Marcin Giżycki

ANIMATION’S TURNING POINT

ANIMATION, recorded on a photosensitive film, is but an episode in what animation always was — an art of creating the illusion of movement that never actually took place in reality. This art, rooted in prehistoric rock drawings, is ever–present, even though we rarely realize it. It became an important element of advertisements, art installations, trick camerawork in feature films and video games. It’s present in our cellphones. It becomes ‘total art’ at a rapid pace.

Throughout the last 20 years, alongside the digital revolution, the traditional definition of an animated movie has been put to test. The rise of video and digital recording and editing methods, real time animation techniques such as motion capture — all cause the traditional stop motion animation to seem like a novelty from the olden days.

 In a way, we’ve come full circle and reverted to pre–cinematography times, when animated ‘movies’ were created on whatever was at hand — paper strips, cardboard discs or book margins. Giannalberto Bendazzi, a renowned film historian, is probably right when he claims: ‘Animation is everything that people have called animation in the different historical periods’. I’m willing to go even further and propose that any movie is an animated movie if its creator declares it to be so.

The commercial potential of new media is undisputed. But what are the consequences of this revolution? Consequences for art, the artistic animated film? First and foremost, it started looking for new spaces. Today’s animation, thanks to video projections, settled permanently in art galleries . Even the most eminent contemporary museums invite animation artists. New York’s Museum of Modern Art organized exhibitions of William Kentridge and Tim Burton in 2010 alone and prepares for a big Quay brothers exhibit in August of 2012. Visions of Central Europe (Bruges, 2010), an important contemporary art exhibit curated by Luc Tuymans, a renowned painter, saw works by such animators as Jan Švankmajer, Pritt Pärn, Zbigniew Rybczyński, the Quay brothers, Walerian Borowczyk, Wojciech Bąkowski and an unexpected appearance of a non–European artist — Takashi Murakami. Warsaw’s Museum of Contemporary Art is not lagging behind with its 2011 exhibition Black and White, presenting animations by Phil Mulloy, Philippe Grammaticopoulos, William Kentridge and Piotr Dumała. More and more artists who don’t consider themselves to be animators per se, include animations of various types in their multimedia installations — Jeremy Blacke (who passed away prematurely), Julian Opie or Paul Chan, just to name a few. There are also artists, who — like the Iranian Avish Khebrehzadeh, not to mention Kentridge — create more conventional animated movies, but they rather display them in galleries than at festivals. The animated film, not so long ago just a poor and unwanted cousin of live action features, finally emancipated itself and became an art form that is taken seriously. It’s being used more often by creators in other disciplines, like the aforementioned Kentridge and Murakami (known for his manga–inspired installations) or the Poles Janek Koza — underground comics writer, photographer Tomek Sikora or Mariusz Wilczyński — an occasional performer.

Galleries, museums and festivals are definitely prestigious (TV and cinema are not worth mentioning here), but they are not the most important venues for the presentation of artistic animation. The Internet has assumed that role instead. The Web is an animation paradise.

Everything is animated — vignettes and decorative gifs, ads, even text itself. It’s also the kingdom of videogames, which started a new type of animated movie — machinima.

But most of all, the Internet is a platform for presenting artists’ works. There’s obviously a lot of garbage, but many respected artists, like Wiczyński, Burton or David Lynch (yes, he’s creating animations, too) share the products of their work on their own websites or portals like Vimeo or YouTube. But works made exclusively for the Internet are the real phenomenon here. Olya Lyalina, a Russian–born artist, who lives and lectures in Berlin, is not only a net.art pioneer, but also one of its brightest stars — being just over 40, it shows how young the medium is.

Lyalina appears in this context as an Internet animation researcher first and foremost.

She’s been tracking and collecting animated gifs for years, regarding it as symptoms of spontaneous folk art of the electronic era. The Web has also created its own celebrity animators, artists virtually unknown to festivalgoers — people like Spiridellis brothers (Gregg and Evan), authors of This Land — one of the biggest Internet hits, a political satire created during the second presidential campaign of George W. Bush; Chaps brothers (Mike and Matthew Chapman), creators of Homestar Runner (2005), a popular flash series; finally — Todd Rosenberg (aka Odd Todd), known for his cartoons starring an unemployed protagonist. Russia also sees the rise in production of satirical, very funny flash shorts, called multiks. There are also festivals and competitions showing exclusively Internet content, like the Webby Awards, Flash Forward Film Festival, Minimotion Animation Competition, NSI Online Short Film Festival et al. Polish animators have yet to take full advantage of the opportunities the Internet presents, although there are some domestic phenomena, such as Włatcy Móch (Lorts of the Flys).

It’s interesting that the rapid progression of the Internet as animation’s distribution channel has not hurt animation festivals. In fact, in recent years they have proliferated and it’s probably because of the Internet to a degree. That’s where competition application news is announced; that’s where people look for new names and works. Young festivals are looking for their own character, an identity different from ‘old’, mainstream festivals. Punto y Raya in Madrid specializes in abstract films, and Animateka in Ljubljana — in Central–European productions (Including Italy and countries from former Yugoslavia). Perhaps the popularity of animated films on the Internet sparked interest among younger Internet users, for whom projection–based festivals offer an entirely new way of experiencing the medium? The fact that students are the majority audience of animated film festivals is not coincidental.

There was another, local transformation in Poland, parallel to the global media revolution: after years of male dominance in animation, women emerged with a prominent voice. That is not to say there were no female animators in the People’s Republic of Poland. It is worth mentioning Teresa Badzian, Halina Bielińska, Katarzyna Latałło, Teresa Puchowska–Sturlis, Zofia Oraczewska, Zofia Ołdak, Łucja Mróz–Raynoch, Alina Skiba and especially Alina Maliszewska, who created 1973’s Plugawe słowo (Filthy Word), one of the early examples of Polish gender cinema (although the list could be even longer). But still, female animators usually worked on children’s shows and their own works did not exist in the consciousness of the critics and rarely appeared at festivals, even though many of them deserved it. The new wave of female animation in USA and Canada, represented by Joanna Priestley, Joan Gratz, Susan Pitt, Caroline Leaf, Jane Aaron, Kathy Rose, Eunice Macaulay and Karen Aqua among others, started as early as the 70s, although a few women — Lilian Friedman, Mary Ellen Bute, Evelyn Lambart and Faith Hubley — made their mark on the field even earlier. Polish animators set out to conquer the world at the beginning of this century. In British Film Institute’s Women and Animation: A Compendium (edited by Jayne Pilling, 1992), there are only three Polish directors in the Former Eastern bloc chapter: Ewa Bibańska, Zofia Oraczewska and Ewa Ziobrowska. In comparison, there is over a dozen of Russian animators, and even more from the US. Curiously enough, the dictionary appended at the end of the book identifies Marian Cholerek as a woman, even though he is definitely not a transsexual or even fond of feminism.

Should Pilling’s book be published today, the proportions would certainly be different. The list of prizes, awarded to Polish women at international festivals is impressive and keeps on growing. These claims are not unfounded — Wiola Sowa’s Refreny (Choruses) were given awards in New York, Lisbon, Banjaluka, Krakow, Miskolec, Ljubljana, Belgrade and Vilnus; Iza Plucińska’s Jam Session won competitions in Berlin, St. Petersburg, Bilbao and Leipzig; Tôt ou tard (A squirrel and a bat), created by Switzerland–based Jadwiga Kowalska, won trophies in Anvers, Bremen, Teheran, Ljubljana, Oberhausen and Poznan; finally, Marta Pajek’s Snępowina has been awarded the highest honors in Vienna, Krakow and Lodz, though the movie still appears at various festivals, so the list is incomplete. This is just the beginning of a list encompassing many more titles and names, honored at domestic and international competitions.

The new media seem to shift the pre–established balance of power and break taboos. This is just the beginning of a whole new adventure.

Mariusz Frukacz

GENERATIONAL SHIFT. YOUNG POLISH ANIMATION

The last decade in Polish animation has been filled with mood swings. On one hand, we’ve experienced a deadly collapse of production, the destruction of the animation industry, the loss of an entire generation of young artists, and the departure of the masters of the Polish School of Animation. On the other — there has been a revival of public financing; new, strong personalities emerged; finally, private animation studios started to grow strong, and animation features gained recognition at the most important festivals, shining with the dazzle of the Oscars. Where is Polish animation today? Where is it heading? Who or what is its main driving and/or impeding force? It’s time to summarize the changes we have witnessed after the year 2000.

TOMBSTONE PORTRAIT

The transformation of 1989 caused a slow but effective deconstruction of the artificial production and artistic system of Polish animation, detached from the realities of the market. The most important factors — the cut-off of government patronage, the withdrawal of public television from movie production and changes in the demands of the audience all led to a progressing devaluation of auteur cinema and productions aimed at children. The sad finale of the process was marked by the collapse of major film studios (SFA in Kraków) and their hasty rescue by means of turning them into employee-owned companies at the beginning of the 21st century, as well as by the departure of many masters of Polish animation (Szczechura and Urbański) or their demise (Lenica). The lack of reliable, modern education and debut opportunities created a generational gap — only a few 1990s graduates remained in the industry. TV series aimed at children and teenagers, created mainly in The Animated Film Television Studio in Poznań, along with music videos and TV shorts, were the mainstay of production. If we combine this with an almost total lack of distribution of the few works that were developed (abandoning the practice of releasing short features accompanying feature films and a small number of festivals), we are left with a depressing landscape of Polish animation at the beginning of the 21st century.

PRODUCTION SYSTEM

The revival had many facets and a few main players. The most important factors were: technological revolution — conversion to digital recording and editing, the spread of computer-based animation techniques, the appearance of young artists who craved for change and the formation of the Polish Film Institute in 2006, which offered operational programs supporting development, production and, indirectly, promotion of animated movies (through festival co-financing). While analyzing production in the last decade, one cannot fail to notice an exponential growth in the number of solid, professional animations, as well as improvement of the quality of student etudes, supported by PFI funds.

In recent years, young artists are also backed by the Polish Filmmakers Association, with support programs like 30 minutes, First Documentary and Young Animation. The free market allowed small, privately owned film studios (Serafiński Studio, Mansarda, recently FUMI Studio) and production agencies (Platige Image) to emerge and successfully compete with the established studios like Se-ma-for, SMF or TvSFA. Artists themselves also have not lacked initiative and created temporary studios for the purpose of producing their own films. Some have developed their movies outside of the public financing and promotion system (like Wojciech Bąkowski). Even so, after a couple years of enthusiasm caused by a distinct normalization of the system, more and more creators voice their discontent. A large disparity in awarding funds by PFI, which marginalizes animation and documentaries in favor of live action features, as well as irrational financial decisions, resulting in funding projects with low artistic potential at the expense of undertakings that are fresh and could revitalize the face of Polish animation (like Tomasz Kozak’s adaptation of Trans-Atlantyk by Witold Gombrowicz) — all of which gave critics many reasons to complain. It also seems that one of the deadliest sins committed by the decision-makers is a total lack of backing for innovative and experimental projects, which always spearhead change.

