paris

Jonas Mekas

galerie du jour agnès b.

“You’ll never know what a Displaced Person thinks,” interjects Jonas Mekas in Lost, Lost, Lost, a patchwork of footage shot between 1949 (the year Mekas arrived in New York as a D.P.) and 1963, and edited years later into short, discontinuous sequences, like so many entries in a diary, so many bits and pieces of a life in exile. From this and other “diary films” that he has assembled in the same, painstaking way since the late ’60s, Mekas has now begun to extract selected images in the form of photograms. These “fragments of memory,” as he has called them, are enlarged from the films like prints from a contact sheet. But they are not photographs, because they have been shot in the continuous time of the movie camera—and yet they are not films because that time has been frozen into a vertical sequence on a page. They are, as it were, “displaced frames.”

This hybrid status is accentuated by

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