Personification of Tongue In Cléo de 5 à 7 1962 by Agnès Varda.

 

Personification of Tongue

In Cléo de 5 à 7 1962 by Agnès Varda.

Hands shuffling tarrot cards. Hands spreading cards face down on a table. Another pair of hands picks a card. The other hands overturn it. A voice without a face: The cards speak better if you appear. A finger points to one card and then another. You’re talented, you’re in music. Was Your Mother a Widow? You have a friend who’s a wido and she’s a negative influence? She took you away from Your home life. As a result you met a kind generous man. He made your artistic career possible. The hanged man means change. I see a fight now for the future. This is a bad card, little hope of marriage. This one a departure, a journey. The 3 fates. That’s you there. These cards are difficult to read. We must try again. Cut please. A sudden reveal of Irma the fortune teller and Cleo in black an white.

To You I am a Question Mark, a ‘langage sans langue’. As Cléo de 5 à 7 I express Myself through My Cards and My pointing Hands. I see a new acquaintance, a talkative young man, who’ll amuse you. Metz opened up Your eyes to the fact that You remain ‘outside the text:’ it belongs to ‘another world,’ Mine. A Simple world where when ‘The cards spelled [‘enunciatied’] death and saw cancer,’ then I am charmed by My Cards’ magic or Tongue. My Personification of Direction and of Entity expressed the doubt that if My objects of inquiry ‘are not given in advance as autonomous entities, it tends to invent fictive ones for methodological purposes.’ I hope that this will not be taken to be ‘a distanglement of [My] Specific object of study from those of other disciplines’  because this is not My purpose. My Personification and aporetic nature needs to question what You call The ‘Language of Cinema.’ Am I a singular grammar system, with its lexicons, phonetics, morphology, syntax and semantics? 

The cards said I was ill. Is it written on my face? Cards cannot talk nor read and there is nothing written on My Cleo’s face. Unlike the author who has spoken, [I] can[not] call [Myself] a handy pen. My Appropriation of Tongue cannot use a definition of  ‘language’ as its ‘signalling system’ because ‘as its material it uses vocal [audio] sounds’ which makes written language ‘secondary and derivative.’ I find three issues with this. (1) The term ‘signalling’, is specifically about one party signalling to another, a ‘monodirectional’ discourse.  (2) The fact that My material is Audio-Visual not only sound based. (3)  and that as such neither element is secondary nor derivative.  In a flash, a glimpse of black and white faces match the two pairs of hands and their voices in technicolour. I am Irma the old wizened tarot card reader and I am Cleo, her client. I am not a bird of bad omen, My Irma says. Now we are back to the hands on the knobs opening and closing doors. (1) Does this not indicate a sudden multiplication of tongues rather than a singular one? Watch My moving cards and hands, to speech, to bird song, to inexplicable fate and superstition in a matter of seconds. (2) My actors’ gestures and facial expressions also play their part, ‘But the fact remains that speech is the [NOT] the primary form of [My] language.’ (3) I am Dorothee the dancer, Cléo the singer and Bob the pianist. Unfortunately I find no secondary or derivative Tongue as Cléo de 5 à 7, in My dancing of light, My voiced expression and My Music. May I suggest an Ontromorphisation that takes the liberty of transposing Aristotle’s definition to ‘[Tongue] becoming ‘the representation of My portrayal’ or Bloomfield’s ‘The totality of the [Tongues] that can be made in [My Audio-Visual] is the [Tongue] of [My Audio-Visual]?’ 

