domingo, março 01, 2009
Os enigmas de Lynch
Uma curiosa entrevista no The Guardian (ou melhor, no The Observer), a David Lynch.
The interview: David Lynch
With his enigmatic masterpieces Blue Velvet, Twin Peaks and Mulholland Drive, the director created a dark, disturbing vision of America. Now, he says, he is done with films in favour of making art from paint, cameras and 'toxic materials' – and practising transcendental meditation. He talks to Gaby Wood. Portrait by Jérôme Bonnet
(...)
He enters, a dishevelled version of himself: the rockabilly hair caving at an angle, the buttoned-up white shirt not as neat as it might be, silvery stubble on his chin. He offers me a coffee – his own brand, of which he drinks at least 15 cups a day – and settles into a battered armchair with a packet of American Spirit cigarettes. The concrete floors turn out to have a practical purpose: you can routinely drop cigarette ash on them without worrying about starting a fire (the chair in Lynch's studio is forever at risk of being buried in butts).
"I just love this camera," Lynch says, in his nasal, deliberate, almost robotically enthusiastic voice. We are looking at a large chiaroscuro nude, which has been printed in two parts and hung on the wall, and Lynch is telling me about his Hasselblad digital. Unbelievable. Thirty-nine million pixels. The camera remembers something like 4,000 pieces of information per photograph. It is machine. It's a machine." A look of delight passes across his face. "It's just a glorious world," he says.
(...)
The interview: David Lynch
With his enigmatic masterpieces Blue Velvet, Twin Peaks and Mulholland Drive, the director created a dark, disturbing vision of America. Now, he says, he is done with films in favour of making art from paint, cameras and 'toxic materials' – and practising transcendental meditation. He talks to Gaby Wood. Portrait by Jérôme Bonnet
(...)
He enters, a dishevelled version of himself: the rockabilly hair caving at an angle, the buttoned-up white shirt not as neat as it might be, silvery stubble on his chin. He offers me a coffee – his own brand, of which he drinks at least 15 cups a day – and settles into a battered armchair with a packet of American Spirit cigarettes. The concrete floors turn out to have a practical purpose: you can routinely drop cigarette ash on them without worrying about starting a fire (the chair in Lynch's studio is forever at risk of being buried in butts).
"I just love this camera," Lynch says, in his nasal, deliberate, almost robotically enthusiastic voice. We are looking at a large chiaroscuro nude, which has been printed in two parts and hung on the wall, and Lynch is telling me about his Hasselblad digital. Unbelievable. Thirty-nine million pixels. The camera remembers something like 4,000 pieces of information per photograph. It is machine. It's a machine." A look of delight passes across his face. "It's just a glorious world," he says.
(...)
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