All language subtitles for Agnes.de.ci.de.la.Varda.2011.S01E04.576p.BDRip.AC3.x264-trand.4

We had to trim this tree back.

It was blocking all the light.

I set out on a series of trips,
filming here and there...

faces and words,
museums, rivers, and art.

I listened to people I met —
sometimes by chance —

AGNÈS VARDA
FROM HERE TO THERE

especially artists whose work I like.

When I returned from my first trip,

the tree already had new shoots.

I continued my travels,
by train or plane,

filming in every city,
not to file a report,

but to capture fragments,
moments, people.

The tree was coming back to life.

I came and went...

and Jean-Baptiste and I edited
the material I'd gathered.

But long before I completed
my journeys and my work,

which lasted well over a year,

the tree,
with new shoots and leaves,

had grown back all its foliage
in less than three months.

You see the process here
in under two minutes.

And viewers will see
these chronicles over several days.

So this series shoots and leaves,
so to speak.

We'll be visiting
many artists in France

at the Lyon Biennial,

and with Pierre Soulages in Sète.

Rivers bring to cities

their movement, vitality, and energy.

Thus, Lyon has brought artists
from all over

to its 2009 Biennial.

It's held in a former sugar mill,
now renovated.

10TH LYON BIENNIAL
THE SPECTACLE OF THE EVERYDAY

Hou Hanru is the curator.

It's called
"The Spectacle of the Everyday."

The idea...

is to show that...

perhaps now is the time to look
at things we've previously ignored.

To reorient the spotlight

toward something we experience
but don't talk about,

that we have no words or images for.

It's a big collective show,
and I'm invited.

I love to watch the preparations

and see how installations are installed.

For my shacks,
corrugated metal siding is assembled...

panels of images are hung...

a temporary beach is brought in...

and a plasma screen is installed.

Further along, strips of film are hung

to create the walls of my film shack.

My closest neighbors are Chinese,
like Yang Jiechang,

who brought pieces of bone
in enameled ceramic.

3,300 pieces, I'm told.

And placemats in tissue paper.

He numbers and signs each piece
and presents them tidily.

Sarah Sze installed fragile elements.

Hers is a quivering world,
full of surprises.

An untitled sphere with a name:
Portable Planetarium.

At the Cartier Foundation

she'd exhibited a giant mobile
made of found objects.

Takahiro Iwasaki kneels by his work.

As the word "Hiroshima" rings
in my head like a horrible gong,

I contemplate the work
of this delicate young man

who, with thread pulled
from the stacked material,

makes the Lilliputian towers
he proudly presents.

Pedro Reyes displays shovels...
in spades!

It's a thin line
between an art exhibit

and a store display.

Michael Lin brought
an entire store from China.

This is from a neighborhood
hardware store in Shanghai.

We bought the whole thing.

It all made the trip to Lyon.

But Michael highlights each object

by displaying each
as if in an interior design store.

This is indeed
the spectacle of the everyday,

and the society of spectacle.

There's even a video of jugglers
to entertain shoppers.

There are lots of artists
from the Orient here!

You could say that.

It depends how you look at it,
from what angle.

If you're in Tokyo,
America is the Orient.

If you're in Paris,

then yes,
the Orient is Japan, China, etc.

- We're in Lyon.
- Yes, so you're right.

We have quite a few artists

who've come from east of Lyon...

including Strasbourg, Germany, etc.

It is indeed all a bit mixed up,

but it accurately reflects

the concept of the world today:

a mixed-up world.

Soccer - that's concrete!

The Yangjiang Group even made it
their reason for being here.

They gathered
around a table to eat, drink...

and bet large sums of money

on soccer games
throughout the world.

The girls announce bets.

They still found time
to come see my film shacks.

What must they think of
Catherine Deneuve and Michel Piccoli?

Their interpreter murmurs
"New Wave."

I'm glad they visited
the inhabitants of Noirmoutier.