YOUTH ON THE HORIZON

Young artists have always been an extremely important part of this landscape. They were the catalyst of the transition from photosensitive recording and editing techniques to digital technology in the first years of this century. Open to new ideas, familiar with computers and digital cameras, but limited to a skimpy budget of academic etudes — they had to and wanted to use cheaper, quicker, and more accessible tools. The revolution also brought a willingness to use digital animation, both two- and three-dimensional. Piotr Karwas` Maski (Masks, 1998), Berlin’s Golden Bear and Annecy Jury Award winner, movies by Wojciech Wawszczyk (Headless, 1999; Mouse, 2001) or Oscar-nominated Katedra (The Cathedral, 2002) — a debut by Tomasz Bagiński — these are the movies that popularized such techniques among both viewers and creators. But the beginnings were not easy — the creators recall the lack of understanding towards their needs, equipment shortages, and most of all — the absence of personnel skilled in new technologies. Foreign (mostly German) scholarships and collaborations with modern advertising agencies turned out to be the chance for growth. Using innovative techniques often resulted in rejection, or at least loose treatment of the „great narratives” of Polish School of Animation. Philosophical and sociological musings on the surrounding reality have been mitigated by irony and sarcasm (Janek Sowa, Maciej Majewski) or even replaced by personal, almost intimate „small narratives”, where the questions of identity, feelings and interpersonal relations move to the forefront. The accent shift resulted in reigniting the interest in animation of the audience at large, made possible by the growth of the Internet and numerous new film festivals (like Animator Festival in Poznan). The last decade was also the time of vivid, well-executed (both technically and artistically) student films, which — in the light of the absence of professional production — accounted for the strength of Polish animation. It is impossible to mention all the important etudes, but the ones that are still remembered today are claymations by Iza Plucińska (2005’s Jam Session, awarded the Silver Bear at the Berlinale), mythical worlds of Joanna Jasińska-Koronkiewicz (Mileńka in 2001, Dunia — tam i z powrotem [Dunia — There and Back Again] in 2003), ironic commentaries on the absurds of life by Maciej Majewski (Uwaga! Złe psy [Beware of Dogs], 2001) and a group of talented students from the Academy of Fine Arts in Krakow: the subtly surrealistic Izabela Bartosik-Burkhardt (Schadzka [A Get-together], 2003, Wieczny finał [Eternal Finale], 2004), the vivid painter animation of Tomasz Siwiński (Telewizor [Television], 2005), and most of all — works by Marta Pajek, touching on the delicate matter of the psyche (Po jabłkach [After the Apples], 2004, Za ścianą [Behind the Wall], 2005). The revelations of this period also included cinematic experiments by Olga Wroniewicz from the Academy of Fine Arts in Warsaw (1-39-C, 2004, IO, 2005), as well as monochromatic, visually strong etudes by Wojciech Bąkowski (Pętla [Loop] and Masa [Mass], both 2003). The changing landscape was supplemented by measured, mature, though sometimes belated (by the end of the millennium crisis) debuts. We saw the first releases by such artists as Wiola Sowa, painting women’s emotions (Refreny [Choruses], 2007), Małgorzata Bosek, refreshing the visual side of animation and assuming the feminist perspective (Dokumanimo, 2007), Robert Sowa, insightful in his portrayals of loneliness and impermanence (Sekwens [A Sequence], 2007) and Grzegorz Jonkajtys and his fascinating scope of storytelling (Arka [The Ark], 2007). The canon was expanded by works of artists almost a decade younger: the rhythmic and humorous Laska (The Cane, 2008) by Michał Socha; Miasto płynie (The City Flows, 2009) by Balbina Bruszewska — an irreverent depiction of present times in the convention of an animated musical; finally, the unpretentious, family-oriented Radostki (Little Joys, 2008) by Magdalena Osińska.

FACES OF A GENERATION

Although noticing the generational shift that started a decade ago is not a problem to an attentive observer, trying to define the phenomenon is not that simple. The variety of attitudes is a problem for a critic and, at the same time, the change’s huge asset. We can safely say that young artists are present throughout the full spectrum of the animated film: light entertainment in the form of joking shorts or full-length comic book adaptations (Jeż Jerzy, 2001, dir. W. Wawszczyk, J. Tarkowski, T.Leśniak), artistic productions referencing Polish animation classics (Wiola Sowa), auteur works, presented in galleries (Wojciech Bąkowski, Piotr Bosacki), and finally — animated experiments — the abstract Olga Wroniewicz, the scientific and cognitive Norman Leto (Sailor, 2010) or the animated matter of Anita Kwiatkowska–Naqvi, who uses jelly or rotting meat. But one has to be mindful of the fact that the animated film is only a section of animation, a medium that has become total art in recent years. Young artists create stage animations (Paweł Weremiuk), Internet-based motion graphics, special effects, animated wallpapers for computers and mobile phones. We are witnessing attempts at crossing the boundaries of computer animation, such as combining 2D and 3D animation with painting (the visually impressive Świteź by Kamil Polak, 2010) and comics (Damian Nenow’s Paths of Hale, 2011). One can also notice the distinct revival of classic techniques, in particular stop motion — represented by the daring Drżące trąby (Shivering Horns, 2010) by Natalia Brożyńska — and cartoon animation. The latter saw films that were visually tasteful and full of apt observations, created by Ula Palusińska (Coś w tym gatunku [Something Like That], 2010, Nie ma to jak w kinie [There’s No Place Like A Cinema], 2012), Ewa Borysewicz (Kto by pomyślał? [Who Would Have Thought?], 2009), Zbigniew Czapla (Rytuał [The Ritual], 2010) and abovementioned Marta Pajek (Snępowina, 2011). The written and spoken word is also becoming increasingly important in animations — it broadens narrative possibilities by using poetry (Bąkowski), funny monologue (Brożyńska), a narrator (Jakub Wroński) or conversations and songs (Bruszewska).

PERSPECTIVES

The complete dominance of young artists is evident at animation festivals. Last year’s edition of Animator Festival saw 13 Polish competition submissions — all by young generation directors. Almost all of the prizes (apart from some productions aimed at children) at the 17th edition of OFAFA Festival have been claimed by artists who started out in animation after the year 2000. If the future of Polish animation was up to them — we could relax. But feature films and children’s animations are both weaknesses of the current production and distribution systems. There are some indicators of change of the former, like international co-productions (Droga na drugą stronę [The Road to the Other Side] by Ancia Damian, a touching Polish-Romanian animated documentary), but productions for children - with rich tradition and hundreds of awards and licenses sold around the world — is still experiencing a lack of will to cooperate from parties that, at least theoretically, should place the most interest in the development of this genre of cinema. Without the support of television, focused on buying cheap, low quality foreign TV shows that cost a fraction of a film budget, the PFI financing does not guarantee the continuity and development of future productions. It undermines the foundations of the entire system, for it is difficult to imagine the future conscious consumers of Polish cinema without creations that are valuable, educational, and beneficial to the audience’s film knowledge. We should hope that children’s animations, created more often these days by younger directors (Joanna Jasińska-Koronkiewicz, Andrzej Gosieniecki, Grzegorz Koncewicz), are the signs of impending positive changes that will occur in the near future.

Balbina Bruszewska, Miasto płynie / The City Flows, 2009

Damian Neonow, Paths of hate

Tomasz Siwiński, Telewizor / Television

Kamil Polak, Świteź

Izabela Plucińska, Jam Session

Wojciech Bąkowski, Film mówiony I

Maciej Majewski, Uwaga złe psy / Beware the dogs

Iwona Hałgas

IN THE LAND OF ANIMATED DREAMS

In the animated world of Marta Pajek, written in her characteristic language, the metaphysical breaks through the everyday world. From the other side of the wall, through a crack in the half open door, divided only by a black, tangled line — a dreamlike, irrational reality seeps in to intrude and at times gently flow into the lives of protagonists, whose reality itself is — sometimes literally — a dream life.

A dream exists only where there is real life, to which one can return, but where there’s no reality (…), where there’s nothing but dreams, that’s where it’s the only reality, so it becomes real life. A quote from Stanislaw Lem’s Fables for Robots also relates to the time—space from Pajek’s movies, where dream crosses the threshold of reality, encroaches on it, occupies its turf, causing the threshold to become fluid. None of the cinematographic worlds of the artist limit themselves to present reality, although dreamlike images from her animations are nothing like Alice’s Wonderland. It’s not surprising, since even an ancient philosopher noticed that The real world is one and the same for everybody; in dreams, everyone disappears in their own worlds. Dreamy movies of Krakow—based animator are a reservoir of peculiar universes, with a distinct auteur mark. The vision of the other side of reality, shot in black and white, is nothing like fairy tale ideas of a colorful world of dreams. Harsh images, combined with surrealism concealed behind a simple outline, affect the imagination of a viewer in a suggestive way. Pajek’s surreal, cinematic visions create a wide field of interpretation, left for the viewers by the director. Her animations are open works, in which she allows the audience to individually discover what lies behind ‘the wall’, lurks in the children’s room or where a female protagonist is wrapped by a thin cord of snępowina. It is worth mentioning Priit Pärn, a champion of Estonian animation, who was Pajek’s tutor for a couple of months. Her animations, like the works of the author of Breakfast on the Grass, reveal new meanings with each viewing, allow to notice additional elements of a rich puzzle and awake new layers of emotion.

Marta Pajek, Za ścianą

THIN, BLACK LINE…

Balancing on the verge of dream and reality, exploring alternative states of consciousness and the world of internal experiences of protagonists are all trademarks of all animations created by Pajek thus far. Following a dreamlike convention, full of metaphysics and psychology — all these elements can be found in 2004’s Świetnie… Zaraz Wracam (Great… I’ll Be Right Back), Po jabłkach (After the Apples), created during her stipend in Turku, Finland, as well as subsequent Za ścianą (Behind The Wall) and her newest work — Snępowina. It’s worth mentioning that her filmography has been interchangeable so far — her first and third movie — Świetnie…Zaraz wracam’and Za ścianą — combine cartoon animation and pixelated video images with photographs of actors—protagonists. Her latest movie, Snępowina, completed in 2011, stylistically resembles her earlier work — Po jabłkach, and is equally consistent in using cartoon and digital animation. Snępowina has gained recognition at festivals (main awards at Krakow’s Etiuda&Anima and OFAFA, as well as Tricky Women IAFF in Vienna) and is the dreamiest of all movies by Pajek. The title itself — combining the words ‘sen’ (dream) and ‘pępowina’ (umbilical cord) — depicts dreams as a bridge between the real — based in small, everyday rituals — and the subconscious, with its alternative existence. These two realities, while stripped of clear borders, blend with each other; intertwined images create a unique labyrinth. Deep in the fantastic, magmatic reality, we dream the protagonist’s waking dream alongside her, in a world, where there is only a thin, black line, separating the real from the fantastic. This dark, horizontal stripe opens the dreamlike reality and constantly connects the protagonist with it. Snępowina, uncut, entangles the life of the woman, brings her to the dream side, finally — places her inside of it so strongly that while dreaming, she becomes a powerless puppet. She moves from her parent’s embrace into a man’s arms, unwillingly performing subsequent tasks — dancing, eating and dressing up. The world of her real experiences is hidden on the other side of the (now red) line. The innocent, primal nudity of a woman unveiling from a pool is being confronted with her socialized, genteel manifestation, causing inevitable associations with Freudian id, ego and superego, representing various personality structures. This is apparent in one of the final scenes, where the protagonist looks at her alter ego — which she just battled — lying next to her, and the viewer can see a girl in a pastel dress and shoes, put on by her parents. Freud’s name comes to mind also in the context of the dream drive theory (also correlating with Pajek’s movies). The drive, according to the Viennese psychoanalyst, awakes when we are born, and dreams are a return to our mother’s womb. In Snępowina, just like in Za ścianą and Po jabłkach, there are images of figures in the fetal position, a mother with a sleeping child and dreaming characters, entwined with the theme of returning to the womb. Sleep brings them tranquility, but also allows them to face anxieties, quandaries and fears, burning deep in the subconscious.