My Cleo protests: You shouldn’t use the word ‘despair.’ A word is nothing! A word is nothing in Cléo de 5 à 7 because dialogue is only a fragment of My Tongue’s Audio element, not to mention that words are quite insignificant within the Visual elements.  Sausser’s insistence on ‘Langue et Parole’ where Tongue is described as a body of words functioning in a system or grammar becomes an issue for My Personification of Tongue. My Cléo protests: You only make capricious revolutions with macabre words, like a successful funeral. I also find Myself doubting Vertov’s ‘ciné phrase’ of a ‘syntactic organization’ [system] in a ‘rhythmic ordering [grammar].’ Sausser’s likens grammar to chess as a set of explicit and accepted principles governing conduct or procedure within a particular area of activity. My pianist sings the lyrics for Cléo’s song: I love playing with the boys and really give them hell. In keeping with the chess game analogy as Cléo de 5 à 7, I come out as a bad player indeed. I start by giving the game away, a showing of cards, a spoiler of My whole Tale before it even begins. Then My Cloe walks down the stairs to non-diegetic music. 3 sudden successive jump cuts of My face. Giddy walls. My Cloe swinging My handbag. My Cloe checks herself out in the mirror: Zoom in on extreme close-up of face reflection. In such a case I, as Cleo from 5 to 7, am accused of displaying Shklovsky’s ostranenie, as a defamiliarization of language through the ‘retardation, composition by steps,’  ‘double plotting’ and baring of the device.’ However I suspect that a defamiliarization implies familiar linguistic narrative conventions’ and a presence of rules which may not only ‘limit the arbitrariness of the cinematic sign’, but constrict the individuality of My Audio-Visual. May I be allowed to agree with Metz that I have ‘all the appearances of what is not, apparently a kind of language’ but a Tongue?’ 

My precious and capricious body, the azure of my daring eyes, My alluring figure is the bait that will never deceive anyone to taste the flavour of my lips. I may depend on Platonic magnitude [but not] order because I am capricious. My allure comes not through Da Vinci’s Divine Proportion or the Golden Ratio but through Malraux’s voices of a silent Cancer. I am not deceitful. As far as I am concerned, My Tongue is ‘abundantly familiar’ as an entanglement of Tongues, liberated from a measuring of My life with coffee spoons, grammar and other logical calibrations that belong to other disciplines. What are the implications of such a liberation?

My magician tells me: Don’t worry about the frogs, they don’t suffer. They’ll see the daylight again in a moment. Is My Tongue a shattering of tenses as time? As Cleo from 5 to 7,  ‘[My] clock seems to tick along with Cleo's,’ from  5pm to 7pm. This is a continuous present and a continuous future. However I find that I am but 90 minutes long. How do linguistic tenses cater for time omission? My Appropriated Tongue has no such perplexities. If My shots are [not] words then My events are [Not] active verbs. As I run ahead of Your clock time, may I also suggest that My Simplification does not even know what a clock is? Chapter VII, Cléo from 5:38 to 5:45 p.m. My intertitles are Your false friend.  If I were a book with chapters, would these not precede the action or change of scene so why do I delay My titles? My Cléo  is already in the scene before I change My title. My Cléo informs My Taxi Driver:  Anyway it won’t be the death penalty if we get stopped. Stopped or finished action is the past tense, but I am still using My present tenses. My Tongue’s time ‘measurements’ if they can so be called, encompass My given future and My slippery present with surprise cuts of tenses jumping back and forth, disorienting reflections in glass and mirrors, car window views of Paris and wide shots of the streets. As Cléo from 5 to 7, do I not entangle the Tongue of My Cléo’s ‘linear diary’ and the diachronic portrait together with those of My other stories? Are the past, present and future stories of My other cafe patrons and protagonists not all in the same present tense of My projection?

On the platform, handkerchief in hand like a soldier’s bride, but I’ll have a photo taken. I’ll look at it during my journey. Does My photo morph My unchanging doll face into My apparent Bergsonian duration?  Does the natural beauty of Montsouris Park, the word [that] makes you grin like ‘cheese,’ reflect a mockery of My artificial apparatus? Does My Tongue have a morphologic nature creating a disparity between the sculpture and the original model? Is My Tongue a clash of superstition or gut feeling against Medical Science? As My Cléo listens to Angele’s story: The doctor said he’d die. . . 2 years later, he returned stronger than ever. His wife had died in an accident. He’s an old man now. He still talks about his travels. I feel no clash and no opposition in My smooth morphing of Presence and Absence of My Angele as My Cléo frets on My Cancer’s present and My mirror reflects on My Cancer’s future implications. At the same time, within My split mirror I watch and overhear the drama of  a break-up between My couple of lovers  next to Me. However I feel at home inside My cafe as I check out My hair and make up in My mirror, oblivious to, if not happy with My interrupted conversations of chaotic presence and absence. I have no problem with displaying the hustle and bustle of My street in My shop window as My Cléo peacefully tries on her hats. My Cléo states that ‘There’s a thousand women mixed up in Me.’ Does My morphology therefore, reflect a distaste of clashing polarities in favour of a smooth morphing or mixing of Absence and Presence?

