Everything is biographical, Lucian Freud says. What we make, why it is made, how we draw a dog, who it is we are drawn to, why we cannot forget. Everything is collage, even genetics. There is the hidden presence of others in us, even those we have known briefly. We contain them for the rest of our lives, at every border we cross.
In collage you're doing it in stages so you're not actually doing it right there. You first of all draw it on the paper, then you cut it up, then you paste it down, then you change it, then you shove it about, then you may paint bits of it over, so actually you're not making the picture there and then, you're making it through a process, so it's not so spontaneous.
As the eldest son of an Alabama sharecropper family, I was constantly troubled by a collage of North American southern behaviors and notions in reference to the inhumanity of people. There were questions that I did not know how to ask but could, in my young, unsophisticated way, articulate a series of answers.
John Henrik Clarke
For myself, the only way I know how to make a book is to construct it like a collage: a bit of dialogue here, a scrap of narrative, an isolated description of a common object, an elaborate running metaphor which threads between the sequences and holds different narrative lines together.
From when I was a really small girl on, I would pick every fabric, every color on the walls, and I was always redecorating. Like once every couple of months I would redecorate my room. I had a full wall that was all collage - the entire wall - when I was in junior high. And then it would kind of morph with me as I was growing.
I'm being given a little bit of credit now as being a viable collage artist, which some people think is ridiculous. Like this guy who said, "Wait a minute: You had an art show where you just cut out pictures and then glued them back together?" And I said, "Yeah, that's pretty much what it is." There's more to it than that. It's about having the eye for detail, moving things from one environment and reassembling them into new environments....Everyone can do it, but not everyone can do it well.
The beauty of the collage technique is that you're using sounds that have never met and were never supposed to meet. You introduce them to each other, at first they're a bit shy, clumsy, staring at their shoes. But you can sense there's something there. So you cut and paste a little bit and by the end of the song you can spot them in the corner, holding hands.
Airplane Dream #13' told the story, more or less, of a dream Rosa had had about the end of the world. There were no human beings left but her, and she had found herself flying in a pink seaplane to an island inhabited by sentient lemurs. There seemed to be a lot more to it - there was a kind of graphic "sound track" constructed around images relating to Peter Tchaikovsky and his works, and of course abundant food imagery - but this was, as far as Joe could tell, the gist. The story was told entirely through collage, with pictures clipped from magazines and books. There were pictures from anatomy texts, an exploded musculature of the human leg, a pictorial explanation of peristalsis. She had found an old history of India, and many of the lemurs of her dream-apocalypse had the heads and calm, horizontal gazes of Hindu princes and goddesses. A seafood cookbook, rich with color photographs of boiled crustacea and poached whole fish with jellied stares, had been throughly mined. Sometimes she inscribed text across the pictures, none of which made a good deal of sense to him; a few pages consisted almost entirely of her brambly writing, illuminated, as it were, with collage. There were some penciled-in cartoonish marginalia like the creatures found loitering at the edges of pages in medieval books.
Life, perhaps less a document than an impression, conveyed through partial glances, stream-of-consciousness juxtapositions, unpredictable rhythms, a collage of sound, a conscientious diarist, a career of blackmail and scandal culminated in murder, a blind man with a will of iron and a nervous system of gossamer.
to Vaneigem and the Situationists who by shrewd use of collage and juxtaposition exposed both the poverty and richness of slogans, and the thinly veiled hypocrisy of a "spectacular" society which by not respecting words abuses people, and by insulting the intelligence creates a state of political cretinisation in which the many and various forms of authoritarian control dominate.
On the great canvas of time We all create our own masterpiece. Choreographing our steps across minutes and hours Dancing over the days Painting pictures over months and Writing our stories on the years. Singing our songs that echo across eons. We are all a thread in the talent tapestry. A snapshot in the cosmic, collective collage.