Marta Pajek, Świetnie, zaraz wracam

DREAMY MOVIES OF KRAKOW-BASED ANIMATOR ARE A RESERVOIR OF PECULIAR UNIVERSES, WITH A DISTINCT AUTEUR MARK.

CINEMATIC UMBILICAL CORD

The most comprehensive work by the young director — Snępowina, provides us with threads, connecting it with Pajek’s earlier animations. They are reiterating motifs, images, characteristic design, the view of the (un)reality. The dream motif, being both a connection and a gateway to the ‘other side’, can be found in Po jabłkach, created under the watchful gaze of Priit Pärn. A dreamlike propriety, ascetic drawings, intertwinement of material and metaphysical realities — they all anticipate the contents of Snępowina. An austere, bright interior of a room drawn with black ink, combined with an uneasy, darker landscape on the other side of the window, is a rather surprising entourage for irrational events. The moment when a woman with a child in her arms falls asleep is a signal for awakening inanimate objects that have a distinct rhythm to their existence, and their world observes its own, well—defined rhythm. The motif of alternate reality, the world of internal experiences, fears and memories is present in Za ścianą as well. The 2005 graduation diploma combines various techniques: cartoon and computer animation, video photos, pixilation and glass painting. The peaceful, regular life of the hero, experiences an intrusion from the world behind the wall, reminding about what has been repressed and hidden deep in the unconscious. The events from behind a symbolic wall are, in a way, parallel universes we want to leave behind. Distressing affairs, taking place behind half—open doors, are a reminiscence of childhood, unconscious fears and obsessions, revealing themselves in senseless, repeated rituals. An escape into childishness becomes a defense mechanism that allows to avoid confrontation and erase inconvenient, fearsome fragments of reality.

Marta Pajek, Po jabłkach

DEEP IN THE FANTASTIC, MAGMATIC REALITY, WE DREAM THE

PROTAGONIST’S WAKING DREAM ALONGSIDE HER, IN A WORLD,

WHERE THERE IS ONLY A THIN, BLACK LINE, SEPARATING THE REAL FROM THE FANTASTIC.

The female protagonist of Świetnie… Zaraz wracam — slightly lost, steered from the outside — can be linked to the actions and conduct of the girl in Snępowina. Świetnie… is the director’s first film produced outside of Krakow’s Academy of Fine Arts, where Pajek studied at the Graphics Department in the Animated Film Workshop. The picture is a processed recording of a dance, or rather interchanging convulsive and mechanical motions of Gabriela Kramarczyk, a dancer and choreographer, set to a score by Darek Makaruk. The way the dancer moves brings to mind an image of a puppet — helpless, controlled by outside forces, sometimes trying to break free of the strings. Pajek animates her heroin like a marionette in a puppet theatre, demonstrating her disorientation and inability to find herself in the ‘adult’ world, too brutal and unfriendly to a sensitive person. The drama of an adult, albeit immature woman, stems from the fact that returning to a superficially soothing land of childhood brings no shelter either. Her childhood room, expected to be a refuge, turns out to be a cage; cheerful pictures, drawn with a child’s hand, transform into heavy, gloomy paintings.

Just like in other movies by Pajek — the distressing, but also captivating images are accompanied by music that also introduces the audience to her world and allows the viewer’s imagination to run wild. Musical compositions of Tomasz Chołoniewski (Po jabłkach, Za ścianą), Wojciech Lemański (Snępowina), Darek Makaruk (Świetnie… Zaraz wracam), combined with the visual side, create a unique atmosphere, awaken additional emotions and encourage new interpretations.

Images in Pajek’s movies, with their ambiguity and balancing between worlds, captivate the viewer and lead along unsettling paths into the mysterious meanders and secrets of the psyche. The black and white reality of a dream — ascetic, devoid of a riot of colors and images — turns out to be a perfect gateway into the unreal, a stage and catalyst of altered states of consciousness, allowing the protagonists — and the viewers — to peek into the cracks of the very being. Pajek is one of the strongest and most promising names on today’s scene of young Polish animation. Black and white frames in a distinct style, a trademark of this Krakow—based artist, constitute matured, intriguing and reflective cinema. The symbolic umbilical cord, connecting the artist to the dream world, should definitely not be cut — let it propel and feed subsequent visions of ethereal animations that awake in the director’s head.

INNOVATIVE „SMALL NARRATIVES”. ON WOMEN-MADE ANIMATION (editorial discussion)

AGNIESZKA KOZŁOWSKA: Women played a crucial role in the recent revival of Polish animation, noted by critics and the media. In 2006, during the OFAFA Festival, an overwhelming majority of awards were given to female animators. Everyone wondered if this was a sign of a breakthrough in Polish animation, male—dominated up until now. And indeed, in subsequent years it was women who received the festival’s main award — the Golden Line. Before we discuss women—made animation, I’d like for us to outline the situation before the change occurred. Why were men prevailing during the golden years of Polish animation?

ADAM TRWOGA: The development of animation created by women in the last 10 years is only apparently unprecedented. If you examine the history of animation, you can find many interesting names, even in the interwar period. While Lotte Reiniger, a German woman, is renowned the world over, Polish experimental film sees works of Franciszka Themerson, created with her husband Stefan. Notable female artists working in this field after the war were Teresa Badzian, Halina Bielińska, Katarzyna Latałło, Alina Maliszewska, Zofia Ołdak, Zofia Oraczewska, Alina Skiba, Aleksandra Korejwo and Łucja Mróz—Raynoch. That’s a lot of names, but unlike their Czechoslovakian counterparts, no Polish artist ever made a career abroad, maybe except for USA—based Korjewo. In animation created today, it is rather impossible to talk about any continuity or even references to works of female animators from the communism period.

HANNA MARGOLIS: The field of animated film in Communist times, referred to as the ‘Polish Animation’, functioned in a different way than the corresponding fields in free market countries. Artificially unified, without the regulating factor of the free market, Polish animation combined all forms of animation, from artistic to propaganda. Its ‘elite’ component — auteur animation — was an affair with many varied facets. We can analyze many of these movies in categories largely inadequate to pre—1989 cultural policies — as ‘artists’ moving images’ — a term describing contemporary auteur films.

In socialist Poland, this elite component consisted almost exclusively of men — not only film authors, but also academics teaching animation at universities, international festival delegates etc. The Polish animation industry included a lot of women, but they were usually hired as low—level employees for TV series for children — animators, phasists etc. It happened often that women were in charge of sets and art design, directed children’s movies or even their own, auteur movies. But their careers could not be compared to those of their ‘masters’ — they never attended international festivals or became academics. In worldwide animation in general, women auteurs did not become renown until the 1970s.

◙ A.K.: What were the limitations that did not allow women to practice this profession under the same conditions as men? If women worked in animation, took on a variety of tasks, why were they still out of the limelight?

◘ H.M.: If women in worldwide animation emerged only as late as the 70s — in Poland only after ‘89 — that’s just one of the symptoms that the moral revolution of the late 60s manifested here in a superficial way (I would not underrate the fact that the contraceptive pill become widely available after 1989). You should keep in mind the fact that pre—1989 filmmakers were not independent artists — they were subject to strict, rigid procedures of Polish Animation and Polish Film. They were the elite, decently paid, but they had a huge responsibility — they had to be ready and willing to work 24/7 at times, constantly move around, be a leader, operate in male—dominated cultural elites in the country and abroad etc. Since women in animation were in the background up until ‘89, until the end of communist regime, it meant that merely getting out of the background and into the spotlight, not to mention maintaining this position, was beyond their reach.

Ewa Borysewicz, Kto by pomyślał?

□ A.T.: Out of 50 films selected for the 50th anniversary of ASIFA, only seven were created by women, not including Alexeieff and Claire Parker’s Nose and Frank Film by Caroline and Frank Mouris. These films were created between the 1960s and the 1990s. We must also remember that two animators in the group — Caroline Leaf and Michaela Pavlatova from Czech Republic — have made two films each, so the number is even smaller. Most female animators come from the NFB (National Film Board of Canada), and Canada is a perfect country for making movies.

◙ A.K.: This example shows that there used to be a significant disparity in the world of animation. If 7—9 movies out of 50 have been made by women — it’s a significant minority.

□  A.T.: A fair amount of women found themselves among the experts who award points, though.

◙ A.K.: I see this as a good sign. It is worth mentioning that Marta Pajek’s Snępowina won the main competition at Tricky Women film festival — an Austrian festival of women—made films. Since such a festival came into existence — this year it observed its 9th edition — it means that there is both demand for women—made cinema and enough movies to showcase them every year. I also anticipate changes here in Poland. It would be great to see women make a stronger impression on the educational process, be in charge of animation workshops, be responsible for raising a new generation of male and female animators, become producers. Right now, we can mention Ewa Ziobrowska, a scholar at Warsaw’s Academy of Fine Arts; Ewa Sobolewska, a producer at Poznan’s TV Animation Studio; Olga Wroniewicz, working at the Polish—Japanese Institute of Information Technology; that’s probably not all.

There are some positive changes, too — not only there is a significant increase in female animation students, but also in the number of women creating student films, film diplomas and subsequently — first feature films. Female animators started going abroad as well. Foreign stipends and festivals allow them to exchange opinions and confront with the creative outputs of others. This way, they participate in the international circuit and gain valuable experience.

Olga Wroniewicz

□ A.T.:The first students to go abroad from Lodz Film School were Piotr Karwas and Wojtek Wawszczyk. Female students followed. They went to Germany to improve their workshop and skills. They learned how to direct in Lodz and the basic animation skills — in Germany. They combined distinctive qualities of Polish and German animation schools. Anna Blaszczyk mentions this in her conversation with Mariusz Frukacz in 24 klatki na sekunde (24 frames per second).

◘ HM: Olga Wroniewicz studied in Finland, Marta Pajek in Estonia, Ewa Borysewicz all the way in Japan. Iza Plucinska is an interesting example — she lives in Berlin and works as an in—betweener on many co—productions. It’s a new thing for female animators, impossible in Communist Poland.

◙ A.K.: Should you create a Polish female animation anthology, which animators would you include?

◘ H.M.: Malgosia Bosek, Marta Pajek, Ewa Borysewicz. These are strong contenders, the ‘Premier League’ of animation, who — I hope — will continue working on new films. Each one of them represents the rich tradition of Polish animation, reconstructed in their own way. Everywhere I see a great handling of the film craft — the topic, screenplay work, editing and soundtrack — they’re all very important basics, often underestimated by members of the trade. Educational programs, compartmentalized in principle, cause the animators to lose themselves in the midst of problems and waste good projects.

The charming thing about the films, apart from their plasticity, is the animation — not the realistic one, but one that allows the authors to build a contemporary message of the film. A message attractive and clear to the contemporary viewer who attends cinemas, theaters, museums, not just for members of the industry.

□ A.T.: Ewa Bibańska’s Portret niewierny (Unfaithful Portrait) — one of the best graduation works from the workshop of Warsaw Fine Arts Academy’s Daniel Szczechura. A tragicomic and touching metaphor for a search for one’s own identity. It’s worth mentioning that the movie was not as literal as the works of conceptual artists from the 1970s, such as Natalia LL. Such anthology should also include films by Olga Wroniewicz, Katarzyna Kijek and Izabela Płucińska. I would also add two names: Joanna Polak and her attempts at film therapy, such as Hotel Mirage, touching on subjects of obesity and bulimia, and Aga Jarząbowa, dealing with the subject of family while showing herself and her two older sisters in Siostry z domu Jarząb (Sisters from the Jarząb House). Aga also created Bajka o smoku i bohaterze (A Tale of a Dragon and a Hero) — a very funny movie that also comments on thought patterns and fables. It was created after the release of Shrek, but it’s still very plastic, very witty, using homeliness to challenge the viewer to confront everyday patterns.

