I don’t know how theses photos happened. I was photographing bits and pieces in the nearby shanty town in the top one. I haven’t done any post-processing to it. The bottom one is the only other “mistake photo” I’ve found. It’s of the local cornershop. I did post-process this one into black and white.
Pretending to be the sole creator of any substantial creative endeavor is simply a lie. link
I admire the writer for allowing the text to stand on its own, unburdened by metatext.
However, he highlights a lot more reasons for including them. The quote at the top of this page, which I entirely agree with, being the most important one. My first book was printed last Thursday. I should receive it this week. I based my own acknowledgements on the liner notes that you often found included with old LPs. It felt a little indulgent, but I’m glad I did it for these reasons:
- Liner notes were brilliant. They should never have died out. I’m glad to read that the Japanese still produce them. I think books should have them too. Same goes for colophons.
- It’s my first book. I’m allowed to indulge myself and those who helped me. I will write more books, but you only get one chance to write a first book.
- It was only during the final editing stages that I realised there is a musical theme running through the book. I simply had not seen it before. The liner notes were produced before I saw that. They fit the book.
- Like David Shenk, I like reading acknowledgements in other books.
(liner notes) enhance the record, adding another layer of meaning. An insight to the process and to the personal life of the artist. Or, if not the personal life, than the contrived life. The super-cool posed-to-look-candid shots, the pencil-scrawled lyrics, sometimes an artfully-scanned in coffee cup ring. link
From an interview with Brian Eno in The Polymath Perspective,
“I am sick of albums that take two years,” insists Brian, “so we just decided on a deadline. I have a theory that deadlines are responsible for most good art. Deadlines are good because they stop you overcooking something. Albums that take years to make are like bad French food, where it has been so long in the preparation that everything is dead by the time it reaches you, whereas my dream of how to make music is like they make food in a busy Italian restaurant. They have fantastic ingredients and they do as little to them as possible. They just get them hot, put them together and give it to you.
“I once took a band that I was about to produce, after they had made a laboured and complicated album, for dinner in a very good Italian restaurant, and I arranged with the restaurant manager to take them into the kitchen. So I sat them down to dinner and said ‘Now I want to show you how we are going to make your next record’, and I took them all into the kitchen and it was just chaos with flames, and cooks and waiters doing things really quickly. It was exciting.” link
Photo by me.
The Hemingway app. Quite useful for editing. Like an outside eye.
walked to a bookshop, and grabbed the first book he could find for 3 pence. He started blacking out the words, first with just a pen. It was beginning of a 40-year project now known as A Humument. link
The name, The Humument, is based upon the title of the book, The Human Document, that he found in the secondhand bookshop.
A Human Document. A Hum(an) (Doc)ument. A Humument. link
Here’s one page from that book.
And here’s the same page “treated”, or cut up.
“Very soon after starting the book in the 1960s I dreamed of its use as an oracle, and it has taken 40 years for technology to make that possible.” He is so pleased with the outcome that: “I’ve become my own consumer. Each night after midnight I consult, somewhat furtively (even though alone), the Oracle I have made. I’m often surprised by pages made long ago and almost forgotten, as well as by the sometimes uncanny predictions they offer their maker.” link
The shantytown that I walked through every day. And sketched.
Was destroyed at the beginning of the month.
The landowner wanted the land back.
Land is expensive in this part of Dakar.
Even though it might not look like it.
100 or more folk lived in this shantytown. They were from Guinea.
The last of the cardboard, metal and wood is still being salvaged.
“Dope alley”, as it was known, has been destroyed.
So has an area where women and children lived and grew beans and maize.
A few remain. They live under cardboard.
The Guineans carried their belongings.
And left some behind.
All sorts of fragments of life.
Before they moved off, on foot, to another part of Dakar to rebuild.
“Any one who spent the winter of 1964 in Seoul would probably remember those wine shops that appeared on the streets at nightfall – the shops that sold hotchpotch, roasted sparrows and three kinds of wine, where the curtain you lifted to step in was flapping in a bitter wind that swept the frozen streets, where the flame of a carbide lamp inside fluttered in the gusts, and where a middle-aged man in a dyed army jacket poured wine and roasted snacks for you.” link
Photo by J Alan
From a Library Foundation of Los Angeles discussion on William Burroughs and his writing techniques,
Barry Miles: I’m hoping that the cut-up stuff will influence people. Maybe people will return to it. As long as you regard it as prose poetry and just dip into it and take what you can from it, just as if you were reading a poem then it’s fine. Don’t look for narrative, you won’t find it.
David L. Ulin: It’s the dream logic I think in many ways. That’s how I’ve always sort of worked into it. I feel like I’m participating in someone’s dream. And I stay as long as I can. link
Photo by me
This is the last in a series of three “stories” I made using the William Burroughs Cut-Up technique to combine a passage from my book Eating Việt Nam — Dispatches from a Blue Plastic Table with a passage from The Quiet American by Graham Greene.
His life lurked under the gutters of coconut. Thoughts came from eight thousand miles away.
The most obvious scraps : those hardworking in Bloomsbury Square, where the Foreign Office was, the portico of Euston, the scarlet epaulettes, swashed across Montague Place. He turned. Here, through the humid shadows, were the brush brooms and bundles of waste, who would hear everything.
He exhaled on a Vinataba. In the north, home had shifted; the trees, the cyclo driver’s pedals and the circle of enemies at the High Lypse..
When he first came, he stood on guard. There were men, crouching. Those rough tobacco machines like schoolboys down on Neon Street. So quiet. He couldn’t care a damn.
He was tied to the real background burr of those quick reports at 73 : of the rice fields that sucked might-be grenades, of springtime in the old abbot’s and of the inevitable release of silk-trousered figures.
Bulbs, would-be shells, noodles, deep browns, bags and the kitchen garden. The women would gather together, punctuated by mountains that they’d sling into their night dogs. He counted the days, pushcarts and wheel car-exhausts, to the collection point, marking them off.
On two or three nights, the sight of those calendars, the buckets here and there, dressed and broken cups, bicycle-riding hookers, a life time washed up, a T-shirt rolled upon his chair, the whispered sweet nothings of the repairing girls and he’d go to the road where they tracked potential customers. The gold : And the glow of a cigarette : Young : Green : And the other late night bars.
He wanted a day, half-hidden by the boulevards. A cool belly. He might, from between the few dim lamp posts, catch the occasional plea. He wanted to keep exiting where there were the women in a hidden doorway, moving with grace and working throughout.
He’d learn for himself what was left of street corners. You could, at its most blissful, smell the gold : A bus passing out their wares, from the creak and the cups of tea, on the local in Torrington, goods between the breath as he and his commercial, out in the square, stuff at a markup. He’d wait for the junk of sellers, laying almost barren, but, at noon, he wanted the mollusc hats, waiting to divvy, if you looked, or listened.
At ground eight, a mine had burst : Who’d sell the street cleaners?
Using stiff commissioners : the bright dresses city : they were the night they swished in their hats. He would have to find the flower and fruit chested of the south that held you as the 2AM gloom : largely oblivious, black clothes and, like mosquitoes, many haggling traders, the clandestine drone of planes with his bed in markets all over the Hanoi of his assignment.
Photo by me