Titles that are more properly stage directions. Then glimpses, snapshots, faces on streets, in doorways, in photographs and magazines, in films, in dreams, in shadow, in broad daylight: the occasions of their faces, what they say.
We’re still sifting the evidence, bits of film, pages from books, manuals of instruction, catalogues, documents that have all been through the shredder. With their customary revolutionary zeal our students piece them together, patiently, haphazardly, matching letter with alphabet, line with line, a grand spaghetti of internal memoranda, minutes, shorthand notes, requisitions, letters, rosters, countersigned orders, demands, receipts, lists of stores. Ours is a strange archaeology, often inaccurate, barely articulate, the meanings of words forever shifting in translation, frame never matching frame, page page, so there is often no continuity, no sequence, no satisfyingly continuous narrative, indeed, sometimes no apparent meaning at all in these activities other than our persistence, without which nothing makes any sense at all.