Here, Chinese men
from the Guangdong region...

west of Canton...

gaze at the women
of Noirmoutier Island.

It's Mr. Button!

Michel Jeannès.

My acquaintance from Lyon!
I have something for you.

Look what I brought you
from England.

Chocolate buttons.

Everyone calls me Mr. Button.

I'm developing a practice
of simple poetry involving this object.

An artistic project I call
"a zone of poetic intention"

based on the button,
the smallest common cultural object.

When I find a button on the ground...

I pick it up

and note the time and place
and what happened that day.

These are buttons I found
out in the world,

and this is one of the notes I wrote.

That same day? What did you write?

"A black button on the #99 bus
going over Lafayette Bridge,

and two identical white buttons
on Guillotière Bridge."

I found this one in Brest

on May 14, 2008.

You don't sew these on.

You hammer them in.

They're called "bachelor buttons."

This is a year in the diary
of a fibulanomist.

Did you say "fibulanomist"?

That's the word for "button collector."

I distribute these cards.
People take them.

They add a button and a story.

In ten years
I've collected some 800 cards.

Here a woman writes,
"Here is the story of my button.

It bears an anchor,
a souvenir from the Marines,

reminding me of my lost loves,
alas so long ago now.

I was 20.

I remember a Marine I liked,
on the Joan of Arc,

a training ship
in Mers-el-Kébir, Algeria.

That's my whole story."

And they're fine with you
revealing their stories?

Yes, they're fine with it.

I think they're happy.

The idea of buttons
at the heart of my work

goes along
with the collective aspect.

It's participatory.
People bring a lot to it.

Mostly women?

Yes, mostly women.

We're going to La Duchère,

where he's been
establishing connections.

I wrote to the locals.
"Hello, I'm a poet.

I work with objects.
Objects have memories.

Especially buttons."

I used to play
with my mother's box of buttons.

I sensed they had stories to tell
connected with our mothers...

a matrimony of sorts.

We're at the home
of Chantal Roberjot.

She lodges a black cat
and three elderly people.

Chantal participated
in Women's Heritage Days in 2003.

I remember you brought
your box of buttons.

I want to show you this button.

It belonged to a dress I got
for my First Communion

that I stupidly tore
while riding my bike.

I was so sad.

Michel gave me the idea
of letting my buttons speak.

I had never put into words
the emotions I felt

rummaging through my buttons.

This is Aïcha Benayad, a neighbor.

I always resisted
talking about my buttons.

I'll show you the red ones.

By color is nice!

I bought these red buttons
when my daughter was little.

Time has passed so quickly.

It's true that buttons
are tiny little things,

but my God,
they're so loaded with memories...

with culture, so many things!

Do we need to organize this year?

This cat's a little rascal.

He has two buttons that talk too.

His eyes are two talking buttons.

This work is called Women's Secrets.

It's a work in progress.
I asked 100 women.

About 75 replied.

They write down a secret and sew it

into these little canvases
with buttons.

The density and colors vary.
Some are mother-of-pearl.

We say, "My lips are sealed."
Here the secret is sealed.

Unspoken words
are also contained here.

Pain and things like that.

For exhibitions,
the thread side is shown.

Have you read the secrets?

No, I'm the keeper of the secrets
entrusted to poetry.

They're not meant to be read.

Back to the Biennial...

with its wall facing the Rhône
and the press car.

The expo features a graffiti artist
whose work is never done.

For good reason.

The Yangjiang gang's performance
lasted three days.

Then they returned to Southern China,

leaving behind a video of themselves,
soccer predictions,

and 120 empty bottles
of Chinese beer.

Here are a few,
souvenirs of their stay.

Their artwork is the remainders
from their happening.

The place is hopping...

but few find their way
to my hidden video.

A beached whale
angry at the state of the world.

We block out violence
as much as possible.

We flee from it. It's only natural.

I flee to Sète.

I had filmed the people there
on the beach one winter.

I always enjoy arriving
on the train along the water.

