never getting over that poem and what a perfect fit it is for this film

Dear theagentofouendan,

Hm, Disney Movies? Now, that’s a fun one… OK, let me think…

Oh, that’s an easy one for me! I always loved Cinderella as a kid. It’s just so nice, dreaming that one day, your whole life will change, and your true love will come and sweep you away… It’s every girl’s dream!

Hm, I don’t know about that. I mean changing your life is great and all, but Cinderella doesn’t really get to do much, right? All she does is run around being made to do stuff until she has a lucky draw… Then again, I didn’t really get to see Cinderella when I was still a kid… Maybe I was too old for it by the time I saw it?

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Paul Garcia, les paysages que vos yeux peuvent toucher (the landscapes your eyes can touch)

(FR) Oubliez tout ce que vous avez déjà vu sur l’Islande, ses paysages à couper le souffle, si envoutants qu’on en oublie presque d’avoir un point de vue. Paul Garcia revient d’Islande et c’est différent. Il a fait entrer l’Islande dans ses obsessions. La rencontre du territoire volcanique et de son approche sensorielle fait des étincelles. Sa série privilégie les lignes abstraites et la lumière blanche (comme on dit bruit blanc) d’un monde pourtant profondément physique, sans opposer la nature et les matériaux moins nobles. Ce sont des paysages et des détails, parfaitement observés, mais en aucun cas des cartes postales. Ses images donnent une vision très particulière du territoire et en ce sens on est sûr de partager une expérience authentique.

(EN) Forget everything you saw about Iceland, its breathtaking landscapes, so captivating that you almost forget to have a point of view. Paul Garcia has returned from Iceland and it looks different. Iceland fits into his process. The meeting between this volcanic land and his sensory approach makes sparks fly. His series favours the abstract lines and white light (as in white noise) of a world that is, nevertheless, profoundly physical, without pitting nature against less noble materials. These are landscapes and details, perfectly observed, but never postcards. They offer a very particular vision of the territory and in this sense you are sure that you are sharing a genuine experience.

Voici comment il parle de son voyage dans un mail du 19 juillet (en anglais seulement) / Here’s how he talks about his journey in an email dated July 19:

My girlfriend and I only spent two weeks in Iceland. We hired an off-roader and drove all the way around the island - sleeping on a mattress in the back and cooking eccentrically on two little stoves. We did 1800 miles. Cost us more in petrol than our return flights. We both came back with sixteen films to develop and scan. We had a great time. Initially I was disappointed with the photographs, but i’m starting to warm to some of them… For some reason when I go on holiday I think I’m going to suddenly and miraculously change into Ansel Adams and take beautiful landscapes from the top of my car. Of course, the reality is that I am not a landscape photographer with a darkroom, but am still shooting with the same rangefinder and getting shitty scans made at a high street store. It is strange how I write so much about photography and the principles; how we see what we need to see and work hard to refine this necessity, and how it is all about patience and connection with the narrative - but still get tripped up by two weeks away. For the rest of the time I live on a small farm outside of Liverpool, and most of my work is just spent walking the fields around my house. It is the routine / familiarity that I always thought made my work interesting - that you can start to build up the layers of understanding and describe these magical little moments in even the dullest landscapes. I have no idea why I put this pressure on myself to justify the distance flown and the money spent. It still takes me a while to realise that even in the most beautiful landscape, I still default to what I recognise. Taking pictures of Jökulsárlón was the tipping point. Jostling with a beach-full of digital photographers perched over every iceberg with their expensive tripods looking for the perfect slow exposure of waves crashing. I felt a responsibility to be more than a tourist - but my pictures of ice weren’t that special, and conveyed nothing of the magic of the spectacle. I think sometimes we are all guilty of using the camera as a surrogate for the memory. We become distracted by, or dictated too, by this small device in our hand. The irony is for years I’ve written about only being present in the space, and letting the camera become no more than a mirror to the subject - yet the abbreviated nature of a holiday makes us panic and start worrying about what the picture will look like. The reality is that I would probably need a month on the beach to understand the light, the ice, the subtleties of both - and thirty minutes on a crowded beach left me feeling sick and slightly lost. Anyway, I dropped the tourist maps in the bin and quickly drew a line under those kinds of shots. Sure enough on the way back to the car I took a beautiful shot of a puddle in the mud. From this point we just drove all the dead-end roads and explored the quiet towns; the factories, industrial estates and workshops. it is not like the UK where we are constantly followed by security cameras and guards and questioned about our reasons for being there - these places are just empty, and if you happen across someone, they just smile. One day we pulled off the road into a junk yard - a thousand cars rotting in a field backdropped by snow capped mountains - the owner let us walk around for the afternoon, open doors, crawl inside. I found it ironic that I didn’t get a decent shot of any icebergs, but the smashed windscreens made a beautiful alternative. The working Icelanders also appear to enjoy arranging their materials and I became fascinated by this ordered kind of random; things stacked on pallet boards or resting against walls. People familiar with my work know I enjoy finding patterns/logic in what appears chaotic, so it became interesting to try and find an overlap in something that had been clearly, albeit subconsciously, designed by some else - like trying to write a poem from a conversation you’d overheard.“

