680 Cædmon Hymn 1 Nu scylun hergan hefaen~ricaes uard. 971 Blickl. Hom. 11 Salomones reste wæs mid weardum ymbseted. OE Beowulf 229 Weard Scildinga, se þe holmclifu healdan scolde. 1377 W. Langland Piers Plowman B. xviii. 320 For any wye or warde wide opene the ȝatis. 1473 W. Caxton tr. R. Le Fèvre Recuyell Hist. Troye (1894) I. lf. 106 Thou hast slayn the wardes of the serpentes and the portyers of the lions [Fr. (1510) les soursers des serpens & les portiers des lyons] that kepte this contre Inhabitable.
Three hundred fifteen tremilliamilliaquinquaginmilliasescendooctogintillion, four hundred sixteen tremilliamilliaquinquaginmilliasescenunoctogintillion, four hundred seventy five tremilliamilliaquinquaginmilliasescenoctogintillion, six hundred eighteen tremilliamilliaquinquaginmilliasescennovemseptuagintillion, eight hundred forty six tremilliamilliaquinquaginmilliasescenoctoseptuagintillion, eighty tremilliamilliaquinquaginmilliasescenseptenseptuagintillion,
…
five hundred fifteen quinquadragintillion, ten quattuorquadragintillion, one hundred twenty six trequadragintillion, three hundred twenty six doquadragintillion, one hundred thirty five unquadragintillion, nine hundred fifty five quadragintillion, six hundred eighty three novemtrigintillion, two hundred ninety nine octotrigintillion, forty five septentrigintillion, one hundred eighty four sextrigintillion, five hundred two quintrigintillion, five hundred forty one quattuortrigintillion, seven hundred nine tretrigintillion, five hundred eighty three dotrigintillion, eight hundred ninety four untrigintillion, two hundred thirty nine trigintillion, three hundred four novemvigintillion, nine hundred sixty octovigintillion, six hundred seventy five septenvigintillion, one hundred eighty nine sexvigintillion, six hundred fifty three quinvigintillion, four hundred twenty two quattuorvigintillion, five hundred forty seven trevigintillion, eight hundred fifty three dovigintillion, five hundred twenty nine unvigintillion, eight hundred sixty two vigintillion, ten novemdecillion, four hundred thirty seven octodecillion, one hundred thirty five septendecillion, eight hundred thirty sexdecillion, nine hundred fifteen quindecillion, seven hundred seventy seven quattuordecillion, four hundred ninety nine tredecillion, five hundred dodecillion, two hundred seventy four undecillion, eight hundred eighty two decillion, two hundred eighteen nonillion, five hundred fifty octillion, eight hundred forty six septillion, seven hundred eight sextillion, six hundred eleven quintillion, one hundred thirty four quadrillion, two hundred ninety seven trillion, four hundred eleven billion, six hundred fifty two million, nine hundred forty three thousand, eight hundred seventy one.
Carefully questions unraveled in their answers upon polite observation, dipping and drawing untempered charms and it will not love me any more if I thought your speech charming, did I not know you till I will unsay the spell that holds me there… how odde soever your braines be or your wisedomes make your heart is filled with tears, and she said “you must do exactly as I tell you.”
scratched across and walks away, with that she carefully washed all darkly translucent in their wavering shadows, clings and clinging, neuer giues to truth and vertue that which simpleness and merit purchaseth, and lay ages drop unto it as were rain.
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„Ich habe den Bau eingerichtet und er scheint wohlgelungen. Von außen ist eigentlich nur ein großes Loch sichtbar, dieses führt aber in Wirklichkeit nirgends hin, schon nach ein paar Schritten stößt man auf natürliches festes Gestein“ (Kafka 1996: 132).
Rahmungen in der Kunst
Kunstwerke im Allgemeinen weisen Rahmungen auf, die als Grenzen wahrgenommen werden. Ein Buch beginnt und endet – so scheint es zumindest. Und dazwischen nur spielt sich eine bedeutend phantastische Welt ab. Ein Bild hat eine Fläche, die von einem Rahmen umgeben ist und verdeutlicht auf ähnliche Weise, wo die Illusion und Interpretation ihr Ende findet. Solche Rahmungen markieren „Gegenstände“ und weisen Phantasiereisenden in der Kunst den Weg, ermöglichen den Austritt, auch deshalb, weil eine Abstand ermöglichende Grenze stets erhalten bleibt. Man mag Texte konkretisieren und Bilder verinnerlichen, stets bleibt ein materieller Abstand erhalten und wird plastisch dokumentiert durch irgendwelche Rahmungen. Sicherlich – Foucault hat zu recht die Einheit des Buches als Knoten in einem diskursiven Netz (vgl. Foucault 41990: 36) und das homogene Werk als „Gewimmel sprachlicher Spuren“ (ebd.: 37) verdeutlicht, gleichwohl bleibt die augenscheinliche Rahmung durch die prinzipielle Gegenständlichkeit des Interesses erhalten, was zumindest die Vorstellung oder Suggestion vom „Anfang und Ende“ am Leben hält.
Die Rahmung, die man in der Musik mit dem „Objekt“ der Partitur einst gefunden hatte, was der Musikwissenschaft die dem Auge geschuldete Analyse und Leben gab, erwies sich im 20. Jahrhundert mit neuen Aufschreibesystemen recht bald als instabil, als grenzerweiternd das Rauschen der Welt erforscht wurde, das sich in Partituren nicht mehr symbolisch festhalten ließ.