◙ A.K.: You didn’t mention Wiola Sowa, Anna Błaszczyk, Magdalena Osińska, Adela Kaczmarek or Agata Gorządek. The latter two debuted recently, adding to a group of professional female animators. Should they also be included in such an anthology, or did you omit them consciously?

□ A.T.: I think they should be included.

◘ H.M.: Of course! They are very different movies and varying creative attitudes. The movies are visually attractive, refined, interesting. But the bar has been raised really high in recent years.

◙ A.K.: The movies created by all the animators mentioned above paint a very diverse picture. The techniques used, the visual and musical aspects, themes of the movies — what did the artists bring to the table for Polish animation?

◘ H.M.: Pajek and Bosek deconstruct a male—centric narrative, dominant in Polish animation, by introducing a new type of hero (heroine), a new world and problems, missing or excluded from the works thus far.

Besides, Pajek, Bosek, as well as animators mentioned before — Wroniewicz, Kijek and Plucińska — constitute a wave of artists creating great movies that can easily gain widespread attention, given the proper promotional strategy. They have ‘it’ — the awareness of what they want to talk about and the technical prowess to make the message attractive for a contemporary viewer. The awareness of ‘what’ they want to communicate is key for their careers, which — in a sense — is a continuation of Polish auteur animation tradition, in the best possible meaning of the word.

□ A.T.: It’s a sign of changes in animation itself rather than the appearance of new creators.

◘ H.M.: Then again, most contemporary Polish animated features are produced in a traditional way.

□ A.T.: That’s the role of education, financing and in a way — tradition, adapted either unconsciously or during the education process.

◘ H.M.: I think you touched upon an important problem. There’s more to Polish animation than milestones, movies created by the greats. It’s also an abundance of animation studios, methods of depicting, theme selection and movie narration, which has been an amalgamation of classic movies and became an empty cliché, traditionally used in the moviemaking process. Unfortunately, I have a feeling that in many cases — as is with the educational process at Polish universities or funding productions at the Polish Film Institute — they are willingly or unconsciously imposed upon the authors.

◙ A.K.: Do you notice such clichés in movies such as W pełnym słońcu, Nurek, Szafa Zbigniewa?

□ A.T.: Unfortunately I do, even though these movies are very attractive and would thrill audiences not so long ago. They’re characterized by an interesting, traditionally figurative plasticity and traditionally understood animation. But they are missing the ‘it’ mentioned before, present in movies by Bosek, Pajek, Borysewicz — the awareness allowing to precisely narrate, so that the recipient knows what the movie is about and perceives it as attractive. The authors use traditional clichés and dead narrative schematics, forgetting about the viewer along the way. One has to remember that a viewer can obtain such tear—jerking in a TV show or a travel ad. I do await further projects by these animators though, because they are talented and their previous works were more interesting and promising.

◙ A.K.: Hania mentioned Małgorzata Bosek, who, in Dokuanimo and Wyspa gibonów, plays out a topic often—explored in shorts — everyday rituals. Aga Jarząbowa, mentioned by Adam, reveals her own, very private world, introduces us to intimate relations with people close to her. She handles it well, with a lot of wit. It reminds me of the artistic practices from the world of music — namely the Wroński sisters. In both cases and in artistic animation in general, there are special rules for engaging a recipient. The recipient is not a random person, but one ready to engage in a dialogue. What does the dialogue look like in modern times?

◘ H.M.: I do feel that movies by Bosek, Jarząbowa and Pajek are aimed at the viewer at large. Their construction allows them to reach a wide audience. They forego an epic narration or moralization. They are small narrations — a trait of many masterpieces of Polish auteur animation, movies by Rybczyński, Szczechura, Kucia — those were such small narrations, however they are related from an outside perspective. The movies of contemporary female animators are small narrations from within, inviting a viewer — using different means — to cooperate. They are fragmented, broken down into smaller parts in an anxious way. They allow me, both as a viewer and a female viewer, to peek where no live action movie would.

◙ A.K.:: I believe that, apart from rare examples, contemporary female animators don’t want to confront the question of experiences of women in Poland after 1989, even though it’s an important one. By means of art it is possible to critically comment on the surrounding reality. Why do you think that is the case?

□ A.T.: There’s plenty of poetry of laundry fluttering in the air and not enough prose of everyday problems. But seriously, it’s the same question of education and thinking about animation as impressionistic images, more or less connected with each other.

◘ H.M.: : I agree with that last opinion. Such thinking is a case of symbolic violence (Pierre Bourdieu), applied by governing institutions — educational (a bit less these days, they undergo reforms now) and financial (Polish Film Institute experts). The existence of such ‘museums’ is also a side effect of a crisis in Polish animation (in effect since the 80s up until 2005), because the industry started to work post—crisis with the same awareness it had when it began, even though it was an archaic awareness back then already. Besides, animators functioned and continue to function in Polish Film, not in the field they belong to. Polish Film finances their projects and it would be impossible to obtain such a grant on a private art field. And feministic, social, critical themes are dangerous and associated unmistakably with art. If you want to make movies funded by the PFI — follow the strategy of its experts.

The cases of Bosek, Pajek and Borysewicz are new in the sense that they already gained a position that allows them to do more — the PFI will fund their groundbreaking narrations, but they will be able to find money outside of the institute. In that sense they became the first independent creators in the history of Polish animation. I believe that over time it will impact the strategies of the experts and maybe we’ll soon see movies touching on the subjects you mentioned.

◙ A.K.:Hania, you are in charge of selecting movies for the Animator festival. You have the insight into what’s happening in contemporary animation. Are movies of Polish female animators distinctive in some way? Is their standard different from foreign productions? Or is it just a matter of time before they appear among the world’s finest?

◘ H.M.: The movies that appear in the competition, are very good, often the world’s finest. If movies by our leaders — Pajek, Bosek, Borysewicz, Kijek, Plucińska — are submitted to the competition, they undergo the selection process. If there is something distinct about them — it’s the animation style. Apart from that they are not lagging behind the best, which is a lot. Unfortunately, there are also a whole lot of Polish movies, works of art school graduates included, which look half—amateur.

◙ A.K.:: Female animators got their voices back, along with the entire Polish animation industry. The abundance of talents is a good prognosis for the future. Now it’s important to sustain these processes with financial backing, promotion mechanisms domestically and abroad, restoring children’s animation as well. What would you wish for animators, both male and female?

◘ H.M.: Brave, unconventional ideas, courage in their fulfillment and backing their courage by the education and expert systems, the PFI and professional criticisms.

□ A.T.: There is a need for contact, even clash with the surrounding reality. No movie exists in a vacuum — to go even further and quote the movie studies pioneer, Hugo Münsterberg — a movie is created in the viewer’s mind.

Urszula Pawlicka

AUT OR NOT

On one extremity of Polish literature of the new media, there is cybernetic, computer-generated poetry by Łukasz Podgórni and Roman Bromboszcz. The method of creating a cyberpoem is superbly presented by Electronic Literature, a poem by Bramboszcz, included in a tome titled digital.prayer:

Walk down the stairs downstairs / You take equipment and instruments / (...) At the bottom of the unit I extract / from bags / They are later placed using cables / yes, place them later using the / cable / Hook them up, at least some of them / with microphones. Yes, I attach, some of them / to the microphones / One waits.

K. Giełżyńska, C()n Du It, from C()n Du It (2012)

You wait for the transfer, flow of content, a moment, when cyberpoets are guided by the software. The other extremity sees the shaping of a new genre — animation poetry, represented by Katarzyna Giełżyńska’s videotome entitled C()n Du It. The question posed by Hamlet is transformed into a different query: “aut or not?” (author or no author?). The artist splendidly debates Roland Barthes, claiming that it’s time to revive the author (and in a wider sense: a subject, a human), who not only is not “dead”, but also is to regain control over a highly technologic reality. Man wants to control the world, before the world starts to control him. He wants to gain advantage over what transforms his body from a tangible object into a virtual one, devoid of physicality; and over what first projects and then forces an identity upon him. Recognizing the online world and oneself in this new reality is a particularly crucial goal. Giełżyńska poses the following questions, represented by the titular question: what is the place of a man in the online world? Is there room for individuality in the virtual reality? What is the shape of a post-man in times of avatars?

The videotome C()n Du It is a set of poetic clips containing lyrics and music, presenting the most important phenomena in visual culture. Intensive, expressive and ironic images become video-epigrams — Giełżyńska presents Internet rituals. such as clicking, chatting or posting in a humorous way. References to animation, film, advertising or video games generate clips that are dynamic and expansive, “dry bones” — as she claims in the “logical poem”, which serves as her manifesto. But one could also claim, somewhat deviously, they’re “meaty”, concrete and firm. The clips contain three equivalent components — image, text and sound. Their simultaneous reception is an equivalent of multisensory perception. Fast like a flash while zapping or like mouse clicks during surfing. Serious themes are hidden under a Disney-like coating — colorful, blinking images remind of commercial billboards. C()n Du It plays with (hyper)reality, constrained by parentheses, characteristic of Giełżyńska’s style. This sign usually indicates something marginal, random, irrelevant and unnecessary. The situation here is entirely different — to properly receive her poetic clips is to read “between the parentheses”. The first issue Giełżyńska brings up is the image of a contemporary, flowing world. The Internet devalued the importance of location, space and time. Human life resembles the periodicity of folder life — its creation, moving to the recycle bin, restoration or repeated creation. To be taken out of the trash is to be constantly reborn. Online life is a game we play with the seeming, clichéd death. Death becomes a spectacular gesture of emptying the trash or deleting a Facebook account. It becomes a perimeter we set by and for ourselves (assuming a cathartic function) or for others (to inform them of this change).

K. Giełżyńska, Mirror, from C()n Du It (2012).

To speak in terms established by Zygmunt Bauman — liquid life is associated with constant desires that can never be fulfilled. In one of the clips, entitled pragnienie (desire), the fast forward icon is a sign of permanent hunger. Every desire generates a new one, which is why there can be no fulfillment and final satisfaction. Online life also poses a problem of an identity multiplied by faces of assumed nicknames. Avatars don’t like the real us — that is why we constantly project our own personality in order to get the most likes. The identity becomes momentary, temporary, artificial, just like the body it lacks stability. In cyfrowy (digital), we see a juxtaposition of a real, physical body and the virtual, immaterial, “dissolved” one. The piece ends with the word “roz dar ty” (to rn) — the emphasis on the pronoun “ty” (you) indicates a subject, which does not necessarily possess a body. It’s the personality that matters — the identity is described in categories of narcissism, as pointed out by Anthony Giddens.

Surfing the web takes the shape of mechanical clicking, and yet it becomes more than a simple action of a finger. Clicking is almost a ritual, or maybe an addiction, because it becomes a motion that battles the signs that “escape between the fingers”. “re-play” dynamically zooms in on keyboard keys that are a sign of “ritual” clicking. Keys such as backspace, enter or shift include an arrow, reminding of exit signs. The keys are a reference to a labyrinth a user loses himself in. To exit the labyrinth is to be liberated from apathy or a clicking frenzy. But every “play” also involves a “re-play”.

