- D’HOOGHE Alain, Art/Garbage, 1970-73.
« Shooting: first part, in Liège in April 1970, at the Galerie du Croissant d’or – second part, near Wavre in September during the period of a lively campaign to protest against the city’s expansion. In fact, a bulldozer driver said to me: “It’s useless, the population has finally won its cause, the city has decided to build a garbage incinerator.“
Should we now analyse the intentions which led me to make a film three years ago? I arrive at the gallery with this old movie camera. It’s a child’s game. We’ll shoot a film. No screenplay. Nothing. We ask people on the street, “Would you please drop off this garbage at the gallery, while…“ Their indolence revolts us. A heap of bricks, a construction they don’t dare blow up. The camera is running through our veins. A dog has shitted in the gallery. The smell of eyes popping out of heads. We are ready to roll on the ground while vomiting absolute words. In a word: NOTHING.
No screenplay, nothing.
Only then the camera starts shooting.
Like a profound initiation. The body shouts, twists, falters, explodes. But life goes on. Far from art, no doubt, but it’s life that counts. We hang some garbage out of the windows, old underpants, chairs. Empty bottles instead of the laundry. Space is in a state of chaos.
One hears the grinding of teeth, regurgitating manure that’s stirring and warming up, asphixiating but nonetheless virginal, the flashing images of an epoch which is passing from the liquid to the solid state. The spirit forms a rind and cheese is not absent from art. Camembert, brie, bleu… skull bones growing moldy invade everything. There’s a phallus breathing in the air. Perhaps there’s the idea of Heliogabalus who’s about a arrive. Or rather poetry. One makes love badly and is happy there is art in order to complete his ejaculation, in the absolute sense. Then one day, a woman and I, making love – but we don’t care any longer, our bodies clutched and rolled up, dismay in the depths of our eyes. The camera like a cold black dagger that gives us the shivers… It’s a jump into a car for initiates (about whom we’ll speak later), a car that darkens space, the latter seems to have been struck by a brain tumor. In the slippery night, where frogs are vomited… it’s the embarking of a woman still quite naked, a camera-priapus, a length of film, the brain of a spectral man who is shivering. We must shoot a film. It’s no use insisting. All have understood that everything started in the places where we are shooting. Nothing was foreseen. »