A love letter to real markings
“…how I love your handwriting, that running shadow of your voice…” Vladimir Nabokov, in a letter to his wife Véra (1937), Letters to Véra
How almost miraculous is writing by hand? Ink in pen or brush that makes makes markings to connect feeling and idea onto a transportable and shared surface we call paper is such an extraordinary invention that it kind of makes you glad that Man Ray wasn’t texting Lee Miller. Ink is a communicator. What happens when one of the great tools of communication begins to tell its own story? This story of matter and spirt has so fascinated me (and the director Brian D. Johnson and the NFB and a whole network of extraordinary contributors) that it is becoming a film (The Color of Ink) in its final stages of filming now. It’s a story of mud and iron, bones and salt, soot and tree gums of flowers and blood and cacti. Ink intensifies, conveys and holds onto feeling. Natural ink for me is a way to explore the moment (as in a good love letter) where hand and spirit meet.
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