I know you think I didn't know, " he says, flipping through the pages and opening it to the middle of the book where there is a collage of all the X-Men, "but sometimes, you forget to shut the blinds." (...) "Zo, I dont think I could ever hate you. You hurt me, but whenever I saw you grab one of those books and duck under here, I knew you were probably hurting too, and I'd let it go." "Just like that?" "I guess I make it sound easier than it was. But yeah, I'd let it go because I knew it wasn't the girl at school under this blanket. It was my friend.
When we look back into our lives we see that our life is but a collection, a collage of these moments which take the shape of images, images which lower our spirits, images which inspire, images which help us remember the people that have come along our way, touched us and silently left, images that go on to become memories and leave a lasting impression as long as we are here, as long as we are here to be.
I've always liked making things that don't deny the medium that they're made in. If it's collage, I'm happy for it to look like that. If it's a film made with computers, I don't mind that it looks like a film made with computers as long as it still has a feeling or a mood or an atmosphere that is relevant.
I do very, very, very simple, skimpy doodles, nothing too committed. Because people tend to fall in love if they like it - if you color it in and they like it, then they want exactly those colors, even if they were just indications. You really have to do it as simple as possible so they can concentrate on the idea and composition. And then all of the energy goes into making the final piece. And the final piece can be anything - it can be a drawing, a painting, a collage - and usually, it's obvious what that should be. Usually, the idea dictates what medium you use.
I do think the challenge, in a way for me, is to write a narrative film and when you finish watching it you feel like it's a collage. You tell the narrative, you tell the story, but you feel like you've created this tapestry. But it also has a shape, a story. So I think there's a middle ground I try to strike . . . away from where everyone else seems ready to go, which is, setup, payoff. You know, He's afraid of water, oh, and at the end he's swimming in water - Oh, my God. I hate that stuff.
I always felt that with an Antoine Doinel film, Truffaut was taking a vacation, that Francois could relax when making a Doinel film. All of the language came to him very easily. 'The 400 Blows,' I felt, was a collage of all his childhood experiences. Every time he felt an Antoine Doinel film was necessary, he'd make one.
Cynie Cory roams the outer reaches of the heart's territory, from the snowy winter of family life to the tropical jungles of love. She wears her heart on her sleeve and it is as big as the country she writes about. Is she the quintessential American girl? You bet she is, part Annie Oakley, part Emily Dickinson""sharpshooting poet of wild nights. She zooms in on the detritus of love""the broken fragments, the fallen leaves""and puts together a collage that is as heartbreaking as it is beautiful. Watch out""she's driving down your street.
GIRL YOU WAKE ME TO THE SMELL OF BUTTER SUNLIGHT SHONE THROUGH WOODEN SHUTTERS NAKED SEX AND CUFFED BREAST EARLY MORNING BACK TO TEST POURING RAIN AND RUBBER SUIT COTTON SOCKS AND RUBBER BOOTS I SPRINT ACROSS THE PARKING LOT 'CAUSE THAT DAY WE WERE UNPREPARED DRIED OUR SOCKS AND ON THE STAIRS SOUND OF RAIN IS RAIN IN GUTTERS LIGHTNING SEVEN SECONDS THUNDER A MILD SNACK LATE EVENING HUNGER DVDS AND VCRS FISH TANKS AND JELLY JARS THE STORM PASSES THE ROOM OURS THE SUMMER TIMES AND YOU MOVE SAFETY BELT IN SUMMER CARS LIGHTNING BUGS TO DIE IN JARS THE AIR CONDITIONER SAVING GRACE GRASS STAINS AND FLUSHED FACE REFRESHING LIKE A GLASS OF MILK YOUR SHAVEN LEGS WERE LIKE SILK YOU KISS ME LIKE A BON VOYAGE A SECRET SOUVENIR COLLAGE OVERALLS AND WATER PARKS T-TOPS AND BABY SHARKS DRAGON ROLLS AND FROZEN JUICE MAKING OUT IN PHOTO BOOTHS A LOVELY SATURDAY NIGHT ALONE FULL OF FILMS AND BAKING PIES NOT COTTON SWABS AND BLOODY LIES I'LL PAY YOU BACK IN PLASTIC EYES
Buck 65 Remix