Another video piece, titled klikam (I click) is an intro — it introduces us to the online sphere. The boundary between where the intro ends and surfing begins is very fluid, but noticeable by a sudden awakening of music and image acceleration. klikam starts with a fragmented text, gradually revealed and synchronized with toned-down music: “czu/jesz/to” (you/feel/it). The method of reading the initial words indicates the direction of message interpretation, because it can be read twofold: “czujesz to” (you feel it) or “czy jesz to” (do you eat it). The first sense is psychological; the second can be associated with consumption. After activating the “click” command, the image changes entirely: the message gets dominated by information codes, the sign invasion exceeds human perception boundaries. klikam is a visual representation of battling with interfaces, which establish the conditions of existence in contemporary culture: if you manage to click fast enough — you exist, if you don’t — you vanish. The expression “czujesz to” is then a demonstration of existence in a culture of both drifting images and polyphonic culture. The answer can be found in graphically composed background characters: one with goggling eyes, represents fear and loss, the other one — with headphones and the word “COOL” — satisfaction and pleasure. The titular clicking is akin to life preservation: at one point — as a confirmation of being — the word “jestem” (I am) appears. For all that, an individual is in a permanent stasis between one click and the other. The notion of “I am” is quickly outdated — you only have to press the F5 key to define yourself as “I was”.

Using a computer also means facing software and hardware problems. Cascades of error messages remind of a lizard, according to the author. A snake comparison is proof of humor contained within the video-poems, as well as a wink at the viewer.

K. Giełżyńska, Aut Or Not , from C()n Du It (2012).

In C()n Du It, apart from the presence of Barthes, one can find traces of John Barth, who claimed in 1967 that the only thing remaining for literature is to “repeat itself”, because “everything has already been said”. Copying texts and repeating quotes is apparent in clips such as mnożenie tekstów (text multiplication) and błędne fale (Truant waves). The former depicts huge, colorful words projected on a screen, which — imposing on one another — become unintelligible. The letters are thrown on the surface just like tachists spilled paint on the canvas. Words, attacking from every direction, remind of a senseless stain. The excess of information causes it to become a noise. The second clip shows adrift sentences that — constantly quoted — lose their source. The copy-paste action causes them to become barren by breaking them away from their original context. Words underlined in red are a signal of erroneous content. The clip ends with just the red waves remaining on screen, demonstrating what becomes of texts that are constantly copied and transformed. Giełżyńska emphasizes the importance of a creator, whose authorship is increasingly devalued.

Animated poetry suggests an association with animation — the traces are clear. Cutouts and collage appear in awatary; the minimalism and symmetry in dialog can be associated with the abstract animation style. There’s also a lot of video art inspirations (lustro [mirror]) and video games (wiersz romantyczny [a romantic poem]). Giełżyńska’s videotome fits into new media literature, but interestingly, it avoids popular interactivity in the literal sense. There’s no death of an author or recipient. There is a clash between the creator, craving control over the machine and user, who would like to decide what he will watch, by himself. The “click” command is the symbol of the conflict. On one side, it proves the creator has the advantage, because he indicates where should we click. On the other, there’s an illusion of command over the object by the user, who can always say: “I will click if I want to”.

The entire work maintains a “post-Atari” convention — the reappearing color green, calling system commands to mind and a simple text font are indicators of nostalgia towards a bright, simple 8-bit world. The viewer faces simultaneous images and a charge of sounds, experiencing a stereophonic reality. In the fluid 21st century, a man is an avatar reborn anew, a pixel or, as Mariusz Pisarski put it, “a smudge of solder on the motherboard of society”. C()n Du It displays the interface culture, a deconstruction of a man, and identity and body castration.

Mariusz Pisarski

SAY IT WITH A FILM–POEM. ON KATARZYNA GIEŁŻYŃSKA’S C()N DU IT

If we had to decide which discipline comes victorious out of the current technological storm that rolls through art — it would be animation. The discipline is growing in types and genres, exploring fields not visited in a long time and returning to the syncretic, avant-garde 20s and 30s. Animation is an interdisciplinary cluster bomb. Paul Wells and Johny Hardstaff admit that it has become an indicator of possibilities available in the culture of moving images in general, in any genre, style or context, and with respect to almost any technique. As a consequence, as one might expect, almost every genre can be included in the area of animation or included in its own framework, compounding the exhilarating flow.

It’s no surprise that the expansiveness and elasticity of digital animation could be felt during the monthly Internet Tournament of One Poem on the Ha!art website. Animation and poetry have a lot in common, of course: short form, over-organization, the tendency to use symbols. The poem-films of Katarzyna Giełżyńska set the bar high as early as the first issues. And it has stayed high. After receiving her award and sending off a few more works, along with two other authors who made themselves known with a similar workshop and esthetics, the author found herself at the top of the favorites, in front of the “paper peloton” . In other words — as stubborn as they were, the majority of the remaining authors were unable to catch up. As a result, there was not a single traditional poem that won first prize at the ITOP. Not a single traditional poem received the grand prize in any of the ten editions of the ITOP!

K. Giełżyńska, Mirror, from C()n Du It (2012).

The result of fascination with this moving hybrid form of poetry is the “little volume” C()n Du It, composed of as many as 30 poem-film structures, created on a computer screen with a mix of traditional drawing techniques, as well as a layer of audible objets trouvés. The works of Giełżyńska are, on the surface, a spontaneous variation of traditional and contemporary instruments of creation (type-writer, stave, a white sheet of paper, clean frame) as well as platforms of expression (poster, video camera, chat, writing desk). They alternately cite the analog esthetics of the film roll or the first personal computers: Atari and Commodore. The text — words play the main role here — is accompanied by an array of colors and shapes, recognizable symbols and unexpected sounds. The role of enjambment is played mostly by rhythm, often tapped on a virtual typewriter. The text is replaced on screen by itself, only occasionally moving to the next line, not unlike a traditional poetic form. The poem’s attachment to the idea comes as a surprise: traditional text appears, on an obligatory basis, in every creation in C()n Du It, as if it wanted to remind itself — as well as us — that we still are, in fact, reading a tiny volume of poetry, and as if to express distrust towards Roman Bromboszcz, who has for a few years been consistently and patiently convincing Polish readers that poetry today can happen without the use of words.

In a recent discussion on the state of digital literature, Catherine N. Hayles went even further by making us consider whether to remove words from the definition of language in general. Against this background, the conscious conservatism of Giełżyńska, who by profession works in film and animation production and who, despite the whole exterior of innovation that accompanies C()n Du It wishes poetry to remain poetry, is expressive and a very strong voice in the debate.

The subtle conservatism is also apparent in the way C()n Du It utilizes the digital element. The tools of creative practice, means of social communications and the conventions of a dialogue between the author and the recipient, digitally enriched, are thematically systematized and estheticized in Giełżyńska’s film-poems. The tome itself is digitally distributed as well. But the function assigned to the work and methods of its reception comes straight from the golden age of cinema. A viewer can only watch it and interpret its elements. The film-poems are not interactive; they also shy from innovative attempts at giving the viewer an opportunity to become a creator, as is apparent in experimental touchpad apps or used by authors of “kinegenetic“ installations, where graphic and film material is processed in real time according to signals produced by the viewer (the touch or physical presence in a given location). Observant readers will notice elements of such innovations, but in the end a film-poem — just like poetry itself — remains a film-poem, and not a poem-installation, which is a good thing. At least for now.

K. Giełżyńska, Player in Apathy, from C()n Du It (2012).

I don’t want to spoil the fun readers can experience with the newest, unusual poetic position in Ha!art’s catalogue, so I am not going to make an attempt to analyze particular pieces in C()n Du It. There will be time to do that. But before I encourage the reader to dive into the go-ahead, insightful and humorous world of moving words, images and puzzles of Katarzyna Giełżyńska, which — being an analysis of the condition of man in a multimedia surrounding — will allow many readers to relate to it personally, I would like to point to one of the most important phenomena C()n Du It indicates. Only 10 years ago, hardly anyone would dare to submit works like Kwadrat, The Day After or Nowa Książka to a literary competition. Although words clearly give way to film and graphical content, it is possible to do just that today. What caused this change in our perception of poetry and, at the same time, opened us to broader animation horizons? What has changed? Where is the borderline? We don’t have to hear the answers just yet — the participation itself, or even observing the isobars of change and all its flashpoints is fascinating enough.

Marcin Giżycki

MASTERPIECE OR JOKE? AN UNKNOWN FILM BY PICASSO DISCOVERED AT FONTEVRAUD

The sensation of this year’s Jour des Bandes Dessinées Animées Festival at Fontevraud in France was the special screening of the newly discovered and restored film by Pablo Picasso. It is no secret, as any art historian will verify, that from his youth Picasso was an ardent film buff. As early as 1896 when still in his teens, he was hooked to the new medium and attended the public screening of the first Lumiere Brothers’ films in Barcelona. His subsequent escapades to the cinema palaces in Montmatre were legendary. With his band of bohemian friends, including Max Jacobs and Blaise Cendrars, and in the convivial company of the working classes he delighted in watching films made by Melies, Feuillade, Chaplin and countless other anonymous producers. Films in which policemen were driven over, cut in half and magically reassembled, their dismembered limbs having lives of their own like Gogol’s “Nose”.

It was this dismembering in Melies’ works, imitated by other film makers, that led researchers to seriously suggest that early cinema had an impact on the cubist experimentations of Picasso and Braque. Les Demoiselles d’Avignon’s creator’s enthusiasm for cinema can further be verified by him having founded The Society of the Friends of Fantomas (Societe des Amis de Fantomas) with the poet Guillaume Apollinaire.

Despite these well-known and documented facts confirming Picasso’s enthusiasm for the new medium, nothing was known of the great cubist painter having undertaken any work in film. Small wonder then that the unannounced screening of the Picasso film at the Jours de Bandes Dessinées Animées would cause such an enormous sensation. In fact two films were shown. The first was around two minutes duration, in black and white with traces of hand colouring of individual frames. Even though it was digitally restored there was evidence of damage caused by the film having been stored in adverse conditions. The second and the shorter of the two films was made by a young animator Francesca Marie Nepomuceno, based on fragmentary material found with the first film. According to the animator the material indicated that these fragments were to lead to the making of a film, or indeed resulted in a film that had not survived. Alternatively it could have been part of the first film.

The original film opens with a few lines randomly scattered on the screen. These then gradually thicken or bleed, forming blotches. Eventually the frame is filled with a fluid mosaic in which we can momentarily glimpse a face or hand. Despite its poor state, the film displays an extraordinary beauty. Evidently it originated from a painting constantly being repainted, having started with a few single elements until the surface was completely painted over. If authenticated, the work would prove to be the world’s first surviving experimental film.

At the press conference after the screening, it became clear that the experts had no doubt as to Picasso’s authorship of the film. Around 1912 Picasso confided to his dealer, Daniel Henry Kahnweiler, that he saw the possibility of making use of cinematographic techniques to further his painting experiments. Earlier still, he was already photographically recording individual stages of his work. No doubt he must have thought of creating a film by painstakingly photographing every phase of its development. The Polish animator Alina Jerzyk was present at the festival and we asked her to approximate how she saw Picasso’s film technique? “It’s not dissimilar to what Piotr Dumala has been doing in our country. Nevertheless it is clear that Picasso did not have a rostrum camera suitable for stop-frame work, neither did he have any film making experience. He most probably used a stills camera and filmed the photographic prints or gave them to a professional studio to be filmed. As there were not enough stills made with which to create a fluid animation, someone must have suggested to the maestro to make use of dissolves. To further enhance the painterly effect, each frame would have been hand tinted although that would not have been too much of an obstacle given that around this time Picasso was going through his monochromatic period. He would have therefore covered each frame with a broad sweep of colour without having to accentuate any details.”