Your beauty is in your health. As Cléo de 5 à 7 I find no irony. I equate My beauty to My Presence enhanced by  My Polka Dotted Dress, My White Nightdress and My Black Dress. A costume is probably the smallest unit of Presence in the frame, a phoneme in linguistic terms, but My Tongue does not seem to focus on single units, but on a holistic composition. My Presence is not limited to Cléo in the foreground as a My prefix or in the background as a My suffix, as a mere addition to the root subject. Ugliness is a kind of death. As long as I am beautiful, I’m even more alive than others. Neither life nor beauty is a given in life, however there is nothing wishful or imaginary about preserved beauty and life within My Audio-Visual.  My Cancer too is not an imaginary construct but it is a different unique semantic construct. Everything suits me. Trying things on intoxicates me. My Personification of Tongue is an intoxication of trying things on because My semantic ‘sense always results from the combination of elements which are not themselves signifying.’ My Cleo’s mirror falls and breaks. An omen of death, how horrible like breaking a plate. It is when we discover that the broken mirror is for the dead man, that My unique semantics of superstition start making sense. Do My Semantics depend on a process, from ‘a trying on’ to their fruition?

This card is not necessarily death. It means a transformation of your own being. I start with a tarot card session that introduces Cancer in its embryonic form. My Cleo’s mirror reflection of My first reaction to My Cancer is: If it is, I’ll kill myself. Might as well be dead already. Do My cris-souffles, imply My Ovidian Metamorposis for My Acquisition of Tongue? Do I start from a tabula rasa of semantics as an unknown card that slowly reveals itself and progresses through Lacanian mirror stages?  Is there ‘something psychologically accurate about this?’ Does My Tongue need My Cléo’s primary stage of angst and existential despair in the face of a terminal illness to catalyse a transformation? Do I need to undergo anchoring, isolation and distraction stages to arrive at My sublimation? My very existence depends on the transformation and mutation of My Tongue. My kittens scuttling on the floor reflect My hot water bottle transformed into the shape of a cat and the wedding dress I have seen in the shop mutates into My vergin white night dress. Both are examples of a cruel unfeeling metamorphosis; a Cancer. If there is any inconsistency it is but a disguising of My true Tongue. My Bob as a mock doctor drags My Cléo out of bed, here is a song with ‘ack’ and ‘in’: rhymes with inconsistent girl: The Girl who lies: See, I lied to you. My dear I knew who you were. Your disguise made me smile. Is this not a rehearsal, a preparation or Card prediction of My transitory Tongue?

The black and white notes play as you tinkle your keys. My Personification seeks My transitory steps. An anchoring implies My Cléo’s Visual and Audio Singing Presence. My Cléo is the foreground of every shot; all men’s eyes on Me; My song is on My Taxi Driver’s radio and My Bedroom is fit for a queen. The lone diegetic piano turns into a non-diegetic orchestra for My Cléo to sing My ultimate enduring performance. I’m like in an empty house without you (sans toi). Invaded by the sea, My sands slip away without you. Beauty wasted, cold and naked. How can my body dream without You? Gnawed away by despair, my body decays on a crystal bier, without you. If you wait too long, I’ll have been laid to rest, ashes pale and alone without you. Sans Toi - without who? As a lyric, I may be referring to My lover, but as an Audio-Visual what am I without my captured presence?

I am Your Question Mark. If My Tongue is one of Derridean Presence and Absence, the next transitional stage of transformation, that of isolation implies the latter. My swishing rail, My drawing of curtains to herald My Cléo’s change of dress, My wearing of My new black hat blend in the frame to such an extent that I am rendered all but invisible. The fading notes of My song on a child’s untuned toy piano without the trappings of the lyrics and the orchestra almost miss out on My Cléo’s shadow as My ‘trotte bebe’ walking out on My previous narcisstic stage. My glasses made everything look black. My Magician instructs Me as I run away: Watch closely, no cheating here. Open your eyes. Now I am not My Cléo anymore. No one listens to My song playing on the jukebox anymore. I like songs. Do you? Not this one. It’s awful. The recording’s awful. They should redo it. I ignore Myself. I hate My own recorded Embodiment. .As a Tongue I lose My pronoun, an entanglement of first person singular. Here I become a multitude of mirrors and paintings and cafe patrons, a multitude of unvoiced and unseen stories. I find no cacophony in transition. Does My Absence involve portraying a Tale where the storyteller, the diegetic source, is non-diegetically out of frame or in the background?

