Heidegger, Nietzsche, and the Cycle of Shadows: Todtnauberg or The Eternal Return.
High up in the Black-Forest (Schwarz-Wald), I see (S-E-E !!) a wooden cabin, standing like an island of silence. There, in that « abode », M. Heidegger (the Thinker-of-Being & of the Forgetting-of-Being: poof !) once sought, hmm, his Thought. July ’49, he received P. Celan there (the Survivor. The Poet of G-A-S) — a meeting with a bitter S-C-E-N-T. From this, the poem Todtnauberg, where resonates, yes, this waiting for a word of repentance… that never came, (NEVER !). 70+ years later, I return to these places (these P-L-A-C-E-S? phantom-places !) to measure how far the 20th century, (that CENTURY !), still haunts our L-A-N-D-S-C-A-P-E-S.
I am from here, born a few kilometers away. By origin. No Choice.
So: not innocent. The forest Heidegger gazed upon — I breathed it. Not by choice. By origin.
My Series. Todtnauberg, or the Eternal Return. I want it (WILLE !) to be a visual exploration traversing this damned century (past !) while looking towards the F-U-T-U-R-E. Each Image — E-V-I-D-E-N-C-E — is a mirror (held up) to History AND an alarm signal for tomorrow. (Let's be P R E C I S E !)
My gaze unfolds (yes, unfolds) in a tracking shot. The snow-covered cabin converses with the shell-pocked lands of Verdun (’14-’18 : the Prelude !) ; a building almost swallowed by the snow suggests the shadow (the Shadow ! the Black !) of the Gas-Chambers ; further on, the hair-of-my-daughter on a hotel sheet in Amsterdam : Zack ! the echo of the Todesfuge (C L E A R !). Between these markers, fragments emerge : the cigar-portrait (a heavy smoker !) of this Grandfather Ex-Nazi (ah, these family memories !) ; in counterpoint, the attentive face of my daughter, (the Future ?). It is at the intersection of these Three Registers — Landscape, Literature, Family-Memory — that I sketch (with geo-metric rigour) the sensitive cartography of my Series. A continent where authoritarian violence returns, I-N C-Y-C-L-E-S, as soon as memory fades (the great Forgetting !).
Visually : Purity. (RIGOUR !) The blacks are deep (d-e-e-p !), the whites stinging (ouch !), the colours barely breathed. Nothing spectacular (Spectacle ? That's Kitsch !). Silence dominates & forces us, forces us to CONTEMPLATION (slow !). The image : it does not denounce, it suggests. It is for each to fill in the blanks, as snow covers without erasing.
In filigree (that Question that niggles !) : « Why this silence ? » — The one Celan already threw at M.H. (the Thinker who did not see the Plague). I do not pretend (Me ?!) to solve the enigma. I weave (W-E-A-V-E !) a web of echoes between Verdun, Auschwitz, Gaza, or Sarajevo. Everywhere, moral inertia has allowed the spiral-of-violence to resume its course.
In my Notebooks (always W-R-I-T-E !) : « That which threatens does not always scream, but gently settles into the folds of everyday life. » Todtnauberg : neither manifesto nor nostalgia. A simple Nightlight (small light, attention !) placed on our Collective-Memory. Forgetting, (the True Enemy !), fuels the Eternal Return. Only active Vigilance — intimate, political, artistic — can break the loop (T H I S L O O P !).
My Visual Narrative : The Three (3 !) Strata
I. The Landscape (Palimpsest)
Heidegger's snow-covered Cabin : an austere Edifice, set in a whiteness (that absorbs sounds, yes). Further on, the shell-pocked ground of Verdun. (The mud ! the blood !) An engulfed building echoes the architecture of the Gas-Chambers. I dig (with shovel and microscope !) into the Topography of this Continent. Every geological stratum = a memorial stratum.
II. Literature (Moral Compass)
A Lock-of-Hair (on the sheet ! immaculate !) in Amsterdam. Zack ! The Todesfuge rises : « Dein goldenes Haar Margarete / Dein aschenes Haar Sulamith ». (Horror & beauty in two Lines !) Celan’s Poetry mingles with fragments of Heidegger. Implicit trial of this Thought which wanted to walk (so badly !) out of metaphysics (that Grand Tool) while remaining BLIND to the political abyss.
III. The Intimate (Tipping-Point)
At the Heart of my Series : the Portrait. My GRANDFATHER, former Nazi, cigar in hand. The Gaze : almost banal. That is EXACTLY what disturbs me. Opposite, my Daughter. Childlike silhouette. Pacing (with a fierce curiosity !) these places : a bit like Oskar Matzerath (in The Tin Drum) who refuses adulthood. Between these two faces : the Memory-Relay. The possibility, or not, of saying : STOP the Loop !