All language subtitles for The Old Place.en

On page five, the agreement says:

The producers must examine

any object or subject,

ordinary or extraordinary,

in any field,

according to their actions or ideas,

making sure to identify

any existing trace

of what we have agreed to call art...

...to finally discover
if art is a legend

or a reality.

"One day," Van Gogh said,

"we will seize death
in order to go to another star."

I think we were right in taking
the boat to return from New York.

In a plane,
you never see the whole sky.

When they spoke to him about victims,

Boltanski said... Listen to this:

In church,
it's true, you get a certain feeling,

but it's the church that creates it.

Afterwards you just pile up clothes,

at best, they're from agn�s b.
or Galeries Lafayette.

To call that
the "Children's Museum Reserve"

is not only an abuse of language,
it's also a kind of atrocity,

an artistic crime
committed by a public figure

who believes it's better
to be in agreement with all the world

than in disagreement with himself.

What should it be called, then?

Don't call it anything, perhaps,

since she doesn't have the strength
to call for help anymore.

So it remains a document,

and receives the Pulitzer Prize.

In any case, we paid
the Sygma Agency 2,856 francs,

plus 5.50 in taxes,
for the right to show this photo.

No, for the duty.
- Yes.

But at the morgue in Blida,
after the Sidi Sehrane massacres,

no one dared speak of art.

Even so,
one speaks of "the art of war."

That's different.

There was that exhibition,
you remember,

with photos
of the war in Yugoslavia.

The newspapers accused
the photographer of making art,

as they say,
with images of horror.

One must tread carefully there.

A man named William Haglund dug up
countless bodies, for months on end,

for the court in The Hague.

Those photos testify to the reality
of crimes against humanity.

Now, if there's a misunderstanding,

it's because the photographer
shouldn't have enlarged those photos,

nor shown them on big canvases
as if they were paintings.

What then is the difference

between the horrors of French policy
in Africa

and the Goya of the "Horrors of War"?

From Botticelli to Barnett,
it's the same view, the same silence,

"for I always speak
the language of the other."

"When I talk to myself,

I talk to myself,

using the words of the other."

Now's the time to know where we're at.

But that's hard,
a bit like flying blind.

It's true: legend, reality,
art, the year 2000...

The MoMA people haven't
really asked for anything specific.

They'd like to make up their minds,
without knowing what about.

There's something
I've often wondered about,

but never asked.

May I ask the question now?

Of course!

Why have you never been to the stars?

I tell myself I've stayed here
because I couldn't get away,

but I don't really think that.

But being able to get away
is part of our nature.

So why didn't you do it?

The idea
that man was free in the universe,

that he could go anywhere he wanted,

was a completely unfathomable miracle.

And the fact that he has
reached this point alone,

with his body and mind,

and an inner power others don't have,

is absolutely unbelievable.

So in that case the legend is us.

Maybe we're the ghosts of people
taken away

when everybody vanished.

You know, I have this impression again

of hearing the noises
and murmuring of ghosts

nestled in the midst of their works,

in the last hiding place
left to them on earth.

Yes.

Our old world has collapsed,
and there's not a lot of it left.

First we thought wed lost everything,
but with time

we've realized
that this loss wasn't all bad.

Maybe not bad at all.
And finally, instead of losing,

we've gained the chance
to make a new start.

Theater, novel, painting, films...

It seems that the question is not
knowing if man will continue,

but knowing if he has the right to.

Let's get on with the exercises, then.

There's a moment when
the light begins to strike things,

making them stammer out their shapes
and then their successive names,

starting out with the very "thing"
that is the beginning.

First there's "something,"
and then "some things."

Exactly like in the Book of Books.

There's an infancy of the features
of the world, of a day,

of any given place.

They are more alone than ever.
In fact, they've disappeared.

They've left the landscape,

or at least our idea
of a familiar landscape.

In some places,

they still organize a small
demonstration, but only for love.

And the next year,
they fall into a ditch,

or cling to an embankment
on the edge of the road, the highway,

or the freeway.
Always on the fringes.

As if they were refugees.

So much fine blood
this earth has drunk,

workers' and farmers' blood,

because the crooks who start the wars

never die.
Only the innocents get killed.

"Red Hill," it's called,

baptized with blood one morning.

All those who went up there
ended up down in the ravine.

Now there are vines
and grapes are growing there.

Whoever drinks that wine,

drinks the blood of his friends.

You could call them the last artists.

Can time be recounted?

Time as it is,
as such and in itself?

No, that would really be
a hare-brained undertaking.

Art wasn't protected from time.

It was what protected time.

Someone forgotten who, but someone
once said that he who sings

is not always happy.

We work in the dark,

we do what we can,

we give what we have.

Our doubt is our passion,
and our passion is our task.

