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DISHWASHER STUDIO

EGON SCHIELE and THE ACTOR

The biggest lie schools of “acting” and “directing” have manufactured is the “process”. This “process”, they claim, is the essence and the real development of the actor’s character study and also somewhat relates the director to the actor and vice versa, pretending to aid a better telling of the story or narrative. This “process” pretends to happen in pre-production or so-called development stage and during production itself, simultaneously disregarding the subject matter and the more important aftermath.

Believing and practicing the “process” leads to self-admiration on both sides of the camera and stage, bringing forth a bogus sense of pretense that lifts the focus from the work itself to the people involved in the production; allowing the cinema to act as a playground for the actors’ personal manifestations and self-importance (covered up by the misbelief that it will ultimately create better elements and building blocks for the story to be told).

Among many other unpleasant side effects, the “process” is largely responsible for most of the oversaturation of narrative and character in cinema at large while shrinking the essential purpose of celluloid art: representation of ideas and behavior; a notion much closer to painting rather than storytelling, theater or photography (though an analogy is not necessary or useful).

Cinema’s purpose is not to tell stories. But the current state of new cinema, including the so-called “independents” tell stories; translating literature with a linear narrative onto the cinematic medium that wants to remain predominantly visual, behavioral and theoretical as that is its nature, birthright and a much more interesting place to be than the narrative-based platform which belongs and works better in literature. The idea of the book or novel is perfect and beautiful as it is, it doesn’t need to be carried over to other artforms.

Extended practice of the “process” and the muscle narrative over the last century has poisoned cinema by mesmerizing audiences and the directors by the “and then and then”; stimulating the human mind to find out “what happens next”.

Cinema has its own vocabulary and syntax to build meaning. It does not need to use tools and structures of literature and/or theater to construct its unique substance which can pretty much only be described by its own name; cinema.

The extreme oversaturation of dramatic narrative and the “actor’s process” has led most actors and directors to believe that acting is a profession of its own. This is alarming and dangerous. There is no profession such as acting; it is NOT possible to be an ACTOR that can simultaneously practice this false profession in both theater and cinema; the notion of the ACTOR that ACTS a certain CHARACTER no matter what the composition format is a counterfeit reference to the theater world before the invention of the moving pictures.

A quick thoughtless amalgam of the self-sustaining system of PROCESS, NARRATIVE, CHARACTER and ACTING in the 1930s (primarily for financial reasons) has given birth to the organism known as the STAR which, being also a cardboard profession, is not as corrupt as the modern day version of the CROSS-INDUSTRY ACTOR.

Last paragraph: I am not going to say anything about theater-acting or any other kind of acting that might be out there today as they are not my concern or interest. But I would like to say a few things about acting in the cinema. Acting in cinema means that your profession is CINEMA and NOT acting. Fundamentally, this means that any “actor” partaking in cinematic art should be engulfed by it and realize the responsibility they carry to a medium that is not only bigger and more complex than their personal manifestations or goal but also requires a certain love, deep interest and education in its past, present and future on an intellectual and theoretical basis. Cinema is partly a self-referential art and requires studying. It’s an art of ideas that is not newly-born, it’s labyrinth of idea representation, identification-reflection, micro/macro realization is not something to stumble on in a magazine at a train station. It is much bigger than ACTING and can only encompass it. I am, on a somewhat regular basis, faced with actors who see cinema as ANOTHER medium they can work in. This unaware and childish instinct to ACT for the sake of ACTING is the main reason why auditions are flooded with disappointment and the market is oversaturated with films that don’t mean a thing or have any afterlife. A real FILM doesn’t end when it ends. It has an afterlife because it’s a film of IDEAS, because it works off of a history of cinema, because it’s another entry in the library of cinema that can not and does not exist with single entities but as a library at large. To put it simpler; an actor that hasn’t studied or is not at least genuinely interested in the IDEAS (not necessarily films) of, say, FELLINI or FASSBINDER or BERGMAN (eventhough I don’t like him) or doesn’t know who MELIES is, is only clearly self-obsessed with desire for personal exhibition and thus will not find himself properly situated in cinema. The cinema is big, it’s doors are open, but it requires more investment and study from the ACTOR than just ACTING.

In a nutshell: The cinema is NOT an artform composed of ACTING, CHARACTER, NARRATIVE and the PROCESS. It is a much bigger platform of THOUGHT-IMAGE-BEHAVIOR-HYPOTHESIS construction that can only be composed by studying its own essence, history and complexity at all its levels. To leave you with another example of what I mean; EGON SCHIELE’s paintings are much more precious to cinema than SCORCESE will ever be.

