Making of / Drafts / Extracts
aka CostumeGris movie

Looking through the eyes of a 21st-century man – a quite extraordinary man, at the centre of a world… Somewhere between Michel Houellebecq's Plateforme and Bret Easton Ellis's Glamorama lies a fiction/reality combination: CostumeGris. Look out – you are entering a sphere of double lives, with a high risk of coincidences.
The characters do not quite act. They are deflected from their real existence, their private lives. CostumeGris takes place at the threshold of the innermost heart.
The making of this film has been somewhat unorthodox.The writing took place after the production, using the methods defined by the Shakespeare Machine project: mixing, collage, furtive sense. The narration is elusive, and the material heterogeneous. It is impossible to get a fix on it…
The zone of exchanges between private life and the world: this is the terrain that is common to CostumeGris and Plateforme. They also take the same form: the mix. On the other hand, CostumeGris does not merely dress up the reassuring, determinist skeleton of a tragedy; it applies this logic to the entire body of the narration.
Thus vertigo and uncertainty are at the same time the object and the substance of the film. The void does not lead to another void, but to the unknown.

______________________________________________

Film under construction.100 minutes

Synopsis: He didn't have much to do with his neighbours at the hotel-club… Just enough to observe them, and to pick out the particles of fiction that pervaded the ordinary. Upon his return, on the other hand – a body in the silo, his second home! The dead man and the investigating agent (he's almost sure) were at the hotel-club. Right away he calls the girl – Silvie – whom he'd hesitated to move in on. And instantly – wham! And then the others in the hotelclub, who reappear, slyly… But anyway it's Silvie's job to seduce the coincidences; to find a way of no longer filling hotels by chance…
But the other one – the Lausanne blonde – what's she got against him? Why him? Did something go wrong?

(by the way, why the hell did she kill John M. Armleder?!?)

______________________________________________

Partners : galerie michèle chomette, éof, Corman Technologies Inc, SquareBox Ltd, WiseGuys GmbH, PinkTV, AVsys, Loca-images, Ecole d'Arts Rueil-Malmaison, Dir. des Affaires Culturelles de la Ville de Paris, Centre Nal des Arts Plastique, CNC.
Jean Pascal Princiaux presents, Julia Tabakhova, Silvie Mexico, Colin Jore, Boris Ramonguilhem, Serge Ramon, Pierre Dumonthier and John Armleder in :

Intention: to make sure that Shakespeare Machine is in keeping with the projected object, as an instrument to slide over language. This does not involve a translocation of the cinema into a museum (even if only extra muros), but rather an appropriation of the medium: using its techniques, setting up a controlled, pre-inscribed situation, a defined space – light, depth of field, framing – so as to draw the visitor into a pseudo-fiction that works on an impression of narration. A temporal texture, a sequence of signs, a set of limits applied over a certain period of time, with the question of the end-point.

Purpose: to manipulate causality, to smooth out the surface of contact, to increase the distance between the viewer and the work, and, as Charles de Gaulle said, "to move forward into the trophy zone"

Jean is in the bedroom... To illustrate this on screen, let us consider that the bedroom has to be shown, with Jean in it. Solution A: to film Jean in the bedroom. Solution B: to introduce an image of Jean into an image of the bedroom.
Given a digital environment, Solution B is possible, and the writing can be done after the filming, or indeed without any filming taking place

The world cannot be divided up. The world as a structure that will "introduce" the visitor into a space; a certain distance from sense. The task of the characters is to define it. The main character, who wears a grey suit, is transparent. He is not seen: the camera is subjective. The only psychology is that which each individual contributes. And indeed this is the main point – to draw in the spectator, alone. The others -the characters) are of no help to him, as they oscillate between real life and the special effect, turned away from themselves, inaccessible.
There is no connivance, just attraction. It is a situation that is hard to interpret, a mental trampoline more than a script; a kaleidoscope of possible meanings that play on false memories and otherness rather than comprehension. The Other is not projected, written, constructed. He is captured, won over, to some extent detached from any landmark. Outside his lair. I'll be waiting for you at the exit.
CostumeGris is fairylike and snuff. It has no truck with psychological realism, but tackles the insignificance and crudity of real situations transposed into an open phantasmagoria, an N-dimensional space in which causes and effects do not necessarily coincide. CostumeGris raises questions concerning levels of reality.

______________________________________________

show @ galerie michèle chomette Paris. 2004

Cécile Brescia, 10/01/2004. Appartement. (in Le domaine du Schilthorn. Alexis Atger)

Vernissage chez Michèle Chomette.

