Wednesday, February 18, 2009
dinner and a movie
This is perhaps the day that image speaks. At this moment I understand the image better than the event.
Dinner and a movie implies a date. I went on a date with myself. But then what can I expect at the end?
I was filming myself on the sofa and two boys came up and began to speak to me. I explained my project, and then bluntly, in a sexual way they asked, so you are going to get it on with yourself tonight? That cannot really happen, I share my bedroom at the moment, but tonight the camera was my mirror. The camera was the one I was with. The thing in the background of this project, the image I am making.
I had to think about where to go. I wanted good dinner, good movie but on a low budget. I went to what I thought was a restaurant, but it was more a take away. I ordered food and sat down at a table, mirrors all around me.
I was with myself. Awkward, to eat alone in a restaurant. The bittersweet memory of the eighty year old man who came into my work one day, sat alone eating appetizer, dinner, desert, coffee, lighting up a cigarette, not knowing or not wanting to know that smoking was banned. His digestion, I suppose kept him from eating half the food, too much vinegar, too much spice. But he was beautiful and melancholy at the same time. I was so proud for this old man, in awe of him, but at the same time felt the heavy weight of his sadness.
I have no one to return my gaze, no one to laugh with me, no one to put their hand on my thigh.
That is what I did tonight. Alone to dinner. Alone to a movie. At some point the people next to me started to caress each other. I became confused and irritated and had to sit away. They were disrupting me, because I had only myself to touch and they had each other.
I watched art movies. Heavy movies, which made me think, and I had to walk away from the second movie of the screening, because if I continued to watch I would be unable to write or think for the next few days, it had a too hard hitting irony
I was alone but, somehow sitting there in an ironic solitude, I radiate a desire for contact, and my eyes shine with that a mixture of melancholy and joy.
Posted by Tess Walkovski at 2:58 PM