The second of the two films proved to be the most revelational. According to Nepomuceno, it was shot using the newly discovered pictures (authenticated by critics), and following Picasso’s instructions that were also part of the discovery. The Rumanian animator admitted to having trepidations when attempting to animate Picasso’s material. The images were carefully numbered but did not flow sequentially and lacked continuity. Adjacent frames were so unlike each other that dissolves were unhelpful. Besides, there were not enough images for an animation film; filming frame for frame, there was barely enough for a few seconds of film. Here however, Picasso’s notes played their part. In them he suggested the multi-use of all the images in a variety of sequences. One had to adhere to the numbers mentioned in the “scenario”. Nepomuceno kept precisely to Picasso’s guideline when filming the material. She was stunned after the screening, for instead of seeing what she expected to be an incoherent mess, she witnessed recognizable forms emerging from the abstract shimmering on the screen. Thus we come to the most tantalizing aspect of the entire discovery. Thanks to the stroboscopic effect that Picasso had spoken to Kahnweiler about, the lines, smudges and dots turned into pictures depicting male and female genitalia as well as enormous mouths swirling around each other, copulating and engaging in a sexual, dreamlike dance.

Colour plays a vital role in the film; without it many of the forms would be illegible. At the time of working on the film, Picasso did not have colour film stock at his disposal. Did he therefore have a future audience in mind? Was it made for posterity, for a new generation awaiting the rediscovery of the maestro’s genius? Perhaps the artist is chuckling from above, rubbing his hands with glee? Or maybe the film provided yet another outlet for his insatiable libido, following the example of many of the paintings depicting his erotic fantasies.

Finally we should say a few words about the history of the film’s discovery. At the festival, within in the early gothic halls of Fontevraud abbey, the festival organizers stated that the Picasso film, along with its accompanying material, was discovered in 2006 in the cellars of this very building as it was undergoing reconstruction. Aware of the potential value of the discovery, the directors of the building, currently housing the cultural centre and the creative workshops for animators, decided to keep it a secret, allowing the world’s experts in art history and film studies the time to examine the findings. They also took the initiative of having Picasso’s images animated by Francesca Nepomuceno, the recipient of the Grand Prix at the first animation festival at Fontevraud in 2007 for her film inspired by Picasso’s illustrations to Jose Delgado’s Tauromaquia.

Before the reconstruction, a prison was housed within the walls of the abbey ruined by the Revolution. Unconfirmed reports have it that the owner of the film studios in which Picasso filmed his photographs and where he had abandoned them, was imprisoned here. During the time of the Great Crash the bankrupted businessman attempted to deal in fake Picassos and other cubist works. It resulted in his imprisonment at Fontevraud, where he spent much of his time making photographic portraits of the prison guards and painting decorative murals for the common room. He was therefore allowed to keep art materials and sketchbooks amongst which it was easy for him to hide works and photographs by Picasso that he had managed to hang on to. No doubt he had their sale in mind once he had served his sentence. Unfortunately he died of pneumonia in the prison hospital prior to his release.

Present at the press conference was the renowned literary researcher, Derric Ques-Jada who pointed out another coincidence worthy of investigation. He stated that Jean Genet, a friend and protégé of Picasso, claimed to have served time in prison at Fontevraud and described his stay in the semi-autobiographical novel The Miracle of the Rose. There is no real evidence for this, but is it not odd that in the poet’s scandalizing film, Un Chant d’Amour, genitalia and oral sex should also play such a prominent role? Or is it just a coincidence?

Agnieszka Taborska

HEDGEHOG IN THE DARK

Words of warning should be added to the posters promoting Hedgehog in the Dark by the French animator Svetlana Sadova: NOT TO BE CONFUSED WITH YURI NORSTEIN’S HEDGEHOG IN THE FOG. One dare not think that well-intentioned parents might take their children, yet untainted by worldly cynicism, to see the film.

After the press screening, a distinguished Polish critic described the film as being “mildly depraved”. His opinion could be seen as emotionally charged, but few could deny that Sadova’s debut appealed to one’s baser instincts. At the risk of offending liberal minded readers, I would go a step further by suggesting that Hedgehog in the Dark is an immoral film.

Before the masterpiece, showered with awards at the Cannes Film Festival, reaches the Polish screens, it would only be fair to warn the public by summarizing the story. The opening shot depicts the hedgehog wandering through misty meadows. Occasionally he vanishes from view only to reappear in the windswept grassland. For some time we follow him on his weary journey, made all the more arduous by a parcel under his arm. (When interviewed at the press conference the director referred to the enigmatic package tied up in a striped cloth as homage to the striped box in Un Chien Andalou.) Exhausted, the hedgehog eventually reaches the river’s edge and is about to float down with the current when a beaver dressed as a cabaret dancer emerges from behind a willow tree and makes him a lucrative proposition. It is one thing to ask what a hedgehog with a parcel under his arm might be doing ploughing through a meadow with such determination, but it is even more absurd to see a beaver, usually associated with the building of water dams, appear in cabaret attire, making the hedgehog a singular offer. 

The beaver’s proposition requires the hedgehog to take on the role of a sleeping prince, whose charms are to be exploited by elderly princesses, all for an agreed fee. To the audience’s surprise, the hedgehog agrees unreservedly. He leaves his stripped bundle on the sandy bank and, together with the beaver, disappears into the thickening fog. The next scene shows him lying in a four-poster bed. An octogenarian princess leers rapaciously from behind a claret curtain.

In the following shots even older ladies stream through the hedgehog’s bed as he occasionally opens his eyes treating them with eerie disdain. The audience may wonder whether this lack of sexual engagement is due to the spines making the intercourse difficult, to the advanced years of the lovers, or to the concern for the morals of a young public.

We are faced with a sensitive issue here. The description of the story shows that Hedgehog in the Dark is aimed exclusively at an adult audience, yet in France it was presented during family matinees. The French distributors did not see the need to inform the public that the technique of animated drawings did not guarantee the moral standing. Whether it will inflict any psychological damage on children will no doubt concern psychologists.

Members of the audience who managed to endure to the end of the screening will be puzzled over the meaning of the final scene. Just before the closing credits, the hedgehog in dishabille abandons his centenarian client (whose age does not cool down her senses!) and once more vanishes into the fog with beaver, still dressed as a cabaret dancer.

On leaving the cinema, other questions may torment the patient viewers. Where did this idea, absurdly paraphrasing Norstein’s masterpiece and Julia Leigh’s licentious debut feature (inexplicably backed by Jane Campion), come from? Why is each of the hedgehog’s lady clients rendered in a different style: Impressionist, Expressionist, Futurist, Cubist, and Dadaist? The last looks like the great grandmother of Renoir’s models! Is this a satisfactory way of presenting twentieth century art? One question might be easily answered. Why animation? Since it would be difficult to achieve such an idiotic effect in live action. In the coming days the film will be distributed in Poland. Hopefully, the country’s bishops will voice their opinion about the final scene with its homosexual insinuations.

And there is one last thing. Is it just a coincidence that the animator’s surname resembles that of a French eighteenth century writer, once heavily censured but now enjoying exaggerated renown? The French distributors did not see the need to inform the public that the technique of animated drawings did not guarantee the moral standing. Whether it will inflict any psychological damage on children will no doubt concern psychologists.

Andrzej KlimowskI

A RECOVERED FILM

It could have been no one else in the middle of the night. Anthony Cembrowicz was already in his pajamas, ready for bed, when he had to walk to the opposite end of the hall to pick up the phone.

“Excuse my calling so late, but I have to tell you that he’s gone”.

It was aunt Martyna, nicknamed the “Night Owl” because of her big ears and a love for nightlife.

“Who do you mean, Auntie?”

“My flat mate, the architect.”

“Did he move out?”

“No, no. He’s dead. That’s why I’m calling you. He suffered a heart attack. The body has been already picked up, but his belongings are still here. I think he also kept some books in the basement. So I thought you could come by and tidy it up.”

“Right now?”

“No. Of course not. But tomorrow, maybe?”

A.C. showed up at the aunt’s apartment the next evening. He drank a cup of coffee, wiped his mouth with a handkerchief and followed his hostess to the architect’s room. There were few pieces of furniture and personal belongings. The aunt handed him the basement keys and a flashlight. After a couple of steps, he opened the gate and stepped into the darkness. There was a single, dim light bulb hanging from the ceiling. He turned the flashlight on and walked a narrow corridor until he found the right number. He used the second key to open his aunt’s basement. Inside, there was a hand-made bookcase sagging under the weight of books, often fat tomes, covered in dust. He picked a paperback up and blew dust off of it. He browsed for a moment and aimed his flashlight at the dark corners of the basement. Spiderwebs tangled in his hair. He started sneezing, so loudly and forcefully that he almost sat down, holding his belly.

There was a rusty film can on the concrete floor in front of him. The label featured a drawing of a bat and a sign below: “The Bat — a short animated film by Arkady Sempolinsky, Warsaw, 1939.”

***

Aunt Night Owl called her nephew after a while. She rang him up late at night, as was her habit. Then she started browsing the newspaper spread on the kitchen table in front of her as she nervously sipped strong, black coffee. A review in the cultural events section caught her eye. She noticed the bat drawing and a headline that said: Apocalyptic Vision.

“A short animated feature, not seen since its production over seventy years ago, will premiere tomorrow night in ‘Kultura’ Cinema. World War II broke out the day after the movie left the development laboratories. The bat never saw the light of day.”

Aunt Night Owl impatiently glanced at the bottom of the article, where she saw the name of her nephew.

Mariusz Frukacz

AIDA KRUKIEWICZ’S ‘CAGE’ — A NEW CHALLENGE FOR THE AUDIENCE

The addition of Cage, a new film by Aida Krukiewicz, to the program of Animatoon Festival in Szczecin, surprised everyone. Speculation ensued — did the author of movies based on musical rhythms and abstract pieces with cosmic titles decide to release a new narrative? Is the movie part of John Cage’s 100th birthday celebration? The enigmatic description of the movie — ‘A short dissertation on the power of sounds and images’ — left no doubt that the author of 5-76-F, a three-part animation, still asks questions about the relation between sonic and visual components of animation. The fact that in the festival catalogue, there was only a simple, white shot of the movie’s title in black font instead of a movie frame — only fueled the argument and irritated some, because it gave no idea on techniques used or the film’s visual side. Before the screening, viewers wondered how Krukiewicz kept the entire production process a secret. Moreover, the animation was created without public financing, no producer was involved and no one worked on its sound. This has not happened in the industry in a long time.

During the first screening of the movie, the author, with a mysterious smile on her face, revealed that Cage is a natural extension of her previous works. After a long period of darkness, a blinding, white frame with a barely visible title appeared on the screen and an experimental animation earthquake began. The title vanished into the whiteness after a few seconds, not to be disturbed by a color, shape or movement for more than four minutes. There was no sound, not to mention a movie score! How did the audience react? After a few perplexed moments, coughs and grunts turned into angry whistles; paper balls, a small cardboard plane and an empty coffee cup flew towards the screen. However, alongside viewers yelling ‘stop the screening!’ and ‘outrage!’, some urged the unruly crowd to be silent, while others were entirely focused on the screen. Finally, the trying whiteness of the screen was broken by the title, supplemented with credits: ‘Music: John Cage, 4’33’’, created by Aida Krukiewicz’. The whistling and jeers went head to head with enthusiastic remarks, puzzled stares crossed with a few pensive ones and the satisfied author received her first congratulations.