I have so many memories
here and there.

Civette Bridge in the center of town...

the Palais Consulaire of my teen years...

the harbor,
where you can see the sea...

and on the other side of town,

Thau Pond and La Pointe Courte,

where I shot my first film.

I have memories here,
and even a lane bearing my name.

I still know some fishermen,
who've grown old along with me.

Still the same nets,
boathouses, and garages.

I notice some stills from my film.

These pictures were
at the community center.

They'd put them on the scrap pile.

I said, "My whole family's here.
I'm taking them!"

Some nerve!
Show me your family.

How can you ask me
who my family members are?

My grandfather, my grandmother,

my uncle, my brother, and me.

Honestly!

She asks as if she didn't know my family!

I don't always know every name.

- That's Louis.
- My sweetheart.

My brother. That's Joseph.

And Raphaël in the film?

I'm Raphaël!

- In the film?
- Yes.

And your real name?

- Agnès!
- I'm losing my mind.

Your first name?
- Marcel.

And you played Raphaël?

- And your brother?
- He didn't do anything.

- His name?
- He wasn't called anything.

Agnès, you're losing it.

Yes, I'm losing it.

But I'm older than you!

Sure, but still!

Much older.

In the film I was 23.

And I was 26. Makes sense.

Really?

Our stories match.

Okay.

My heavens! We worked
with Philippe Noiret and Sylvia Monfort.

It was all new to me.

Agnès came around to the house

before the film

and asked us questions.

And she put everything
we said into the film.

She retraced...

the story of my —

That's my maternal grandmother.

My grandfather didn't want
to give his daughter to my father.

- I'll teach you!
- I did nothing wrong!

You're too young to see boys.

Mom got married at 19.

- I played the role —
- Of the young suitor?

Of my father.
I played the role of my father.

You brought in this girl.

Miss Banegas.
She worked at the market.

She played my mother.

Oh, right.

Is it coming back?

It's coming back.

I only have this film to remember.

You have so many to mix up!

You can't remember your first!

Yet it's easy
to remember the jousts.

The ritual hasn't changed.

These were filmed in 1954...

and these, in summer of 2010.

The latter take place at night,
with no rowers.

These are junior jousts,
with motorboats.

Some of the kids are very young.

But it's the same waiting
for a jouster to fall.

And the same fun.

This boy is declared winner,

like the character of Raphaël in the film.

When they make me champion,
when I'm declared the winner,

my future father-in-law is so happy
I won all the jousts

that he gives me his daughter.

Here's Raphaël.

How are you, my boy?
- Fine.

Nice tournament.
Going to the dance tonight?

What about it, Anna?

Thank you. See you then.

Now you talk to him
and let him dance with Anna.

You're a good man.

He jousted well.

He'll be a real man.

Here's a man itching for a fight.

Who's his enemy?

Himself.

This is a video by Cuban artist
Alexandre Arrechea.

We're at a temporary exhibition
of Caribbean art.

Further along,
an icon of power by Hew Locke...

with a cat.

"Yum-yum!"
says Thomas Vuille's cat,

immortalized in Marker's film,
The Case of the Grinning Cat.

MIAM is the name of this museum,

the International Museum
of Modest Art.

It's one of a kind.

Hervé di Rosa with his paintings.

He's a member
of the Free Figuration movement.

They borrow from comics,
rock music, and graffiti.

We're here to talk to him
about MIAM,

which he founded with Bernard Belluc.

Each contributed his collection.

Between the two of us,

we have a good cross-section
of modest, popular art.

We thought,
"Someday we'll open a museum."

Here we have
quite a complete collection of items,

many of them manufactured,

some of them hand-crafted,

that were originally made
for purely commercial purposes.

Objects given away as prizes —

like the famous prizes
in Bonux detergent.

A soda bottle...

a yogurt with the expiration date
on the lid, etc.

When the ad campaign is over,

when the product has been consumed,

when the prize bores the kids
and gets sold or thrown out,

it takes on a poetic quality.

