cinematography.

The curation of the show wonderfully combines the cinematic and moving images with the many stills of Bourdin's career. One room sees you circulated by films. The viewer is immersed in the images as well as placed as observer. There is something hypnotic about the piece. It is unclear whether you are being enchanted by the captivating beauty of the subject, or the vision of the director. The use of Bernard Herrmann's Twisted Nerve, a song pregnant with familiarity and reference points, ensures a surreality remains. 

A series of photographs from Charles Jourdan in 1979 use mannequin legs to model the shoes. Again it is what we aren't seeing that matters. By using only legs, the viewer is able to imagine the sort of woman who might reside in the scenes. Maybe they imagine themselves, or perhaps a loved one. The point is it allows them to visualise a subject of their own making. The nature of fashion photography to promote a designer's work was certainly understood by Bourdin. In this instance he avoids any degree of comparison. The viewer is not asked to meet a standard of beauty that is obscured in its extremity, but rather is invited to view the piece in a way that works for them. There is no intimidation, and thus Bourdin's work becomes at once adventurous as well as accessible. 

Bourdin's artistic approach, where he utilises the model as a mode of communication, is signified here. He understands fashion photography as a way of selling an item. This is not to say that women are disregarded in his work. The way that Bourdin interacts with his models has been the subject of speculation. Yes, much of Bourdin's work is sexually suggestive, but to pigeonhole his lens as a mode of objectification is to overlook the persuasiveness of his work. Bourdin's proposition, that we are viewing a snapshot of a wider scene, implies that these women have lives extending out of the image. If they are beautiful and intriguing that is not all there is to them. In many ways, this humanises the model. Though Bourdin acknowledges the role of his subject, he also allows for her to escape the confines that this role necessitates. Bourdin does not ask his models to be unthinking, unmoving; instead he demands that they are the opposite. In this way, I'd suggest that far from being demeaning, Bourdin's way of casting his lens upon a woman provides a liberation that is lacklustre within the fashion world. 

Guy Bourdin: Image Maker is at Somerset House until March 15. 

A Portrait of an Artist's Home
Growing up in the home of an artist is a fate that is colourful to say the least. Coming out of a perpetual state of mess may sound like torture to the more organised counterparts of society, but now living independently, I take comfort in clutter. Some may call my mother a hoarder. It is true that the TV shows depicting similar lifestyles felt close to our own nest. Still, despite continual moves by her to organise, it is when the house is in disarray that it feels at its best to me. A portrait of an artist’s home stems out of the idea of creating snippets not only into the private space of a creative, but also into their artistic process. When I was younger, friends would be equally mesmerised and horrified at the things they found in my house. Amongst jars of hair, family photos and limbs of mannequins are a great many stories telling the history of not only myself and my mother, but the generations of artists preceding us. Returning home is like returning to markers of my childhood, carefully placed to trigger memory. I can reminisce about the time that my mother dragged a fallen branch from a nearby park back on her bike, before getting stuck halfway up the stairwell with it, and having to saw it in half in order to claim it as her own. I very much doubt that another space will ever feel as reassuring as the lovingly collected accumulation of belongings that never particularly changes, but certainly grows with time. 

 

Pierrot Le Fou (1965)

To pigeonhole Pierrot Le Fou simply as a romance is to lose the very charm that it exhibits. Arguably Jean Luc Goddard's film of most notoriety, it is the director's skilful manipulation of sentimentality that secures this. Inserted in moderation, the film does not get lost in grand notions about love, and this sets it resolutely within reality. This does not, however, necessitate that the film is ordinary by any standards; quite the opposite. Tying up a plot with action, the lead couple are placed into the throws of criminal masterminds to comic effect. The dark humour that laces Marianne and Ferdinand's adventures perfectly compliments a romantic relationship that transcends conventionality.

While creating a playful portrayal of two engaging characters, Goddard simultaneously explores further topics. He does so with a level of subtlety that means his ideas do not overwhelm the light heartedness of the film. Gender roles are playfully redefined with the creation of a beautifully defiant antiheroine. Wonderfully depicted by Anna Karina, whose charisma shines through, binding the character of Marianne as one that will remain with you long after the film's close.

Moving through a series of idyllic settings, the script is unpredictable other than its continual captivation. Transpiring at a pace that fluctuates, there is space to breathe at the same point as maintaining suspense to match its wit. Pierrot Le Fou is one of those joyous cinematic endeavours that ends up being a pleasure to turn to time and time again. For me, it acts as the perfect way to clear the cobwebs and get inspiration flowing once more, with a decided injection of creativity.