Incomplete List

black sheets. claire. a boat my grandfather burned. the mercedes-benz i’ve fallen in love with. your last goodbye. awful vile pathetic conversations that loop. my last goodbye. overgrown high-school love affair. cigarettes. she talks about herself until even her self doesn’t listen anymore. red. one black tie. glad to have lived this far. robert walser. sharon. bunkbeds. are you married? amazing friend nobody else likes. katie. kati. kat. cigarettes. a grave in the middle of nothing. an indian wind. inheritance. nick cave. this film. pregnancy scares. a telephone call never made. a telephone call should’ve never made. whiskey. too much whiskey. coffee. a bone that hurts on rainy days. rain. do not like rain. great man around town. a boat in greece. a lie about a boat in greece. carlee. my apricot tree. a room full of watermelons. nietzsche. the summer that lasted too long. trying to figure out how it started, what started. a spark. confetti. her virginity. honking car at 3am. phoebe. 10 days in prague. laura. lost boy in tangier. a girl who held my hand and jumped on stage. a face i couldn’t remember. when i jumped on stage and broke my leg. locked myself in my car. deer close to headlights. she cried. tace. father’s cancer. nice shoes. elisa. repeating french vocabulary while crying. a turkish girl with an amazing ass. fucking. hotel room in morocco. a door that creaks. stoned english couple on boat to italy. moustache. emily. a house torn down. year-long fights about money. kill uncle. shalalae. not too much ice. liz. the other liz. the rabbit that died. winking at each other in 4th grade. great roommate. great friend. nicole. cactus and harbors. mad man at the piraeus harbor. $27 stolen. $50 found. another nicole. german. heather. i really can’t remember her name. a hole in my face. lucinda’s death. hospital smell. an alarm clock wrong. the morning i woke up to find my father dead. kids at play watching us secretly as we made out on the rocks. magdalena. a 28-year old crying for a 15-year old through a bus window. maya. never got beaten up. lebanese woman with endless pseudo-romantic requests. i broke someone’s finger. 3 people whose names I cannot mention. the girl who stripped for me in porn heels. trying to avoid a never-ending loop of yes and no. the most beautiful girl who wrote to me. indian friend so dear to my heart (never thought i could be such good friends with a woman.) she said “we have to talk, you’re killing me!” constant guilt games. retarded macho-gay hipsters. games of pity. pathetic games. jessica’s breasts are 34c. my guitar i haven’t touched in a year. fish. more fish. fish all around. bullet. half a person. the other jessica. 29th birthday. useless phone conversations at 5am. sitting in front of the fridge naked. impossible alcohol withdrawal. merrill. people that force you to apologize. bob dylan. you liked it. the girl who looked at my penis in the basement using matches for light when we were 14. the man who shot my dog. small breasts and penniless depressed lady in the middle of istanbul whose cab i had to pay for because she kissed me. my new work. dreamless. fucking your girlfriend’s best friend and wondering what kind of best friend she is. crissy. the night i made it home alive. daphne. weird self-assesments. freddie mercury’s death. beets mistaken for blood. the vast archive of next moments you are guaranteed to come on top. chocolate. luisa. kurt cobain’s death. claire’s earring in my beard. cobra. tiger. the girl i am ashamed to have slept with. honesty. disgusting human being accusing me of nothings. my two beautiful secrets. rumi. forgetting how. harmful distrust. understanding too much too soon. hurtful relapse. sex in the garden with wet leaves. rebecca. how she wouldn’t believe me. my father’s clarinet. lost tooth. nice hands. dressing up for me. the letter i wrote to a lover covering the basics of existence and the meaning of worthlessness. emma. you are man and you age better. there’s more. a deal made without details. i’ve really only fallen in love twice. learning to have enough. leila (how beautiful you are). people’s names you can’t mention so you don’t break the magic. green tea morning with your winning smile. masking tape on her nipples. that blonde’s long legs and small breasts. binary code. the tattoos on her ass. bruno s. million-dollar blowjob. absinth. a kiss that came 3 years late. feeling right to have learned to put an end to things. nice fat zeros. sticking her ass out of the cab window. two paintings buried deep in my closet. rude person asking for pity. m. rude person always wanting to be the victim. red heels. bruno schulz. all this will soon be over. selfish slut. thinking why you while the others thought why them. the bruise on her breast. william s. burroughs. spend at least 20 minutes everyday completely naked. one early evening on that couch twelve years ago. standing still with my eyes closed and trying to fall flat on my face. lhasa. sitting by the big rock in spain and telling each other it was over. 6 fucking years of never ending. another 6 years with another never ending. monica. all that i am forgetting. the joy in forgetting. racing eventhough when you know you are only racing yourself. my hand up her skirt as the boys watched through the bar window and she smiled at them. sex in the corn field. stuck in the middle of the pond. sharon’s naked picture. another’s virginity. werner herzog. she only seems smart because she doesn’t speak much. remembering a particular room of sleep. the one-night stand that turned into 6 months of torture until she had to be carried out. best brother. tom waits. my mother. everyone’s mother. the bliss of finding out that you’ve learned to change your ways. red book, black rose. federico fellini. constant acknowledgement of relapses in everyone else’s lives. good posture. a threesome that stopped at the right time. klaus kinski. the turkish army. the year-long lie. walking out on time. knowing how to turn tables for ones you used to care for. the slap in the face that I certainly deserved. jorge luis borges. slow games of chess. always missed when gone. you’ve read this far. that sunny sunday you decided not to put up any longer with people who are reckless with your heart. i can’t remember the name of my first girlfriend and feel awful about it even if it lasted just 3 weeks. the monday you learned not to be reckless with other people’s hearts. incapability to keep your mouth shut. disregard. cybil. truly beautiful gestures that keep us alive. always wondering how she can even keep it together enough to buy cigarettes. debts. bargains. expired conversations. one day goodbye will be farewell. she used to carry me on her back. mirrorless. the night i couldn’t make it home. the story is old, i know, but it goes on. lucinda. where were you?

(to be continued and extended till death do us part)

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Sometimes I take photographs that do not necessarily have a forced fictional context but all fiction = reality = fiction. If one were to look at a portrait of themselves, one could see tigers, broken bottles, sharp knives, a river, some bad poetry, some good poetry, X years of regret, a couple of honestly beautiful junctures, a father's shadow, horses, a gun, the Mediterranean sea, Pacific sea, etc. In that formal sense, the fiction in a photograph is its only content. There is no such thing in life as non-fiction or documents. Nothing is a document, there's no truth, there's no capturing the moment as the "moment" is only a product of a false understanding of life-happening also referred to as "time" by degenerates.