The rest is the madness of art.

That reminds me
of my old philosophy teacher,

Mr. Brunschwig:

"One is in the other,
and the other is in the one,

and those are the three persons."

The spirit borrows from matter
the perceptions

it draws its nourishment from,
and gives them back as movement

stamped with its freedom.

The spirit borrows from matter...

and gives them back
as movement stamped with its freedom.

With the red hair
of a little street girl

I'd torch all of modern civilization.

Since a girl has to have long hair,
she has to have clean hair.

Since she has to have clean hair,
she mustn't have a messy house.

Since she mustn't have a messy house,
her mother must be carefree.

Since her mother must be carefree,

the landlord can't be a profiteer.

Since the landlord
can't be a profiteer,

there has to be
a redistribution of property.

Since there has to be
a redistribution of property,

there has to be a revolution.

The girl with the red-gold hair
is the sacred image of humanity.

The KEO project,

the archeological bird of the future.

A microsatellite shaped like a bird.
Launched in 2001,

it will return to Earth
in 50,000 years

to tell our distant descendants

what Earth and its inhabitants
were like today.

In addition to standard subjects
like geography, biology, history, etc.,

the bird will also deliver messages

sent by the inhabitants of the earth
into their future.

What kind of messages?

I don't know... "Love one another."?

I'd be surprised.

Perhaps:
"Stop discrimination against women."

That would surprise me too.

Or: "Show a Griffith film
once a year."

I have my doubts.

It's the future that decides
if the past is alive or not.

A man with plans for progress
defines his old self

as the self that no longer exists,
and loses interest in it.

On the other hand, some peoples plan
involves the rejection of time

and an identification with the past.

This is the case for most people.

They reject time because they
don't want to come down in the world.

So many things you haven't even seen,
like on this street

you walk down six times a day,

or in your room,

where you spend so many hours a day.

Look at the angle,
the edge of that furniture

makes with the windowpane.

You have to reclaim it from banality,
from the unseen visible.

You have to save it,

give it what you can, through imitation
and the shortfalls of your sensibility,

to any sublime landscape, sunset,

storm at sea,

or any artwork in a museum.

Those are readymade views.

But give to this poor person,
to this place,

to this insipid moment and thing,

and you'll be rewarded a hundredfold.

So who are you?

I'm the person who speaks,

the one named I,

and who, from body to body,
from face to face,

indeed, in all of life itself,
in all form, has the moment to act,

and can't do anything but be.

We haven't done much yet.

We've visited a few stars.

This image that you are, that I am,
which Walter Benjamin speaks of,

that point where the past resonates
with the present for a split second

to form a constellation.

"The work of art," he says,

"is the sole apparition of something
distant, however close it may be."

But I'm not sure I understand:
close and distant at the same time.

People often say:
"In the beginning was..."

The origin is both
what is discovered as absolutely new,

and what recognizes itself
as having existed forever.

The sum of all ideas,
according to Benjamin,

makes up a primal,
ever-present landscape.

Even when people have forgotten it,

and it's a question of returning.

There are the stars,

which are to the constellations
what things are to ideas.

Instead of "exercises,"
we could've said "an object lesson."

"Exercises in artistic thinking,"
was what we said.

The concept is that of approach.

Just as stars simultaneously approach
and move away from each other,

driven by the laws of physics

as they form a constellation,

so too do certain things and thoughts
approach each other

to form one or more images.

So to understand

what goes on
between stars and between images,

you must start
by looking at the simple links.

So everything's far away,

and close at the same time.

Between the infinitely small

and the infinitely large,

we'll eventually find an average.

And the average
will be the average person, no doubt.

What already has been will be,
and what will be has already been.

19 people attended the Crucifixion,

1400 the first performance of "Hamlet."

And two and a half billion
attended the World Cup final.

An image isn't only an atom.

It is, has been, will be its own image,

the image of the image,
the image of all these possibilities.

Working as an artist
isn't just a matter of observing,

of collecting experimental data,

then coming up with a theory,
a picture, a novel, a film, etc.

Artistic thinking begins
with the invention of a possible world,

or a fragment of a possible world,

then using experience and work,

painting, writing, filming,
to confront it with the outside world.

This endless dialogue
between imagination and work

allows for the formation
of an ever-clearer representation

of what we agree to call reality.

We're all lost
in the immensity of the universe.

We've lost our native country,

we have no place to go,
or worse yet,

too many places that we could go.

We're lost, not only
in the depths of the universe,

but also
in the depths of our own minds.

When people only lived on one planet,
they knew where they were.

They had a yardstick,

they had their index finger
to check the direction of the wind.

But now we're lost, even when
we think that we know where we are.

Either there's no path
leading back home,

or we don't have a homeland
worth going back to.

