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10/28/2019
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Sepia Velvet David Lynch
Before you find a cut off human ear full of ants in a meadow in David Lynch's "Blue Velvet", flowers bloom in psychedelic rushing colours, firefighters wave merrily laughing in slow motion from the fire engine, angelic choirs sing from off, everything is so sweetly vain sunshine that the viewer subconsciously knows exactly that it is an illusion of a perfect world that cannot be maintained in its superficiality. It follows, as in almost all lynch films, in depths that are difficult to decipher (mostly in the surreal unconscious), narrated in often disturbing, but at least confusing pictorial language whose components seldom stand for themselves, rather than conveying an impression that repels the viewer or allows him to puzzle in fascination, but in any case creates a lasting impression in him
In "Maroquin" I hallucinate a parallelism to Lynch's films. First candied spice oranges candied in Cinemascope travel across the screen brightly luminous and at the same time bittersweet, picking me up in olfactory everyday life, pretending to be the light-heartedness of a child at a fair, which I know can only be the prelude to Neuffer's impressionistic journey into the depths of my association spaces. Soon the sound of the old barrel organ disappears in the hall, warm, smoky, resinous fog covers the scenery, there is nothing left of the sweet citrus fruits, a man without a face smokes half-finished tobacco on the porch of a lonely hut in the desert, sepia tones dominate darkening, the slow-motion fade into a close-up of warm, dry earth, pepper is clearly perceptible before brown edges emerge from the earth, the flame of a Zippo moves along it, the tiny clouds unfold their scent, let the observer sink into deep relaxation.
Time begins to stretch increasingly, the protagonist disappears into a dark corner of the room, daydreaming on the dark leather of an old sofa, fogged with vanilla smoke, unsweet, resinous under the ceiling fan in front of the parallel shades of blinds on the wall. The dimming seems endless, warmer, sweeter, darker, the cooling resin finally surrounds the protagonist, pretending a dénuement, leaving an impression that fascinates the observer and puzzles him.
Time begins to stretch increasingly, the protagonist disappears into a dark corner of the room, daydreaming on the dark leather of an old sofa, fogged with vanilla smoke, unsweet, resinous under the ceiling fan in front of the parallel shades of blinds on the wall. The dimming seems endless, warmer, sweeter, darker, the cooling resin finally surrounds the protagonist, pretending a dénuement, leaving an impression that fascinates the observer and puzzles him.
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Frankcrummit