I am Your Question Mark and not Your Answers. My Personification of Tongue finds its tension and suspense in Audio-Visual Presence and Absence. 

Cléo:You’re always teaching me something. 

Antoine: It’s my busybody nature. 

Cléo: You’ve always got the answers. It’s funny I’ve always got questions. 

My Cléo might ask: Does Absence not imply absent sound and light, a blank silent screen? What happens in My absence? Maybe for a moment I do not feel so exposed, afraid they’d find a fault in my body. My body does not make me happy, not proud. They’re looking at more than just me, a shape, an idea. Does My drawing of attention to My Tongue of Absence not make Me paradoxically more eloquent?

My Personified eloquence comes at a price, My rhetoric. I cannot be an honest confession of simple Presence and Absence if I display complex high brow rhetoric. At the end it is either Me or My Cancer. My only possible conjunction is ‘or,’ whichs posits a linking of two mutually conflicting alternatives, where one choice is to the detriment of the other. This brings serious consequences for My Manifestation. I thought everyone looks at me. I only look at Myself. I am Presence or Absence with no possibility of Presence ‘and’ Absence together. It is Me as Cléo or Me as Dorothee. So when My Dorothee poses naked amongst My scultpures in the making they cannot be a fragmented, distorted perception of Myself. My Manifesto does not allow Me to turn My subjects into objects. I do not distinguish between natural or inanimate objects because I portray My subjects as multiple protagonists and as equal elements as Cléo de 5 à 7. Benjamin may point out that such distorted sculptures involve the figurative allusion of My body as a mask. How can My allusions be figurative and masked ‘imitations’ that expose ‘hidden aspects of the original’ if they can only be present or absent? How can there be a filling of cognitive gaps when the only gap in My Audio-Visual nature is an omission? My conjunction ‘or’ therefore creates a problem for any rhetoric of allusion as a covert, implied or indirect reference. Contrarily I find that My allusion uses the ‘or’ conjunction to build a visible or audible unhidden more than just me, a shape, an idea. As My new idea begins to take shape, My silent film within My omnipresent Audio-Visual, features an ambulance or a funeral hearse as an unhidden allusion for My Cléo’s hovering between medical salvation ‘or’ death. Does this suggest that My Tongue depends on a transformation, a reconstruction, a taking shape of My own unique allusion?

But you can’t read music. You never taught me. I am not allowed to ‘read’ in between the lines, because I find no text to read. Does My Embodiment as instantaneous Audio-Visual movement not allow Me to portray implied and intended meaning? Does My Prosopopeic Rhetoric work only on My explicit display? How can I imply Cancer as an invisible, intangible mutation or a disease of insufficient passion. I cannot count on Your interpretation because this is My individual Persona, My Tongue. Unfortunately, interpretation also lends itself to figments of superstition, haunch and connotation because as My Angele says: Doctors see illness everywhere. They can’t stop doing tests. People’s minds are crammed full with cancer and heart trouble. We’re superstitious. So how can I indicate a non-explicit reference to Cancer? I may, for example,  equate Cancer to a journey of transformation because My Antoine informs Me that Today the Sun leaves Gemini for Cancer. Do My options for non-explicit intent end with dialogue? Cancer as a ‘sociopolitical malignancy’ may not be within my instantaneous Audio-Visual projection. Instead, as Cléo de 5 à 7 I find My sociopolitical manifestation embedded in My display of My 1960’s Paris streets, stations and cafes. My protagonists come from all walks of life, a ‘more than just’ My Cléo. I am More than just My Paris from My Taxi windscreen as My radio news programme broadcasts riots, a Farmer’s protest, latest casualty figures, the closure of a museum, a Russian present of dogs to the Whitehouse and a successful crossing of the English channel to rest on My Antoine’s fate as a soldier on vacation before engagement in the Algerian war. If there is an intended visual of  sociopolitical malignancy, it lies in My multiple visuals of Parisians getting to grips with Dying for nothing. That’s what upsets us: My Antoine says. As Cléo de 5 à 7, ‘When you fear your death is near, you become aware of other people in a new way.’ Is this displayed awareness not the fundamental essence of My Audio-Visual?  