Couloir de l'entrée, des autocollants signalétiques -attention à l'avion- ?! Dans ce sas, les manteaux vides s'entassent…vestiaire improvisé. Les gens blablattent. Toutes ces figures. Quel est mon rôle ? Figurant d'un scénario… celui de CostumeGris et de quelques Pièces à convictions. J'entre en salle. Accrochage de tirages numériques, preuves d'une manipulation visuelle. Un mur d'impressions virtuelles. Deux jeux : dix milles bornes ou une triviale poursuite de nos particules amoureuses. Les je jouent mon rôle -aïe- et cette ambiance de fiction soap…électro ? Dans les coulisses la dépouille textile de costume gris et des effets personnels. Ses brochures de voyages. Il aime la suisse montagne ? …une autre dépouille…la valise déborde d'une toilette brodée de clitoris. Dans ma scène principale : moi, l'écran aux images sans visages, et le fauteuil (digne d'une névrose confession) rattaché à un stylo et sa page en plasma. Je m'installe. Elle me tend un diamant alcoolisé. Je bascule de l'autre côté du plasma. J'écris mon scénario. …en fait je ne sais plus très bien. Tout se mélange dans ma tête. Hybrides reliques visuelles - les imagos éphémères papillonnent ma tête et noircissent mes yeux. Je n'arrive plus à savoir le quoi du quoi. Dans l'appartement l'hôtesse au clitoris me proposait un second diamant psychotrope. Les éclats ingurgités de ce diamant de Proust me promettent un voyage mental non-retour…l'état final dure quelques heures seulement. -Chouette. Les choses deviennent (in)cohérentes. Faits et coïncidences. [un avion dans un étrange brouillard a disparu puis réapparu le ../../...., à l'atterrissage, les montres des passagers retardaient … l'aéroport de Miami n'a jamais entendu parler de ce vol]. C'est horrible comme tout se mélange. Tout est faux, tout est vrai. J'oubliai ce fauteuil qui m'invitait à la navigation par la Shakespeare machine. Le casque sur mes oreilles. Ma tête reliée à la machine. Je suis partie très loin… Les imagos de mon diamant de Proust reviennent. Dans mon triangle des Bermudes. J'ai dû m'allonger sur le sable de cette plage. Le ciel tournait ses étoiles …ou alors ma tête…commence à tourner sur moi-même. Juste avant de disparaître. Trop vite. Je mour(r)ais. Les vagues ont à présent une douleur plus rouge. Vous savez ces villages de vacances préfabriqué(e)s. Là-bas aussi les montres s'arrêtent. Sur le sable allongée dans ma tête j'ai hurlé aphone. Les h(orr)eures respirent faibles et sourdes. Le décor cartonpâte ne sait pas ce que c'est qu'un cri, il n'a pas bougé, m'a étouffée. Je n'existe pas. Je crois, …tout est faux. Le ciel est trop bleu de carte postale…un peu le ciel acier du monde parfait de Truman Show,…les chaînes de montagne s'étendaient à perte de vue couronnées de neiges éternelles. Il aurait été beaucoup plus simple de rester sur place ou de sauter. Dans ma chute le film défile. Le timeline de mon voyage virtuel est un anneau de Moëbius. Je cours immobile sur ce tapis roulant. Les autres sont loin et ne font rien. Physiquement je ne peux pas revenir. J'habite ici. Etrangement tout seul. J'adore vivre au bord de la mer. J'adore la solitude et la présence de la mer. Ou alors je ne sais plus. Je n'arrive pas à savoir. Peut-être que j'étais là-bas. Au bord de la mer. Pourtant j'y ai assisté, j'avais des éclats du pare-brise jusque dans la bouche de cette voiture explosée. Malgré sa grande exactitude théorique, l'homme s'avère en pratique approximatif, voir inutile désireux de rendre le passé plus précis. Oui…jusque dans la bouche des éclats de verre…je n'avais qu'un livre -Glamorama-entre les mains. L'hôtesse m'a donné trop de diamants de Proust. Mon avion s'est écrasé nulle part ailleurs. Ma boîte noire a disparu. Je ne sais pas d'où j'écris. Ces bruits de courants d'air vident toujours ma tête. A moins que ce ne soit le bruit de particules glissantes -mes particules sanguines-. J'ai toujours ce casque sur les oreilles. Ma tête reliée à la machine. Allongée dans le fauteuil. Ma tête reliée par deux fils électrorganiques à cet écran, -moniteur- vidéo. Ma réalité (ex)pensée. Ma réalité expansée. Ce sera donc ça mon eXistenZ …

______________________________________________

MIX (in Joséfine, # 1, 2004)
WILL THERE BE CO-OWNERSHIP IN DATA-SPACE?

Once upon a time, in the garden of the Audiovisual, in other words the land of diamonds, there was a world of screens, interfaces and doubling. The playing field of mirrors, television, virtual reality, new technologies, networks, illusion, delirium, psychotropes: a cyberdiamond world.

Reality is generally granted admittance only under certain conditions, and only up to a certain point. If it oversteps the mark and gives offence, tolerance is suspended. A shutdown of perception then shields consciousness from any undesirable eyesores. As to reality, if it absolutely insists on being perceived, it can always tootle off elsewhere. Communication has expanded the culture of appearances that characterises consumer society: sign-objects and mass fashion play on the corporeal integument, and the inner depths are currently making a massive eruption into the world of ostentation.

