Passengers

chris-marker-Untitled202 passenger series

chris marker passenger serieschris-marker-Untitled200 passenger series chris-marker-Untitled201 Passenger series

Passengers: A Subway Quartet. Chris Marker. 2008-2010.

In this series of photographs Chris Marker captures the passengers of Paris Metro at their most banal, illuminating the beauty and poetry of our everyday lives. In this sub-series, A Subway Quartet, Marker insets a famous classical painting which mirrors the expression and/or pose of his character.

chrismarker.org


Still Life with Japanese Woodcut

Nature Morte à L'estampe Japonaise. Paul Gauguin.

Nature Morte à L’estampe Japonaise. Paul Gauguin. 1889.


Le Reflet Dans la Fontaine

The Reflection in the Fountain. Maurice Denis. 1897.

The Reflection in the Fountain. Maurice Denis. 1897.


Temptation

Temptation. Odilon Redon.

Temptation. Odilon Redon.


Fallen Angel

Winged Man The Fallen Angel Odilon Redon

Winged Man (The Fallen Angel) Odilon Redon. 1880.


Absence

By Paul Eluard

I speak to you across cities
I speak to you across plains

My mouth is upon your pillow

Both faces of the walls come meeting
My voice discovering you

I speak to you of eternity

O cities memories of cities
Cities wrapped in our desires
Cities come early cities come lately
Cities strong and cities secret
Plundered of their master’s builders
All their thinkers all their ghosts

Fields pattern of emerald
Bright living surviving
The harvest of the sky over our earth
Feeds my voice I dream and weep
I laugh and dream among the flames
Among the clusters of the sun

And over my body your body spreads
The sheet of it’s bright mirror.

Separation. Edvard Munch. 1896.

Separation. Edvard Munch. 1896.


At The Window

By Paul Eluard

I have not always had this certainty, this pessimism which reassures the best among us. There was
a time when my friends laughed at me. I was not the master of my words. A certain indifference, I
have not always known well what I wanted to say, but most often it was because I had nothing to
say. The necessity of speaking and the desire not to be heard. My life hanging only by a thread.

There was a time when I seemed to understand nothing. My chains floated on the water.

All my desires are born of my dreams. And I have proven my love with words. To what fantastic
creatures have I entrusted myself, in what dolorous and ravishing world has my imagination
enclosed me? I am sure of having been loved in the most mysterious of domains, my own. The
language of my love does not belong to human language, my human body does not touch the flesh
of my love. My amorous imagination has always been constant and high enough so that nothing
could attempt to convince me of error.