So what is this new animation by Krukiewicz all about? It’s a film that liberates us from a cage of conventions. John Cage’s 1952 track 4’33’’ forced the listener to perceive silence in a different way. Silence is never absolute, because there are always sounds that accompany it (such as the beating of one’s heart). The piece, consisting entirely of rests, clocking at precisely 273 seconds, was a voice in the debate on chance and non-determination in music. However, it is not a recording of silence, but rather unintentional sounds that occur not in the writing process, but during a public performance: the musician or musicians measure time with a stopwatch, and the concert hall is filled by random sounds (breathing sounds or creaking chairs). Krukiewicz’s movie seems to be a visual counterpart for Cage’s piece. The director demonstrates that the white light emitted by the projector is also not ‘pure whiteness’ — there are small dust particles in the air, there’s a tiny piece of lint on the projector lens, the screen also has tiny, barely visible imperfections. When you combine that with (un)conscious actions of the audience, which occurred at the premiere, the screen actually sees a lot of action — shadows of these objects create a unique light animation, composed in real time, accompanied by an unrepeatable soundtrack.

Time will tell if this new movie by Krukiewicz will begin a revolution in the consciousness of viewers and whether or not we will see non-determination in movies more often. Provoking a debate on the subject is an undisputed success of the author.

The director demonstrates that the white light emitted by the projector is also not ‘pure whiteness’ – there are small dust particles in the air, there’s a tiny piece of lint on the projector lens, the screen also has tiny, barely visible imperfections.

Jakub Majmurek

CONCEPTUAL ANIMATION

Does the cinema think? No, I do not mean to ask whether it can be intelligent, smart or witty; or can it convey meaning or popularize thoughts developed elsewhere (in science, philosophy or literature). What I mean is whether it in and of itself is capable of thinking on its own and on its own terms. In other words, is it independently capable to articulate thoughts or concepts using its own forms (significant, moving audible images)? In his two books on cinema, the French philosopher Gilles Deleuze asks readers this question and applies his entire philosophical toolbox to show that film does in fact think, that its greatest composers can be philosophical partners of equal rights in the thought process and that an animated picture can also be a tool of thought just as good as a proper philosophical discursive concept.

Just like Deleuze’s monumental dissertation on film, Dariusz Grzybowski’s short animation, Machine of Need, is a cinematic, animated answer to philosophy — Deleuze’s philosophy. Maszyna pragnienia is not an attempt to adapt Anti-Oedipus (written by Deleuze with a ‘heretic’ psychotherapist, Felix Guattari), but an attempt to answer the same questions as those posed by Anti-Oedipus through a different medium, an attempt to rethink ideas as moving pictures of critical thinking. Grzybowski is not animating ideas from a philosophical dissertation, but creates cognitive animation, which tries to articulate philosophical argumentation.

The animation of Grzybowski (who graduated from Academy of Fine Arts and Philosophy Institute at the Warsaw University) may be understood as an attempt to critically re-read the deconstruction of psychoanalysis undertaken in Anti-Oedipus. Grzybowski merges various techniques of animation. He consistently uses image and thinking through image — often trading clarity and intelligibility off. His film is deprived of any commentary in the background. The only discursive elements are relevant chapters — scenes subheadings. Each chapter is realized using different technique, each focuses on a different problem, portrayed in Anti-Oedipus as well. Each choice of animation carries a meaning.

There are seven chapters. First one, entitled Theatre of the Unconscious, is understood by the viewer familiar with Anti-Oedipus in the context of the reccurring phrase: the unconscious is not a theater, but a factory. In the first scene, Grzybowski shows a well-known caricature of psychoanalytical interpretations — a theatre showing the same scene over and over — Mommy-Daddy-Me — a parody of Oedipus’ triangle. We all know it: a child envious of mother’s love for the father, rivaling with him, finally made to accept fatherly rule and shifting the need from the mother and internalizing father’s interdiction, which finally becomes the Law. Grzybowski uses marionettes to show this. The scene is played on a toy-like stage, inhabited by three puppets. The theatre of need, staged this way, ends in positive solution of Oedipus’ conflict and birth of neurotic object trapped on psychoanalyst’s couch.

In the next chapter, this small family machine of need that gave birth to a neurotic object is connected to a social machine. Grzybowski brings back the image of Richard Linder’s Boy with Machine that Deleuze and Guattari wrote about as an illustration for their theory. In the painting, there’s a boy holding a machine connected to another one in a complex way. According to Deleuze and Guattari, it depicts how each family’s machine of need’s task is not only to produce a neurotic object, but connect him to social machines. Two following chapters (A Despotic Machine and Why Masses Want Fascism?) are depictions of two different social machines and also two different film techniques. The first one is an assembly of stationary pictures forming a narrative about a despotic machine. Second — the least impressive and easiest to understand — fragments of old fascist newsreels. The last three parts - Beyond Oedipus, Body Without Organs and Code: Oedipus - bring the highest stakes to the table. Beyond Oedipus is a simple classic cartoon. As many psychoanalytically oriented film theorists point out, the cartoon world is non-oedipal. The protagonist is non-oedipal, free from neurosis and faithful only to his own needs, like Tom the Cat, trying to catch the mouse — Jerry; like the Coyote chasing the Road Runner; or Dastardly trying to catch the pigeon. Grzybowski recreates a figure characteristic of cartoon — a figure of unsuccessful chase of a protagonist faithful to his need. For all that, the way Grzybowski portrays it — a play free of super-ego tyranny — has macabre seeping in. When the chase reaches an almost orgasmic peak of intensity, we suddenly shift to another chapter and technique — pure film. We see an entanglement of lines, shapes and sounds deprived of any point of reference. And again when this entanglement reaches its peak, we step into the next chapter — Code: Oedipus. It is a perfect re-enactment of the first chapter — a family drama ending in a proper oedipalization — only made by means of computer animation. Puppets are now three-dimensional avatars.

Grzybowski’s animation may also be understood as a story about a failure to, as described in Anti-Oedipus, set oneself free from oedipal constraints and neurotic bounds of the psychoanalytical couch. They say, A schizophrenic on a walk is better than a neurotic on a couch. But here, this walk, this even surface of body without organs, once again falls into the Oedipal scheme that it cannot overcome and which is constantly renewed and, finally, it jails the need.

Grzybowski gives animation the most important task — to discourse on a text fundamental to previous century’s philosophy, to articulate and criticize ideas that it created. Sometimes Grzybowski is oversimplifying and illustrative (I know from our private conversations that this the most afflicting, but I shouldn’t omit it), obvious, and pushy. The tautological music irritates — a minuet in the first scene of the family drama (and its electronic version in the closing scene), Wagner with the fascists, irritating and brain-drilling noise music in the organ-less body scene. But still, it is an experiment so interesting, global, ambitious, and worth trusting in, that all these objections may be left out. Especially now that Grzybowski is working on an animated version of The Phenomenology of Spirit.

Jan Gondowicz

REFLECTIONS

The Age of Light — the Age of Darkness. Those are the key concepts in Reflections. It is a dual movie where one part comments on the other. The first one is a journey of light, the second — a journey of glances. Dark glances.

The first part, first minute, brings to mind popular science presentations of a painting. Indeed, a painting is an object. It is a work by a little known painter, Jan Exel the Younger. The 1784 artwork depicts a young man in a white shirt. He sits with his back turned and sharpens his quill pen on his thumbnail. Beneath his face there is a piece of paper, a future letter. There’s a mirror in front of his face. The entire interplay boils down to the demonstration of a journey of a light-beam, sneaking in through a gap between the curtains, creeps down the wall, where the piece of paper reflects it on the man’s face to finally illuminate it. The face itself is seen by the viewer in the mirror reflection. Gap-wall-paper-face-mirror-the viewer’s eye. Sideways-down-up-forward-back. The light beam accelerates, hits the screen with a flash. Three empty, black meters.

A circle shapes in the darkness — the entire second part, the second minute, is cut from the emulsion, the way Julian Antonisz did it. The circle is a cup, the liquid reflects a face. Black, with a dark background, then white on white, just to be dark again. The space extends. The owner of a trapped reflection sits in a coffee shop. In its corner, to be exact. In a dark corner, surrounded by emptiness. Others make up borders of this emptiness. They are staring into his silhouette, where there shapes something resembling a shield, or maybe a six-pointed star. Shift of perspective: half-wolf, half vulture, Goya-like faces rise over the edge of the vessel. The black mirror in the cup is stirred by a lone tear, the reflection is lost in the waves. In this world with no light, the eyes wander down, to the side, around, escapes other gazes, comes back down, finally vanishes.

This reviewer is inquisitive, so he found the plot in one of miniatures by Stanisław Jerzy Lec: “I stared at my face, reflected in the black coffee. ‘This is what I would look like if I was black.’ I knew that the thought was so imprecise, but the same thought surely appeared in a black man’s mind over a glass of milk. It was a time of occupation. I didn’t want to wonder what I look like in the eyes of other people, who had no idea what they look like in mine, lowered at their sight.”

To be seen in pure light; to be seen in complete darkness — that is the contrast of the two parts of Reflections, a story about light, which reveals the invisible, and darkness, which does not conceal.

Kuba Woynarowski

FOREST FIRE. ON TOMASZ KOZAK’S TRANS–ATLANTYK

It seems that the upcoming premiere of Trans-Atlantyk, directed by Tomasz Kozak, may very well become the movie event of the year. And not only a domestic one at that. Three elements constitute the uniqueness of this project. Firstly, the director — a versatile, controversial director, true to his own path, independent from prevalent trends. Secondly, the literary starting point, chosen by the author — a famous novel by Witold Gombrowicz with the same title. And thirdly — last but not least — the formal side of this unconventional adaptation.

Trans-Atlantyk is a full-length animated film, which is both a brave and surprisingly apt idea for filming a Gombrowicz novel. Animation turned out to be the medium that allowed finding the visual equivalent to flamboyant and exceptionally vivid literature of the author of Ferdydurke, even though - until recent adaptations by Jerzy Skolimowski and Jan Jakub Kolski — it was considered untranslatable to the language of film. Kozak utilized visual techniques that allowed him to convincingly bring the Gombrowicz world to life — dynamic and sensual, but also distant and assumed. The visual concept of the movie stems from the novel’s structure: the characters are puppets that I needed and the composition demanded ¹, wrote Gombrowicz about his novel. The main characters in this grotesque tragicomedy are allegoric figures, taken straight out of a baroque shadow theatre — one could even say that, because of its convention, it’s more of a dialectic essay with an added plot, presenting changeable constellations of personified ideas and objectified notions.

Kozak’s daring adaptation does not simplify the literary original, but rather fills the novel’s dense network of dialogues and monologues with cultural quotes, by widening the playing field with images and sounds. By associating Gombrowicz with Polish national art classics (like Jan Matejko or Artur Grottger) and clashing a savage discourse with the tradition of religious-patriotic chromolithography, the director obtained a truly explosive mixture, which — according to him — will attract the contemporary audience (and keep it rooted in their seats). This formal tension mirrors the essence of the conflict that constitutes the movie’s core narrative. The key issue here is a confrontation between the “Fatherland” and the “Sonland”. Gombrowicz admits this openly, when he asks whether the Poles should remain “what the past made them, or should they blindly devote to life, evolution, step into the darkness in a sense, to emancipate from their own selves?” ² This internal conflict has been — as remarked by the writer himself — the essence of being Polish for centuries, because Poles harbor quite paradoxical feelings towards their own country. Did they adore it? Yes, but they also cursed it. Did they love it? Yes, but they also hated it! It was holy and cursed, their strength and their weakness, their glory and their humiliation. ³

This accumulation of contradictions and quivering caused by this phenomenon is mirrored in the movie by the visual form of Gombrowicz-Narrator, who appears as a black tabula rasa — empty contour with barely defined edges (desynchronized sometimes by video interlacing) that, depending on the situation, is filled with various elements. This “crack“ in the surface of an animated image is a frame, through which a subjective video element intrudes into a conventional world of animation — the glue that holds a classic parable ceases to hold, aiming the viewer’s eye towards reality, surging underneath. Gombrowicz — the writer, the movie narrator and Kozak — the director merge into a triune anti-imagination, resulting from a daring cut, dealt by the artist, who “philosophizes with a sword”.

