der Hammer in Berlin: No Media Detected

C’est tout de même assez loin de notre pensée réelle—pour autant que nous pensons. Dieu merci, nous ne pensons pas, c’est ce qui nous excuse. Voilà la grande erreur de toujours—s’imaginer que les êtres pensent ce qu’ils disent.
Lacan, 1954.

One always had this suspicion, that, perhaps, it is not in the realm of thought that we can “really find it”. What? “Find our-selves”. As long as we want to find a block, something constituted, found-able, we will find precisely that: blocks, something finished: that is to say: we will not find. But that seems all right. At least it seems that way.

Until we want to be introduced, or to get into it. Until we want to penetrate or to understand the secret. That is: it (history, thought, people, and so on). Thus we walk and believe—or attempt to believe—that we are open, that we are thinking (traveling, getting to know, listening, and so on). Then we try to speak. We do open our mouths, say something, repeat what we have heard—always from outside. But we are in our blocks, thus, we speak—we believe we speak—from inside. We have a soul. No?

That is to say, we “have” a soul. Or we are being had by a soul—or by a word, by a promise, by a pact. We repeat, and we are being had-possessed by what we repeat. It is—as always—just a code. Nicht wahr?

(As always I protect myself with the images—the only language that, as I cannot understand it—and I re-cognize this impossibility—allows me to “speak freely”. I see somebody there, jumping down, somebody else passing by, somebody sitting, or I just do not see them. Then I take the picture, and keep moving.)

I am in a city. Most of it is constituted of squares, rectangles, piles and lines. Perhaps gestures. Gesichte, Geschichten. Phases faces. That is what one can do here, play it a little, listen to the ambulance while Portishead plays on our ears, think of Nietzsche and of the scribbles on Savignyplatz, light your recently-bought pipe, amplify the picture, pour yourself more wine, listen again, somebody runs below your window, stops, you lift your eyes and can see yourself on the window. You are not thinking.

Try better. You are supposed to enter now. Again, this is the place (was?). Perhaps as a miniature. Your best friend works on miniatures—you should understand more, a visual aid always helps. Kannst du verstellen? Nein, so viel Bilder von den Filme, nicht Deutsche. Walk a little more. (But you’re not there. You’re in your room, and are preparing your pipe. Your dad gave you another pipe, Italian, some years ago. This is German, at least you bought it here; your Gastgeber, Uly, explained to you how to use it better, and you wondered what he thought of the funny Mexican with his new Deutsch Pfeife. Derrida smoked a pipe, you smoke a pipe—did your father ever smoked a pipe? There was that picture of him with a cigarette). You get lost, and you are already in. That is the door, the main entrance.

You learn later that there used to be a machine gun above. And you think that the hour on the clock is wrong, that actually it is not a real clock. Your friend, Charles, comments—later—that this tree—he points—saw everything: “it is old enough” he says—and you remember that your father was already alive when all of this happened—but he was not German. “Martell?, das ist französisch” “Ja”.

Perhaps it is too soon. (It is 10:26). Or too big. “It”? Du hast keine Idee. Vorstellung. Nein. The towers, that you “recognize”. From images. You don’t even think of Kertész, Antelme, or even Grass, or yes, but later, when you’re inside the museum.
No, you cannot think this.

A corridor. Re-cognizable. Strangely enough you focus more on the figure of woman on the door. You didn’t know—didn’t recognize it—, now you remember (10:36), it is similar to the image of the woman in Tarkovsky’s Nostalghia—nicht Deutsch, Italien. But you take another one. La fenêtre, la fenêtre, tu peux pas penser à autre chose, prends toutes les fenêtres. Show that there were windows. You actually like the light. And you can see the clouds—not so long ago.

(Now you have to light your pipe again. And you think, you imagine somebody in this room—built at least at the beginning of the XXth century—doing the same thing, with a similar lamp, looking at the same building in front of you. Du hast keine Idee, keine Vorstellung. But a pipe is always a pipe—and the brochure in German that the lady gave you said something about lighting your pipe, sitting back, relaxing and imagining. Kannst du?)

Now you remember—the ceiling reminded you of another of Tarkovsky’s films: The Mirror—but you didn’t think that the picture was going to be so similar—you didn’t know you had a Black & White film in your camera. When did you watch that movie for the first time? 1999.

You think—you thought—that that was important: the little objects. The box, the doll. You liked little figures when you were a kid—und immer noch. Perhaps you should get a doll house, that will remind you of. Was?

You saw the monument, the high structure, and you thought something was wrong with that. You still think it. “Here died…” Always a strange relation with tombs—hard even for you to say the word. Although, attracted by them. Nobody to visit there, yet. Which means—yes, childish mind—everybody. (And thus you start: you visit every body, including your own body, you visit every thing that could be considered a body, a form or a surface. But here there is no surface, here you have metal, ashes, and the idea of the noise. From where does that come from?—when you got “in” you heard, you thought you heard some kids playing, crying—Lacan dit: vagissements—et on peut penser à la naissance du symbolique. Entre l’imaginaire et le symbolique, tout se joue, le tout se joue—de toi).

Was ist das, das man muss denken? Ce qu’il faut penser. Penser? À la face du penchant, de ton penchant, de notre penchant—quoi? La mort, rien plus simple. (You want to erase that, but here is not the place. You are just sharing: partager, just make a line, cut, put the image, and you’re done. Pour yourself more wine, light your pipe, you have three lighters here, next to each other. Inhale. Yes, smoke comes out. Wait, I spilled some ashes—you can think of Stephen, Joyce’s irony, or Beckett’s—Beckett was in the Resistance, yet Sarraute didn’t like him, and yet she wrote good books too, you want to write good books, and you smoke a pipe, and you can see yourself in the mirror. Nicht wahr?
Es war.

La relativité du désir humain par rapport au désir de l’autre, nous la connaissons dans toute réaction où il y a rivalité, concurrence, et jusque dans tout le développement de la civilisation, y compris dans cette sympathique et fondamentale exploitation de l’homme par l’homme dont nous ne sommes pas près de voir la fin, pour la raison qu’elle est absolument structurale, et qu’elle constitue, admise une fois pour toutes par Hegel, la structure même de la notion du travail. Certes, il ne s’agit plus là du désir, mais de la médiation complète de l’activité en tant que proprement humaine engagée dans la voie des désirs humains.
Lacan, 1954.

For any particular reason, you cannot remember the word for Past in German. Futur, Zukunft? Yes, das liegt an deinem Wörterbuch. (You must study more, make flashcards, try to read, learn the language: you want to be understood. Free? Something strange in that word. Probably you were never restrained enough. Vielleicht, vielleicht).

Vergangenheit. Gegen. Gegengift. Gegengung—create a word, Hammer. How do you say ashes?
Esche. Was für Eschen? Rauchen. Rauch. Wer kann die Bedeutung von Rauch verstehen?

Chaque fois que le sujet s’appréhende comme forme et comme moi, chaque fois qu’il se constitue dans son statut, dans sa stature, dans sa statique, son désir se projette au-dehors. D’où s’ensuit l’impossibilité de toute coexistence humaine.
Lacan, 1954.