Paul Garcia

take me back to the house in the backyard tree ;
  • anonymous said: Basorexia, cophine
  • anonymous said: Cophine Basorexia (thanks! I love your fics :D)
  • whenthedoctorwasmissme said: grew up as best friends but you got hot over the summer can i touch ur biceps AU Cosima & Delphine

Basorexia - An overwhelming desire to kiss.

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Quite a lot makes me angry. Badly spread butter on toast, for instance, can send me incandescent with rage.

My worst trait is probably indecision. Probably. Maybe. But I’m generally annoying a lot of the time. I can sense it in people’s eyes. And I’m paranoid, too, which fits together well.

This is how you make the perfect bacon sandwich: toast only one side of the bread, then butter the toasted side, so you trick your mouth into thinking it’s a soft sandwich, but then there’s a secret crust at the end of the bite.

I’m scared of the usual stuff – long, slow, painful deaths, plummeting to the earth from a plane. I listened to a Jon Ronson podcast recently about a woman who’d gone to a therapist about her fear of flying, but the following week the therapist didn’t turn up because he’d been killed in a plane crash.

Comedians all have dark, twisted pasts. People use humour as a way to cope. At times I’m happy, but I’m never sure how happy you’re meant to be.

There’s some comedy which is gladiatorial and combative, just taking the piss out of people. Some though, like the comedian Louis CK, turn stand-up into an art form. Stand-up gave me confidence. I thought I was funny, but stand-up helped me to work out why.

Having kids means relaxing is a different thing for me now. Today, finishing an article in a newspaper is like going to a rave.

I fool myself into thinking I’m an atheist, when I’m probably a devout theist. If I was a total atheist and didn’t believe in anything supernatural, then I wouldn’t find horror films as exciting as I do. I’m writing a scary kids’ film at the moment. I’m aiming for Donnie Darko, but it’ll probably end up more like Rentaghost.

I read a lot about the psychology of fear and the idea of delusion, and how religions fit all the same criteria of madness. There’s no test that distinguishes between delusion and faith, it’s just that religion is believed by more people.

My pet hate is weak tea. I use two tea bags. I resisted it for so long – it seemed so extravagant – but you get an extra half-minute in which to live your life.

It’s interesting seeing what kids find funny. It seems to be people of quite high status falling over.

I shoplifted a lot when I was young, but got caught when I stole some Ribena. To this day I’m still barred from the Leeds Morrisons.

Chekhov is an unusual thing for me to do, especially The Bear, which is the thing that he grew to hate. After learning the words, the text sort of disappeared, vanished. The play just becomes something you inhabit.

Memorising lines is a great thing in this world of iPhones and Wikipedia. It gives you access to language. I tried learning a poem a week, but only lasted two .

Noel [Fielding] and I are working apart now, which is quite hard, having made something together. It’s like we’re having affairs but have mutual custody of the kid.