The Narrator, filled with a wall of fire, could be treated as an emblematic figure here — it would be difficult to determine whether it’s an image of a sovereign hero, overcoming a collective element, or more a sight of an individual, sagging under the influence of overwhelming powers, forcing him to surrender. The matter remains open up until the cathartic finale, with a resounding, healing laughter, taking on a form of flames in which the characters delightfully immerse. After all, only nations and people that are able to laugh at themselves can rule their own fates, concludes the director. The movie closes with a symptomatic brace — what began in the fire symbolizing disintegration, ends in the flames of a joyous reintegration.

It is interesting that, with its intended disharmony, the animated Trans-Atlantyk remains an exceptionally harmonious piece. A faithful adaptation of a Gombrowicz novel, the movie is also an auteur project of the director, which can easily be placed in a wider context of his interdisciplinary output. While it remains a film aimed at a mass audience, produced in the structures of the film industry — Kozak’s animation is also a piece firmly footed in discourses on contemporary art. It is a solid adaptation of a literary classic, but Trans-Atlantyk also tempts the viewer with its sensual flimsiness. On the other side — the movie draws heavily from the visual potential of the novel, but the director does not miss the word element (the linguistic debauchery, as Gombrowicz put it), as demonstrated by excellent performances by the actors: Mariusz Benoit, Wojciech Pszoniak, Janusz Gajos, Jerzy Trela and Andrzej Seweryn. While he did not pass on possibilities animation offers, Kozak undoubtedly knew that a true Trans-Atlantyk adaptation cannot do without a strong, even dominating presence of the language Gombrowicz in the movie structure. Akin to the literary original, Kozak’s movie remains a tale — and this tale gives life to the depicted world. While we absorb a stream of extravagant images, we do not forget that the novel’s language is a natural environment for the characters and they could not exist without it.

Certain incoherence between images and worlds, a gap between meanings and signs gives rise to an allegory, seen by Kozak as a crack — the promise of reclaiming space in the meanders of a contemporary Maze. In one of the interviews, the director recalled a metaphor of Walter Benjamin, where the allegoric intent takes the shape of an Axe of the Mind, clearing the thickets of madness and oppressive myths. Gombrowicz also liked to use the silva rerum imagery. In Ferdydurke he talks about a “jungle of incredible reflexes”. The Maze is also one of the most expressive visual metaphors present in the adaptation. The form of black Amazon tangle, weaving on baroque-classicist monuments dipped in black, reminds of the flames engulfing the shadow theatre, meticulously built throughout the movie. Those two tangles — the dark and the light — are a perfect illustration for the fundamental conflict that fuels the entire story. On one side — an element that smothers, enslaves, chokes and suffocates, on the other — the energy, which allows to grow and blossom.

It is ironic that the case of this adaptation and the accompanying battle for public funding for the project fought by the director prove that the antagonism mentioned above is still alive, and the landscape of Polish culture is still divided between “Fatherland” and “Sonland”. It seems that at the beginning of a new millennium, the dominant model of depicting the “cursed problems” is a martyrological, often repressive one, reminding of Cavaliers of The Spur from the depths of Gombrowicz’s novel. On the other side, productions such as Trans-Atlantyk, since they were made under public patronage, after all — are a promise of a change. Let’s hope the potential will not go to waste. Right now we can enjoy Kozak’s movie, which boldly contests the past. It shows that the Sarmatian romantic mythology is not a useless fossil, but a living matter, inspiring Poles to creatively redefine their identity. 

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES

Marcin Giżycki — film historian and critic, creator of documentaries, animated and experimental films. Artistic director of “Animator” IAFF in Poznan. Editor-in-chief of Animafilm quarterly, an ASIFA publication in years 1979-81. He lectures on film and contemporary art theory and history at Rhode Island School of Design in Providence. Author of several books: Awangarda wobec kina. Film w kręgu polskiej awangardy artystycznej dwudziestolecia międzywojennego (1996), Nie tylko Disney. Rzecz o filmie animowanym (2000), Wenders do domu (2006). Selected filmography: Providence to ja! Opowieść o H.P. Lovecrafcie i jego mieście (1997), Wyspa Jana Lenicy (1998), Podróże Daniela Szczechury (2005), 106 Olney Street (2007), A Sicilian Flea (2008), Panta Rhei (2008), Aquatura (2010), Alfred Schreyer z Drohobycza (2010), AE (2011), Kinefaktura (2012).

Jan Gondowicz (b. 1950) — Warsaw-based critic, translator, and essayist. Formally educated in Polish Philology, he retained a way of thinking inherent to natural scientists. Raised among surrealist inspirations, he turns to indirect, eccentric and equivocal characters, works, and facts. In literature — including his own writing — he finds one of the final domains of freedom of expression on occurrences difficult to describe. That is why he devoted himself to self-proclaimed “archaeology of the imagination” — a methodical confrontation of the subconscious in question with his own. Unusual interests and their consequences prompted him to name his sketch set Pan tu nie stał (2011). He also wrote a bestiary: Zoologia fantastyczna uzupełniona (1995, 2007), a surreal anthology: Przekleństwa wyobraźni (2010) and a short monograph: Schulz (2006). He translated works of Danillo Charms, Josif Brodski, Gustave Flaubert, Alfred Jarry, Raymond Queneau and Georges Perec into Polish.

Iwona Hałgas — journalist, editor, political scientist. She published in Tygodnik Powszechny, Przegląd and Ekrany; she writes for the Animation section of culture.pl, a portal of Adam Mickiewicz Institute. She co-wrote Pochwała niepokory (Warszawa, 2011). She collaborates with Krakow’s OFAFA Festival and Krakow Film Festival. Currently, she is preparing her Ph.D. at the Faculty of International and Political Studies of Jagiellonian University.

Andrzej Klimowski (b. 1949 in London) — he graduated at St. Martins School of Art (sculpture and painting). He practiced in prof. Henryk Tomaszewski’s poster workshop at the Academy of Fine Arts in Warsaw. He resided and worked in Warsaw in the years 1973-1980; he collaborated with theatres in Warsaw, Wroclaw and Opole, as well as publishing houses: Czytelnik and Nasza Księgarnia, and Szpilki, a satirical magazine. Has worked as a graphic designer in London since 1981. He releases his graphic novels through Faber&Faber publishing house. Since 2008, he has worked with Danusia Schejbal for the Self Made Hero publishing house (comic book adaptations of The Master and Margarita, Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and Stanislaw Lem’s Robot, also released in Poland by Timof Komiks). Illustration professor of the Visual Communication department at the Royal College of Art.

Agnieszka Kozłowska — works in the Open Source Culture Foundation, running the Animatograf program. Holds a chair on the board of ASIFA Poland. Animation exhibitions curator. She collaborates with FA-art — a literary quarterly. A culture propagator and artistic critique supporter, she works in the Warsaw Commissions on Social Dialogue.

Jakub Majmurek (b. 1982) — philosopher, film critic, editor of Krytyka Polityczna. Constant collaborator of Kino, Dwutygodnik and Przekrój. Co-author of Wunderkamera. Kino Terry’ego Gilliama, Wokół Agambena. Konteksty krytyki, Kino polskie 1989-2009. Historia krytyczna.

Hanna Margolis — art historian, film critic, animation creator. Graduated from Warsaw University, she also studied at Warsaw’s Academy of Fine Arts. She studies the peripheries and boundaries of film discourse in Polish cinema of the 60s and the 70s, focusing on auteur animation and film experiments. She published in Kino, Magazyn Stowarzyszenia Filmowców Polskich, Kwartalnik Filmowy, and on animacjapolska.com.

Urszula Pawlicka (b. 1987) — Ph. D. graduate of literature studies at University of Warmia and Mazury in Olsztyn. She wrote her MA on cybernetic poetry. Often cooperates with Ha!art Corporation. A member of the Liternet Foundation. Her publications appeared in Techsty, Lampa, Czas Kultury, artPapier, Wakat (online), Pogranicza, Rozdzielczość Chleba , as well as in the book Hiperteksty literackie. Literatura i nowe media.

Mariusz Pisarski — critic, digital publisher and producer. Creator of Techsty magazine. He publishes domestically and abroad, working towards popularization of digital literature. A Ted Nelson Award nominee, picked by the ACM at Hypertext 2011. Hypertext Ph.D. graduate (Adam Mickiewicz University). Editor of Hiperteksty literackie. Literatura i nowe media and Michael Joyce. Polski pisarz (Ha!art).

Agnieszka Taborska – writer, art historian, Roman Philology graduate. She published works such as The Dreaming Life of Leonora de la Cruz (translated into English and French), Abecadło Topora; Okruchy amerykańskie journalist reports, Spiskowcy wyobraźni. Surrealizm essay collection, short stories: Wieloryb, czyli przypadek obiektywny and translations of books by Philippe Soupault, Gisèle Prassinos and Spalding Gray. Her children’s stories have been published in Poland, Germany, Japan and Korea, serving as a basis for animated films. Since 1988, she’s constantly been travelling between Warsaw and Providence, where she lectures on art history at the Rhode Island School of Design.

Kuba Woynarowski (b. 1982) — student of Graphics Department (2007 diploma in the Animated Film Workshop, headed by prof. Jerzy Kucia) and Intermedia Workshop at the Academy of Fine Arts in Krakow; he currently teaches classes in the Narrative Drawing Workshop at his alma mater. He works in a variety of mediums. Independent curator (Quadratum Nigrum, Body in the Library, Orbis Pictus); graphic designer, creator of art installations, videos and animations (Student Competition Grand Prix, 13th edition of OFAFA Festival — 2007) and comic books (18th International Comics Festival Grand Prix — 2007). He published in Lampa, Ha!art, Autoportret and Arteon. Author of Manggha (Grand Prix of the 1st OKKAS competition — 2011) and The Story of Gardens. Co-creator of Wunderkamera. Kino Terry’ego Gilliama. He contributed to experimental film projects by Wilhelm Sasnal (Opad), Tomasz Kozak (Trans-Atlantyk) and Zenon Fajfer (Primum Mobile). Essayist for MOCAK Forum, Ha!art and Tygodnik Powszechny; co-author of the report Kultura niezależna w Polsce 1989—2009. He collaborated with TVP Kultura, NCK, Conrad Festival, MFKK Ligatura, Manggha Centre of Japanese Art and Technology, National Museum in Krakow and Ha!art Corporation. Part of the Restart think tank.

Adam Trwoga — lecturer of film and animation history, as well as history of contemporary art, working with Polish Culture Institute at Warsaw University and Art of New Media Department at the Polish-Japanese Institute of Information Technology in Warsaw.

THIS ISSUE IS PUBLISHED WITH ASSISTANCE OF THE

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38 | SPECIAL ISSUE

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Endnotes

1. W. Gombrowicz, Przedmowa do Trans-Atlantyku [1953], w: Trans-Atlantyk, Kraków 1988, s. 141. ♠

2. W. Gombrowicz, Przedmowa [1951], w: Trans-Atlantyk, Kraków 1988, s. 134. ♠

3. W. Gombrowicz, Dziennik 1957-1961 Kraków 1989, s. 25. ♠