We don't have a home anymore.

Humankind has broken up, scattered,

and is still scattering out
among the stars.

Our species, as a whole,
cannot bear the past.

Many of us also hate the present,

and we only have
one direction: the future,

which takes us further away from
the concept of a homeland of our own.

As a whole, our species
is made up of incurable wanderers.

We reject all ties,
everything we could cling to.

And that will certainly continue
until the ineluctable day,

when we each begin to understand
that we're not free, as we thought,

but lost.

Only when we try to remember,
with our ancestral memory,

where we went, and why,

will we fully understand
how lost we are.

Haven't we forgotten to talk about
the decisive turn in painting?

Later. Now we're dealing with
the technology of the future.

But when we left the earth,
rejecting and scorning our native planet

to go off to distant, brighter stars,

we expanded our space enormously.

We don't have those few million years.

In our haste,
we don't have time anymore...

When Jean-Fran�ois Millet
paints two peasants praying in a field,

and calls it "The Angelus,"

the title matches the reality.

When Francis Picabia draws a bolt

and calls it "Portrait
of an American Girl in the Nude,"

the title no longer
matches the reality.

"All the same to me," says Picabia,
after Duchamp and before Warhol,

just like the owner of the
station caf� as he hands you the menu.

That was the decisive turn in painting.
The second one.

The first was when painters decided
to paint eternal woman.

That happened almost from the start,
but it did no harm to the Virgin Mary.

So from sacred legends

we moved to natural history.

I get the feeling
the titles have taken their revenge.

Today you don't see the image,

you see what the title says about it.

It's modern advertising.

"Sad tropics," writes L�vi-Strauss.

That's what those bears
were thinking just now,

and the walking man, and Paul Gauguin.

I read somewhere

that Chardin once said of art
that he didn't know what it was.

Or that it was an island whose shores
he had glimpsed from far off.

And Andy Warhol says that art
is a market for buying and selling.

And then the real battle begins,
the battle of money and blood.

From an art history point of view,

if Malevich can put a black square
on a white canvas,

I don't think
World War I is such a disaster.

Poisoned by photography,
painting itself committed suicide,

and Soulages laid it in its grave
after World War II.

From an art history point of view,

the 20th century
is the Hundred Years' War.

It took a while for one man to own the
La Redoute and Christie's catalogues.

And then advertising space
takes over the spaces of Hope

and of Proust's madeleine.

And the latest Citroen
is called "Picasso".

Even so, I have the feeling
that something is resisting,

something original,

that the origin will always be there,
and that it resists.

If you want to look out
over the world's loveliest landscape,

you must climb to the top
of the Tower of Victory in Chitor.

There, standing on a circular terrace,

one has a sweep
of the whole horizon.

A winding stairway
leads up to the terrace,

but only those people dare to go up

who don't believe the tale:

In the stairway of the Tower of Victory
has lived since the beginning of time

a being so sensitive to the shades
of the human soul: the A Bao A Qu.

It lives in a lethargic state
on the first step,

and only becomes consciously alive

when someone climbs the stairs.

The vibrations of the approaching person
breathe life into it,

and it is filled with an inner glow.

At the same time,
its body and almost translucent skin

begin to stir.

When someone climbs the spiral stairs,

the A Bao A Qu follows
closely upon the visitor's heels

and climbs
along the outside of the steps,

which are worn down by the feet
of generations of pilgrims.

With each step,
its color becomes more intense,

its shape more perfect,

and the light it gives off

more brilliant.

The proof of its sensitivity

lies in the fact that
it only achieves its ultimate form

at the top step,

and only when the person climbing
is a spiritually evolved being.

Otherwise, the A Bao A Qu remains,
as if paralyzed,

short of its goal,

its body incomplete,

its color undefined,

and its glow faltering.

The A Bao A Qu suffers

when it cannot come to completion,

and its moan
is a barely audible sound,

something like the rustling of silk.

But when the man or woman
bringing it back to life

is totally pure,

the A Bao A Qu
can make it to the top step.

Having achieved full form,

it glows with a vivid blue light.

But its return to life is very brief,
for when the pilgrim descends,

the A Bao A Qu rolls and tumbles
back down to the first steps,

where, already faded

and looking like
an engraving with vague contours,

it awaits the next visitor.

It can't be seen clearly

until its halfway up the stairs,

when the little tentacles
that extend from its body,

which it uses to climb,
take on a clear definition.

It is also said
that it can see with its entire body,

and that at sunset
it looks like the skin of a peach.

In the course of the centuries,

the A Bao A Qu
has only once achieved perfection.

Sir Richard Burton recounts

the legend of the A Bao A Qu

in a note to his version

of "A Thousand and One Nights."

We've decided

to close with this text, because

it illustrates the film perfectly.