A radical change of evaluation: it is all these technical systems of optimal performance, of unlimited performance of the world, which, paradoxically, by absorbing all the information, and concentrating all the functions, have left the way open to the exercise of thinking devoid of all purpose, all "objectivity", and restored to its radical uselessness. The liberalisation of morals, in parallel with the popularisation of rock 'n' roll culture and the coming to market of the objects that propagate it, the ready-to-wear, have given young people (especially those of the middle classes) previously-unknown private freedom: heralded abundance and seemingly-unlimited progress are signs that the right to happiness for all is henceforth possible. It can be seen why talking about problems is now a motor of entertainment, and why we no longer really need a different hero, whether superior or (presumably) other, since we already have the perfect (authentic) hero of history: ourselves. So a sort of event-thinking has to be found that can turn uncertainty into a principle, and impossible exchange into a rule of the Game, knowing that it is neither exchangeable nor contrary to the truth; nor to reality. In physics, the uncertainty principle stipulates that one cannot simultaneously define both the location and velocity of a particle. The entire set of events that take place – namely reality as a whole – outlines only a sort of "bad" reality that belongs to the order of the duplicate, the copy, the image. Absolute reality is the "other" that this reality has blotted out, the genuine original of which the real event is no more than a deceptive, perverse double. It is no longer a question of making things burst through, fabricating them, producing them for a world of value, but of seducing them, which means deflecting them from this value, and thus from their identity, their reality, so as to assign them to the Game of appearances. We have less need for an author's imagination to insinuate us into a fiction, since we can all, through control over a script and the presence of a screen, be the heroes of our own lives. Why does somebody else's history interest me? Digital code relegates the theme of materials to the background. Or rather, problems of composition, organisation, presentation and systems of access tend to break free from their singular adherences to former substrata.

The flesh, alas, is sad – and I've read all the books.

We are in a random world, where there is no longer a subject and an object, harmoniously divided up within the register of knowledge. A new ideography is even now being born before our very eyes. Something like a dynamic form of writing based on icons, schemas, semantic networks and manipulatory, probing, interpretive activity is bringing pre-existing materials into new domains of usage and signification. I have decided to swap the fiction of being myself for the authentic, satisfying illusion of being someone else.

[Bill Viola / Julia Tabakhova / Clément Rosset / Alain Erhenberg / Jean Baudrillard / Pierre Lévy / Stéphane Mallarmé / Philip Roth]

______________________________________________

show @ galerie michèle chomette Paris. 2008
Peacewarmix (in Joséfine, # 3)

Prologue
Films without scripts, without actors, without cameras, without screens.

SupeRomantic
The feeling of unreality was very strong…

You? Here! Survival capsules dotted along the edges of inner depths, tangential aesthetics with furtive trajectories of sense, spirals in the garden of appropriations: the world as a superb stranger in a literally incomprehensible fiction, being irreparable, hidden, far from the bright lights, dodging hypotheses.
SupeRomantic: the mobility of the viewpoint spills out over the model – conceptual, stylistic, behavioural – through the interstices, by any means whatever: the world in its irreducibility, ironic.
I make use of personality disturbances, sensual relationships with exotic entities…
Games, Arrangements, Films.

Situational comedy
Considerable efforts, on the scale of a civilisation, to place the world before the camera, in the frame or (what's worse) out of it, lead to a point of reversibility, perhaps around the time of Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid. The production changes direction, becomes literal again, redolent of magic and dreams. Formal instruments and audiovisual language – in their sophistication and power, initially intended for the control and direction of the guiding idea – open up, in a mundane paradox, onto a very different territory, where the primary intention, manipulation, metamorphosis, replaces the notion of a game at the centre: the camera's disappeared! This symbolic moment of the passage into representation has made way for shifts in register on the screen – whose protagonists are actors (not those of film) rather than authors or viewers.
Back to square one.
Jean doesn't come in from the next room, but from another film.

Fuzzy logic
Modellings of situation, additions of clues, assemblages of blocks. No question of being clearer (Fig. 1), placing markers, structuring the argumentation. Not here! It's a register shift: the above-mentioned interstices are not intended to be a way of stigmatising this or that structural flaw, or of bringing in an analysis. They're to be taken literally. They're passages: here I can infiltrate them, here I can escape and operate out of the maquis. The world, too, has escaped, mysteriously vanishing under pressure: in a game of fractal hide-and-seek, it simply slipped away.

Sub-art
Almost art, but not quite. Not precise enough to be autonomised, or specifically defined. NB: excesses of art can participate effectively in Sub-art, inducing general transversality through singular transversality. Which isn't neutral – not in the slightest!

______________________________________________

W
THE AUTHORITIES ARE SEARCHING FOR SOMETHING - HIDDEN - SOMEWHERE...
contact@jppclub.com