My Cléo enters the cafe and selects My own song. I am ignored. Mine is a Universal Tongue that needs no translation of My Cléo’s disappointment. My Dorothee’s reassurance that The cafe isn’t a concert hall seems to imply that music thrives in a location and inversely wanes outside its topological context. The same happens when My Cléo sings in the park, devoid of any audience. Esperanto as a universal language failed because its vocabulary had no historical development, no geographical location and no native users. It seems that a sense of group identity cannot be borrowed from other Tongues’ histories, geographies and users. At least it did not work for Esperanto. Conversely My Personification seems to have unearthed a reluctance to borrow allusions, semantics, grammar and lexicon from outside My individual manifestation. This could be because of My ignorance of Chinese, which, in  Cléo de 5 à 7, becomes an unreadable character in a Parisian shop mirror. In fact My Cléo ignores it. However I can weave My Chinese character into My cultural phenomenon of My cosmopolitan location of a French but universal nature. My Cléo’s frustration at being ignored makes Me suspect that My noticeablity is My identity, My history, My geography. As My Dorothee’s nude body poses for My sculptors, I, as an intruding Cléo, get angry looks from My artists. Unnoticed I am as dead as Esperanto. My paintings on My Cafe walls pass by unseen. Using My Dorothee’s reassurance, a cafe is not a gallery. Suddenly I bring them to attention. This painting is called a woman! I see a bull. That proves Miro is Spanish. Picasso’s owls are like women. Does noticeability not imply that when My subject is present, all other objects are absent? 

My Tongue as an Audio-Visual displays different tones and shades of Present and Absent subject. Sometimes I allow a harmonious blending and sometimes I jump with an accentuated forte note out of the blue. I suspect that My noticeable multiple jump shots of My Angele, My Bob, My displayed anonymous staring protagonists, My wig on a Monkey clothes holder or of an infant in an incubator which looks like a Snow White coffin are something more than a Simple ‘jumble of techniques, including a switch from color to black and white and occasional voiceover inserts.’ Syncopation as ‘a disturbance or interruption of the regular flow of rhythm’ or beat, is a regular feature of My Musical Tongue. It is normally used to draw attention to a particular element of a piece. Is this not an indication of  parallel offbeat paradigms within the marriage of My Audio-Visual Tongue?

I am a Question Mark. Why do I need noticeable diversions and distractions anyway? My Angele, takes My Cléo to a cafe to breathe easy after My brush with My Card of Death. Coffee will animate You, My Angele tells Me. Is this animation an allusion to My complete transformation into My peaceful acceptance of My calamity at the end? If so, does it not mean that I need to calm down? My Angele: Music will soothe her, You can be the chemist. Up with the corpse. My eventual chemotherapy delays and slows down Cancer growth and likewise My corpse fleetingly comes to life with My song. My transformation as Cléo builds itself on a series of climaxes. Musically speaking, a verse builds up the refrain whereas a hook line or main theme implies other minor themes for a build up. Is My stop at a train station not similar to a rallentando before My various climax points? Is this My calm before the storm as I try to distract Myself by counting My Sailors’ pompoms? Is this a distraction stage where I try A new whisky shampoo for American Women. Whisky revitalises the hair. Am I trying to catch My breath before I pick up My luggage and proceed on My journey? 

As Cléo de 5 à 7, I am a plurality of journeys, of Tales within a Tale, of an Audio-Visual within an Audio-Visual that happens between 5 and 7pm. I am a fleeting transition of stages which lead me from anchoring, to isolation, to noticeable distractions in order to arrive at My final destination of sublimation. I am a plurality of Present and Absent tongues. After all If I died [You] wouldn’t be upset, [You’d] be Surprised. There is Me [Dorothee] as a dancer of light or shadow, Me [Cléo] as a Singer voicing or not voicing dialogue and Me [Bob] as a pianist of noticeable or ignored music. All this time, I rush up and down the stairs through the ambient noises and bustle of My streets, inside a taxi or a bus. In fact, as Jose, I am so busy that I have no time to see My Cléo’s dress, and so when Jose asks: Do you miss me?  Cléo answers: It’s like missing a train. Then I, like My Jose am gone, an egotist, [who] tells you his troubles and leaves. Is egotism of subject presence and object obliteration the price I pay for My transitory, fleeting nature? 

