I like business. The table is arranged, or I hear dishes being scrubbed. The camera moves in to the wall so the light can breathe. In the background also they inhale and exhale; towels scrape their skin. "Pan over all the traffic on the street; see the grass and hear the shuffle of shoes over cement." -- Right now it could be the rhythm of fingers and keys, the key-hole in the coffee-can, two pill bottles that just happen to be where they are, the stapler, above, I never use, a tube of cream in front of it, lying on its side, the air conditioner's remote control. Lists of objects and a catalog of their relationships has an appeal. The more details, the closer I get to what's real. So a TV screen is just a window, a wandering eye. It looks at us from a distance, but consistently, with due attention. It is close enough so that we can hear each other speak, but far enough away to keep us from speaking to anyone but ourselves. Everything can be represented, but what's represented should endure. Most of all, it should be itself, and it receives no help from instruments. A boy who is distressed scrapes himself with the sponge until his skin is raw. A boy who is ashamed and angry shoves the owner's keys back at him on the desk. Everything is recorded and presented without comment. I'm drawn in because I want to see, and that I see is all of the request. No one understands what has been faithfully recorded, but the anatomy of it is laid bare for all to inspect.
Wutong trees in a Chinese garden 春風桃李花開日， 秋雨梧桐葉落時。 西宮南內多秋草， 落葉滿階紅不掃。 梨園子弟白髮新， 椒房阿監青娥老 夕殿螢飛思悄然， 孤燈挑盡未成眠。 遲遲鐘鼓初長夜， 耿耿星河欲曙天。 鴛鴦瓦冷霜華重， 翡翠衾寒誰與共？ In a spring breeze it's true that peach and pear both flower in the sun -- but autumn rain is when the Wutong sheds its leaves. In the Southern Sanctum of the Palace of the West, the autumn grass abounds; shed leaves brim over steps from which red cannot be swept. The disciples of Pear Garden have newly grown white hair; the ladies of the Pepper Room -- their youth all is now old. In the Western Hall the buzzing flies stir sorry thoughts; the lonely lamp has used its wick and still he has not slept. The hesitation of the bell begins the lengthy night; the stars of the Milky Way, twinkling, herald now the dawn. The dove-tailed bricks are chilled with heavy frost -- with whom to share the quilt which, though of eiderdown, is cold?
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