Even some brands
that produced thousands of prizes

never kept any archives.

Thanks to a few weirdos like us,

this stuff is being archived.

In 50 years' time,

these things won't exist anymore
because nobody cared.

These once-useful objects

lost their usefulness
and were tossed aside.

They're orphans of invention.

All this stuff forms a family

that no one ever really looked after.

I call this family "modest art."
These images and objects.

Another temporary exhibition at MIAM

explores the colorful world of wrestling.

It has a catchy title: Kitsch Catch.

There we discover a world of masks.

Images of fervor and furor.

A stroll by the harbor.

Then, my usual hotel being full,
I seek another one.

More kitsch.

I can choose
between an all-white room —

Now that's a feather bed!

Or an all-black room.

Black is a must, because the next day
I'm visiting Pierre Soulages,

the painter who works with black
the way others work the soil.

He lives on a hill,
surrounded by trees,

just past the harbor,

between the museum
and the Maison Vilar.

When I saw this horizon,
my heart leapt.

My friends said,
"Did you find your old house?"

I said, "No, but I bought
an empty horizon."

He and his wife
knocked down a shabby old place

and drew up plans for their house.

I spotted a place down below

and decided to put my studio there.

I don't like imposing studios,
the kind that have...

views in every direction.

I'd be too tempted by the view.

My studio is closed off from the sea,

a place where I can focus completely

on what I'm doing.

When I set out this rock,
I want privacy.

It means I'm painting, I'm working.

I insist on being alone.
Everyone out.

- Even Colette?
- Yes.

His wife, Colette, from Sète.
A woman of immense discretion.

When I first met Colette,

we went to the Fabre Museum.

We've been together ever since.

It's been 68 years now.

The Pompidou Center,
the Museum of Modern Art.

Over 500,000 people
have come out of curiosity

or with varying degrees
of pleasure or emotion

to see some 90 paintings
by Soulages.

The number of paintings
is the artist's age.

"I like black's authority,

its gravity,
its self-evidence, its radicalism."

"Black has unsuspected possibilities,

and conscious of what I do not know,
I go to meet them."

Apparently it's necessary
at exhibitions like this

to write on the walls.

I see things I said long ago,
with the date.

But I'm more interested
in the paintings,

not what I said about them.

Is it daunting
to have such a big exhibition?

I've had exhibitions before...

when I was much younger.

I had one in a gigantic space

in Houston, Texas.

I was wondering how we could
eliminate the picture rails.

The curator,
James Johnson Sweeney, said...

"Just hang the paintings.
Suspend them."

I didn't like the word "suspend,"
but that's what we did.

We hung nylon wires
and attached the paintings to them.

When you suspend paintings in space...

the viewer is free
to compare one painting

with any other painting behind it,
depending on the angle.

I found that idea so fascinating

that beginning in the 1960s...

I've done it a number of times.

On a wall,
a painting is like a window.

But suspended from cables,
it becomes an object.

And its status as an object

is expressed in its title,
which gives its size.

I date them too,
but the date isn't the title.

It's to distinguish
between two different paintings

of the same size.

But the real title is the size.

WHY BLACK? BECAUSE.

You can see
that this group of paintings

were all done with the same black.

People who don't look closely say...

"It's all black."

They have black on the brain.

But if they look with their eyes,

they realize it's about something else.

In fact, when I started doing
these paintings,

I myself realized
I wasn't working with black

but with light reflecting
off different black surfaces.

It's shiny in some places...

muted in others.

Or maybe rhythmic. It depends.

ULTRABLACK

What's this passage
from black to "ultrablack"?

I had a big exhibition
at the Paris Museum of Modern Art.

We called it "Black Light."

I thought it was a good title,

but it bothered me a bit.

So I invented a word...

meaning "beyond black,"
"beyond black light."

That word was outrenoir.

Outrenoir signifies...

a mental space,
not an optical phenomenon.

