Imagine an apartment somewhere in Paris. The windows are covered to black out the daylight, and inside seven or eight television screens are perpetually switched on. One receives satellite broadcasts from Korea, another from China, while a third is hooked up to French cable. Above the sounds of the television, ambient jungle noises are playing. The room is immaculately tidy, crammed with books, tapes and the mementos of a lifetime of travel and friendship. The occupant of the apartment, Chris Marker, spends much of his time taping the television broadcasts, writing the audio-visual archives of the future. He sits and sleeps with his legs folded up in an arm-chair, like an elderly monkey who has no use for a bed. Visitors find him friendly and polite, a fast talker and a fast thinker (although there is no point trying to continue the conversation if a programme about parrots happens to start on the animal Channel). But at the end of the day, he his happiest to be by himself, creating his own worlds by recording and reflecting upon the images os this one, and holding them up as mirrors and masks for the deepest cultural memories and desires of the histories we live.
in Chris Marker: Memories of the Future
Catherine Lupon