This comment, in the form of a poem, is dedicated to the late Claude Sautet, one of France's premier directors...
NELLY ET M. ARNAUD
Empty shelves: his library divested. Nothing written, except memory, invests this moment, this immediacy. In the dim light his worn hand almost caresses her young body, but we, in the dark, must estimate the camera's intent. What he had held in abeyance too long shadows his face.
And the rain, the hard Parisian rain. Cognac at tables for two. Another man, a younger man. These scenes will lead us to believe in temporary convenience... the "stolen moments." Vivid beauty flashed on the computer screen, four centuries preserved. Manipulated, changed, "seared with trade." What remains, embraced, has no passport, has no traveling bags. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Thank you and farewell, M. Sautet
NELLY ET M. ARNAUD
Empty shelves: his library divested. Nothing written, except memory, invests this moment, this immediacy. In the dim light his worn hand almost caresses her young body, but we, in the dark, must estimate the camera's intent. What he had held in abeyance too long shadows his face.
And the rain, the hard Parisian rain. Cognac at tables for two. Another man, a younger man. These scenes will lead us to believe in temporary convenience... the "stolen moments." Vivid beauty flashed on the computer screen, four centuries preserved. Manipulated, changed, "seared with trade." What remains, embraced, has no passport, has no traveling bags. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Thank you and farewell, M. Sautet