But it sounds like "outretombe,"
"beyond the grave."

Sure, and also —

- And outremer.
- Or outre-Atlantique, outre-Rhin.

It signifies another land...

a land beyond black.

This triptych was shown
at the Pompidou,

but it's among the work
Soulages keeps in Sète.

It looks good here, facing the sea.

I prefer natural light
to the Pompidou lighting,

which is spot lighting with no diffusers.

And here it's next to the sea.

The sea is reflected in it.

Today it's one color,
but on another day —

One day a storm lit up the trees,
and the painting turned green.

What emotions have you felt

that you've transmitted wordlessly
through your paintings?

Why are some people moved to tears
just looking at them?

I think...

it affects them somehow.

They're shaken up.
They encounter something.

Jean-Claude Dugrip tells us
about his experience.

He's cultural advisor
to the mayor of Sète.

I was about 20.

- When was this?
- 1987.

I was running a small gallery.

We thought it'd be nice
to invite Soulages,

do something with him.

I went to see him in Paris,
oddly enough.

He was very nice.

He showed me in, but he was busy.

So I waited an hour with his paintings.

At a certain point...

I was overcome with emotion.

I don't know how to describe it.

This isn't exactly the same,

but when I was young I'd listen
to Albinoni's Adagio.

The first music that makes you cry.

The way you cry to Prévert's "Barbara."
It was like that.

I never imagined
a painting could have that effect.

That day I understood or I felt...

what he must have put
into the black of his work.

That's what we feel.

If we spend some time
letting the work penetrate us,

we're overcome with emotion.

This is where the artist works,
in silence.

Painting on a tarp on the floor.

When I paint on the floor,
I use these beams.

The bridge allows me...

to work directly on the canvas
without walking on it.

- You never paint standing up?
- Sure.

I'm always standing
the painting up to check it.

I like to be immersed
in the painting as I work.

Quite often I don't truly know
if a painting is really finished...

until I set it against the wall
for a week,

then look at it again.

There have been paintings...

I thought weren't finished yet...

and they declared themselves finished,
so to speak.

There are others...

I consider failures,
so I get rid of them.

I keep the frame

and burn the painting out here.

So this is the cemetery?

More the spot
where I burn paintings.

The crematorium.

The idea is appealing,

and a burning painting
makes an interesting spectacle.

- So these ashes are from...?
- Failed attempts.

I like wood. I like rusted metal.

I like materials that are alive,
that change.

I was walking along a dock,

and there were
these enormous pieces of wood

imported from Africa.

I talked them into cutting me a slice.

It wasn't this color.
It was originally red.

But there's the sea and spray...

salt in the winter,
and the sun too.

The same sun shines on his neighbors,

the deceased
in the cemetery by the sea.

Paul Valéry is buried here.

He sang of this cemetery...

and of the lateen sails like doves.

"This quiet roof,
where dove-sails saunter by

Between the pines,
the tombs, throbs visibly

Impartial noon
patterns the sea in flame

That sea forever starting and restarting"
You know that one?

"When thought has had its hour

How rewarding
are the long vistas of celestial calm!"

Jean-Louis Trintignant is giving
a poetry recital at the Seaside Theater.

I started out with a theme:
love and death.

He chose works by Jacques Prévert,
Boris Vian, and Robert Desnos.

"A poet is a being unique

Who comes in all allures

Who thinks in verse
and writes in music

On many different things

Some red and some green

But always on the beat"

You chose poems

that speak to people.

I don't want it to be intellectual or elitist.

Boris Vian.

"First of all...

there's much merit
in marrying a younger woman.

There's much merit
in marrying a woman.

There's much merit in marrying.

Not to mention the merde!

Second of all...

there's much merit
in marrying an older woman.

There's much merit
in marrying a woman.

There's much merit in marrying.

Not to mention the merde!

Third of all...

there's much, much,
much, much merde!

Not to mention the merit
in marrying a woman."