I hate reading reviews; dislike knowing the story beforehand; Like sending birthday cards too early. There seems to be an egotism about a Personification that ignores You, as My Spectator. My Ontromorphosisation can be accused of appropriating My author’s work. I may also be accused of showing tarot cards too early. Am I a spoiler? After all, I am still waiting, as Cléo, for My test results, as Antoine, to be sent to war and as a train passenger for transfer. I start to suspect that My very nature stamps an egotist and indiscreet manner of Tongue. My Antoine displays My indiscreet informality, My busybody nature, My flirting with strangers, My colloquialism and complete disregard for problems that others may have. A complete blind eye to absent objects. 

Cléo: Nudity is indiscreet. It’s like night and illness.

Antoine: Nudity moves me. Striptease is moving as well as sexy. 

My Antoine does not care for My Cléo’s simile, instead I appropriate it and reconstruct a new simile, because I am only concerned with what moves me. Interestingly there is no reproach from My Cléo. My parts of Tongue only seem to be bringing My Cléo closer to My Antoine. My Cléo asks: Are you a photomaniac? My indiscreet manner of Tongue may imply an inclination towards perversion or pornography. Similarly to My sculptor and My nude model relationship, the subjects I frame are subjected to My egotistic appropriation of their form. My more-than-me reconstruction of ‘urgent personal emotion’ happens through an appropriation of what ‘had once been human beings.’ As a photomaniac, I strip My subjects of their language and baptise them with Mine. Is this the price to pay for My Timless, Enduring Tongue? Does My transitory nature imply an earthly sacrifice? Am I like a Cancer of transformation, where the option is either Me or You?  

Throughout this Personification, I notice how often I use the possessive pronoun ‘My’. I seem to know no other. As a proper noun, I use only ‘I’. This seems to be the marker of My Embodiment, the genesis of My egotism and My disregard for privacy. As My Cléo leaves, Irma, My Tarot Card reader, opens the door to reveal My eavesdropping husband. My Antoine calls My Cléo a melomaniac, not for music but for melodrama. I scour faces, gestures and some diaologue. I pry on My naked Dorothee. I piece My Tale from prying. Why am I as Dorothee posing nude if I am a dancer? The suggestion is that My dancing career is probably not going that well. I piece My Tale from asking impertinent Questions. My love life? Don’t you sleep together? Not My poor Cléo. I piece My Tale from spying. What about My Dorothee? Well, My Raul gives Me the car keys and I, as Cléo, catch My Dorothee kissing.  I learn about My Antoine’s story by prying into it, just as My Antoine prys into My Cléo’s story. Nudity should be for everyone, like the summer. Nakedness is simplicity itself. Love, Birth, the dawn. The sun, the beach, all that. This indeed is My confession; If only I could pull My head off too and not only My wigged appearance, so that I could understand Myself better. You ask me as My Angele ; Shall I come. And I answer. I want to be alone. Is My solitude essential  for Me to develop a naked Tongue of My own?

Streets should have living people’s names. They could change their names when they die. Do You want a square? It is My Cléo de 5 à 7, My appropriation of Paris. Yes I want a square, a street in My name in complete disregard for anyone else. How can I learn to respect the dead when I endure? I am My Cléo, My Antoine. I choose who and what to frame, who and what to listen to. My Being incognito gave You joy and peace, [But] your bank account turned me on. The lady’s man was just paying for Me the liar! I seduced You with My own presumptive Terminology and My Direction. I lied about My Tuesday hat. I am My own Multiple Entity. I prefer Florence, this black dress wigless version of My Cléo. It conjures up thoughts of Italy, the Renaissance, Botticelli, a rose rather than the Polka spotted Cleopatra. Egypt, the sphinx, the asp, the tigress. I prefer flora to fauna. Dear Agnès Varda, if My Antoine prefers Flora to Cléo then My street will be called Rue De Flora, an appropriate Personification of My Transitory Tongue battling to survive My Cancer and My War. Cleopatra has [not] lost her voice. I strive for victory, what else can I do as Cléo Victoire? I am no Hamlet, ‘To be or not to be’ stops being a question.