Ann-Cécile Thiesen

 

 

Simplicity. A sky, two planes, music. Generally thought a peaceful image. Yet, right from the start, the music gives the impression of a frightening situation taking place, even though the basis image is rather lineal and structured, clear and comprehensible. I can see more planes flying high up in a white sky and then after a while I spot parachutes, probably people, that jump off of them in an organized manner. I have seen images like that before. From military trainings or war photography. The image is in relation to something I can understand, so I am attentive, but not afraid. Of course, I don't know what happens on the ground where the parachutes are heading, yet the image itself has nothing frightening to it. It is the music that shapes my thoughts and creates visions of drama and disturbance. But that is only the basis.

 

Comparable to a second layer of film, there is a scene on top of the scene. The basic image gets metamorphosed into a new one, supported by a kind of music that reinforces that process. At first all I can see is black dots, sticking on the main film like dirt, enforcing me to concentrate a little more on what is happening in the main scene, behind those dots. Then, as the black layer becomes more intensive and visible, I start to lose concentration and my eyes start wandering in between those two layers of film and get carried away by the sound of music. Suddenly the 'dirt' takes a new role within the scene. I can see shadows, someone running, screaming faces and masks, I start to feel and to see even more drama. And the music does not stop frightening me on and on. But what am I afraid of? Is it the music? Is it the image? Is it my own mind? What is the most important fragment? Where does rational thinking stop and where does philosophizing start?

 

I start to wonder where the parachutes are heading. They seem so helpless. Hanging in there, in that white sky, left alone by the airplanes, heading to an unknown ground. There might be a war going on and there might be wide open fields. The parachutes might not even be humans. Maybe they were food boxes or bombs. How could I know?

 

The quality of the scene is tiring. The music is grueling. I consider just calling it art and be done with it, but the scene does not let lose. I concentrate once again on that second layer and wonder what the intention was, of creating a scene within the scene. Is it what happens on the ground? Or maybe this is going on somewhere else. The music is disturbing and loud and I can hear people screaming. Then I start seeing their faces, their facial expressions, I start feeling their fear and I finally get to the point where the second layer becomes my basis image of the scene.

 

I get reminded of life. How sometimes things in the foreground are found to be much more important than what happens behind, below, or within them. Is the scene not at all about planes, war, food, or anything else I thought? Is it about fear, restlessness, misbelief, about confusion, feelings and unbreakable threats?  Are the planes used as distraction, I wonder. And the parachutes as something to hold on to while stepping in the dark, searching for an answer. I can't let go of the screams, the masks, the faces. What are they afraid of?

 

When I turn of the music, I get tired watching the scene. The sinking parachutes draw my gaze down with them. As if they were to hide something. The second layer stays intense, with or without music. It caught my eye and now I can let go of it. I become one with the new found image and in silence I find peace with it. As soon as I turn the music back on, the peace is gone. So is the tiredness. Still, I go off to bed and lie awake, thinking about the screaming faces and what they actually screamed.. Outside I can hear a plane crossing my house and I hear someone scream “Look, the plane is so close, I can see the wheels, I can almost touch it!”. When I picture his face and its expression, I wonder, is it sometimes as simple as that?