Originally published by Cluster, written by Graeme Thomson & Silvia Maglioni

photo by Graeme Thomson

The last image our camera saw was the shattering of its own inner eye, a dazzlingly bejewelled tracery of spiderweb shockwaves imprinted forever on the LCD screen. The camera was the (sole) victim of a fatal car accident too bizarre to recount, but let’s just say it died in the name of performance art. Which partly explains our recent silence.
But the image, as Godard says, will come with the resurrection. And it has, in an Ordet –like miracle of disposable consumer electronics, not dead after all but merely brain-damaged, as a friend discovered while blindly clicking away in our 7ème studio, colour-traumatised, idée-fixed on a Warhol silk-screen preset. And this is how it will henceforth see and sort out the world and its manifold shades, veering wildly between poles of dreamhouse magenta and acid green.

Anyway, we are going to keep our camera, since it somehow adds to vision rather than subtracts, it has escaped not just death but standardization, discovered its own way of seeing, a wounded
Weltanschaung:
“…it talks to that part of us which insists on drawing profiles on prison walls: a piece of chalk to follow the contours of what is not, or is no longer, or not yet…”

Part of a history of martyred technology, the ludditism of chance that allows a more ludic spirit to emerge.