Seitdem ist eine Rahmung der Musik nicht so leicht mehr auszumachen, wo ein Abstand zur erklingenden Musik nicht möglich ist. Zwar hat auch die Musik Anfang und Ende, aber schon hier wird ein Unterschied zu den anderen Künsten deutlich, denn die Rahmung wird verkörpert durch ein „Nicht“, eine Negativität – allein durch die Abwesenheit von Klang. In diesen Rahmen ist dann die Fülle eines organisierten Klanges eingebettet. Bevor die Musik im Konzertsaal beginnt, verebbt folgerichtig das Stimmengewirr der Zuhörer; die kurz zuvor noch um ihre Stimmung besorgten Musiker halten ein und verstummen ebenfalls. So entsteht die Rahmung des „Nicht“, sodass – auf ein Zeichen des Zeremonienmeisters – aus dieser Ruhehaltung heraus Musik empor schwellen kann. Wir haben es also mit einem Rahmen zu tun, der gerade dadurch Rahmen ist, dass es keinen gibt.
The Bijou is perhaps my favorite space at CalArts. It’s a small theater. Seats about 120 people and an unspecified number of dogs. (invariably you be in the middle of some feature and hear gerrrrr-Rouffff … rowf ra-ra-ffff rowf) I spent many a happy evening and afternoon of my graduate tenure watching films amazing to abstruse. During that time I had the great fortune to meet Béla Tarr when he lectured and presented Sátántangó. It played twice and I deeply enjoyed all four hundred thirty nine minutes both nights.
Irimiás and Petrina go to the police station, where they have a meeting with the captain. At the same time in the village Estike goes out with his brother, Sanyi, to bury some money in the ground to make it grow into a money tree. Both events take place during the daytime when the rain is not falling. Later Irimiás and Petrina drink in the pub in town, where Kelemen sees them. Halics visits Estike’s mother. Estike tortures and finally kills her cat in the attic of their house. In the meantime a heavy rain starts. Halics leaves their house, and Estike finds out that the money has disappeared; someone has stolen it. Kelemen returns to the village, enters the pub, and reports to the bartender on his meeting with Irimiás and Petrina in town and on the road to the village. Halics is already in the pub.
A question and its answer … are the painters still those painters who are painting the great cave? Do they paint the buffalo on the wall as hunger, the eagle as freedom, and the woman with a big bottom as love? Do they paint the buffalo as the table that magically sets itself? Have they meanwhile left the cave, cleared out of the community, and forgotten all those universal, comprehensible agreements, because magic does not still hunger, because flying does not work and yearning for love does not breed love? Have they traded the cave for some other place? Propagandizing about needs, ‘What does man need?’ feeds upon a yearning for freedom and the fear of death and entices us into taking another way, off the painters’ course. The smart ones, hotshots, innovators, activists – in the forefront madmen and hotspurs – have remained within their own skulls. They proclaim plucky mottos: paintings should stick in the throat, eyelids should be nailed down, and hearts grabbed with pliers. Fish bone, air raid and separation. Well, one still sits together around the fire, warms up the studios, has had enough to eat, and is in love. On battered canvases are those sumptuous ornaments filled with jumbled lines and rich colours; crystalline galleries hang over the frames. All that once stood erect, the still life, has been knocked over, the landscape has been seized and uprooted, the interiors tangled, and the portraits scratched and pierced. Painting became music. Surrealism won. Everything durable has been kicked out of the paintings.
Now, the tone goes right through walls, the line stands upside down. Are the painters now unhappy and freezing? They dance and celebrate with their friends, they invite their fathers and drink Capri with them. A black painting is as white as the sky. The colours in the dark cave are aglow. Light is superfluous. Everything is utterly different, anyway. The paraphernalia of Venus, Zeus, the angels, Picasso were invented by the painters, as were the bull, the roast chicken and the lovers. The pear-wood palette became a pail, the brush a knife, an axe and a club. The largest paintings are larger, and the smallest are smaller than ever before. Someone painted a painting weighing five hundred pounds. A Chinese handwalked over the canvas. A Norwegian painted 168 acres of birch wood on one and one-half square inches of canvas. This is not the way I want to continue. Hygiene, I mean religion, is employed. Discipline is one thing, education another, and meditation, too. Intoxication is used to prepare or to stabilize an attitude. Some eat well, others purify themselves through fasting. While I see no point at all in bustling around, in being confused, zap, zap, my friend between New York and Cologne makes the best paintings in his trouser pocket, where his canary sits. Does one see more of the world by climbing a ladder, does one see still more by lying down flat on the field and by sticking one’s nose in the ground? Either way. The difference between a German and an Italian apple tree is enormously large. In Tuscany in the garden I made photos of such trees. Back home in Germany I was terribly excited by these exotic apple trees, these unpaintable fairy-tale-tree-inventions. I realized that I did not want to paint an apple tree at all. I was still under the mother and had stuck out only my nose. The world had not opened up, the secret remained hidden within the object, but now there was confusion. This is an experience, but not of the kind that broadens your mind through shifting horizons. The first la-la sounds and the first dot-dot-comma-dash are indeed vehement creations for the one who makes them. This is not theory. I composed Fidelio, I know precisely that as a six-year-old I conducted this very piece; hare and dog I painted when I was eight years old, signing them Albrecht Dürer. One of these watercolours is in Vienna, in the Albertina, the dog is lost.
