Long Sorrow

 

In the thirteen minute film by Anri Sala, we are pulled into a small room, slowly. The camera image deliberately controls our pace. There is something there beneath the open window but we can't yet make out what it is. Sounds of a saxophone are audible. We are made aware of the camera's presence. Our perspective changes as the camera rolls in. From radiator to window to saxophone to mouth-piece, the camera is constantly reframing. We are given fractional sites of embodiment, shifting, as the notes are heard. This fragmentary presentation adds to our intensity. 

 Image and sound articulate one another.  

 Captivated by the soulful and sorrowful whaling of the free-jazz artist, Jemeel Moondoc, we are drawn into the music in an empathetic response.

Michael Fried brought in this film to help give credence to some of his theories on art. 

In this film we are made aware of the saxophonist playing while sitting on the ledge of an apartment building. He is absorbed in his music. He is unaware of being viewed. Fried talks of the absorption as its  "to be seen-ness."

Fried has long complained of Donald Judd and the "literalists," of not owning up to the theatricality of their work. 

In, "Long Sorrow," the emphasis of the activity of the camera is seen by Fried as the "owning up" to its theatricality. We are made aware of the camera but we are drawn in by the music. The music takes us inward, into the soul of this man and into ourselves as well as taking us outside where we hear church bells and traffic. 

I loved the music in this film. And yet, thinking back on the evening, it is also Fried's voice that I hear, rapidly firing his words as though there was an urgency in his getting out all that he had to say.

The music of the film held conviction. We were caught in the moment, spellbound by the improvisation of the saxophone. "Like a high wire act," Fried said, "at any moment it could fail." We "experienced" the intensity through each moment.