I still continue on
because I enjoy doing this,

but it's very hard for me
to get to the stage.

Even to get to Sète.

Fortunately I have
a younger wife who drives me.

And I have a cane!

There's one I didn't recite:

"From two moons one,
the other is the sun."

Nice, isn't it? Prévert.

I hear the moon rose during the show.
Did you see it?

- No, I only had eyes for you.
- It depends where you're sitting.

I wanted to film a bit.
I'll use a few excerpts.

I'm working these days
with impressions, touches.

And you touched me.

Thank you. I'm touched to hear it.

This is getting touchy!

That's enough.

Thank you very much, Jean-Louis.

The Poetry Festival,
created by Maïthé Vallès-Bled,

continues in an old chapel in town.

Palestinian poet
Ghassan Zaqtan recites,

followed by his translator.

"The soldier that the patrol
forgot in the garden...

the patrol that the border guards
forgot at the barricade...

the barricade
that the occupation army forgot

at the threshold..."

POETRY

In the Quartier Haut,
in a secluded garden,

we await an Asian poet...

who isn't showing up.

Nadia Gerber plays Satie.

Music, the sea —
what more do you need?

Here's my version of the seaside.

First... a photograph.
It's like we're there.

We feel the splashing waves.

But it's a static image,
flat, vertical, and silent.

Second... the photo continues on film.

It moves, it has sound.

Another type of representation.

Three... a bit of sand.

The reality of the beach,
like at the seaside.

Noelle Tissier invited me
to show my work at the CRAC in Sète.

THE SEA... ET-SÈTE-RA
Thanks, Noelle.

She brought in sand...

and I'd filmed some at the beach.

Optical illusions.

The sea diffracted.

Broken up.

In dialogue with other works
in the gallery:

Nicolas Floc'h
and his Pelagic Tower.

I go out on the dock...

and visit the Calli brothers,
Angel and Daniel.

One is a head fisherman.

The other is a netmaker.

Even if I don't go out to sea,
I go see my boat.

- Where is it?
- Right nearby.

- What's it called?
- Eros Calli.

- Calli is your family name.
- And Eros is my son's name.

- You named him Eros?
- Yes.

- That's gutsy.
- It's the god of love.

Your parents named you Angel.

Why?

Because of our Italian and Sicilian roots.

We take our grandfather's name.

So your grandfather was called Angel?

On both sides, paternal and maternal.

A netmaker's job

is making nets for trawlers.

He makes them new,
buys nylon twine,

calculates the dimensions,
and makes the net.

Based on the boat's size?

Based on its engine power.

Is he paid by the net or by the hour?

If he were paid by the hour,
he'd be very, very rich.

- But unfortunately...
- That's not the case.

He gets a percentage
of the catch.

If there's a good catch
and it sells well,

we make money and share it.

How many on board?

Four.

The netmaker's on board too.
- How do you split it?

We split it 45/55.

When the catch is sold,
we know what we've earned.

We subtract expenses and fuel.

Then we split it

55% for the boat,

45% for crew,

less tax.

If we don't catch or sell anything,
we earn nothing.

You order nets from your brother?

Of course.
If I need nets, I go to my brother.

I know what I'm getting.
I know they'll be good.

A good net catches fish easily.

If the fish agree.

No fish wants to be caught,
but some are more clever.

How do they get away?

They try to swim faster than the net.

A fish can move like you.

It stays out in front of the net,
and you can't catch it.

It swims and swims.

If we put you in the water,
after 10 hours you stop, exhausted.

By the time it's in the net,
the fish has drowned.

It drowns before it's caught?

90% of all fish are dead when caught.

Really?

Leaving the net workshop,

I see many more nets on the dock.

These tools of their trade —

barrels, ropes, nets —

are displayed so beautifully...

they'd make certain
installation artists red with jealousy.

We say "outsider art."

Could these be
"outsider installations"?

And the simple creaking
of a securely tied gangplank —

is that not the subtlest of music?