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'The Long Now' is an exhibition that explores the dialectical relationship between cinema and photography, and the liminal space between the still and moving image through the work of internationally acclaimed artists and filmmakers, including Chantal Akerman, Mark Lewis, Sharon Lockhart, Bruce Nauman, Paul Pfeiffer, Kelly Reichardt, Michael Snow, Andy Warhol and Gillian Wearing.

Please Pay Attention Please Since the second half of the twentieth century, artists and filmmakers have embraced slowness as a strategy to counter the rapidly accelerating speed, spectacle and impatience of modern life. As speed lost its critical edge and artistic credibility, slowness became a radical gesture. During the 1960s this drop in tempo was at the heart of the experimental films of Andy Warhol and Michael Snow, whose cinematic experiments challenged conventional notions of time by taking the movement of cinema into direct dialogue with the stillness of the photographic image. The reductive cinematic and visual strategies that define this “aesthetic of slow” have been in continuous play ever since, most recently taking the form of what French theorist and curator Raymond Bellour has termed a “Lumière drive.” Sited in the liminal space between the still and moving image, the film and video works included in The Long Now alter expected modes of spectatorship by intensifying our gaze, awareness, and response and encouraging contemplation. In a time when a pathologically short attention span is the new normal, the ability of these works to transform the passive spectator into the pensive spectator by inviting us to submit to the pleasure of slowness remains, arguably, the most radical gesture of all. Shot in one continuous take over the course of a single evening, Warhol’s eight-hour-long, durational magnum opus, Empire (1964), is both a filmic portrait of one of the world’s most iconic buildings and a meditation on temporality. By isolating the building within the camera’s incessant gaze, Warhol heightens the viewing experience by creating a new sense of cinematic time: “reel time” becomes “real time.” As he drolly quipped, the point of the film – deemed “unwatchable” by many, yet arguably his most famous and influential cinematic work – was “to see time go by.” Warhol’s fixed-camera aesthetic and investigations into the experience of duration were an enormous influence on the development of structural film; this is especially evident in the work of Michael Snow, one of the genre’s most celebrated practitioners. Widely considered to be one of the most influential experimental films of all time, his rigorously composed structural epic, Wavelength (1967), which consists of a 45-minute tracking shot through the length of a New York loft, cuts through the essence of the cinematic experience by reducing film to one of its most basic elements: camera movement. Bruce Nauman’s “studio films,” based in part on composer John Cage’s experiments with duration and indeterminacy and informed by avant-garde dance, made use of a fixed camera to explore the narrative and structure of time. In Walking in an Exaggerated Manner Around the Perimeter of a Square (1967-68), the unmoving frame of a stationary camera captures the artist carefully carrying out a series of actions, performed in real time, within the barren mise-en-scène of his studio. Gillian Wearing’s video Dancing in Peckham (1994), in which the artist dances by herself in a south London shopping mall to a soundtrack that exists only in her head, continues the artist’s exploration of the disparities between public and private life, and voyeurism and exhibitionism. Like Nauman, Wearing uses the camera as a recording device that dispassionately observes and records the action(s) being carried out within its unrelenting gaze. Chantal Akerman’s hypnotic rumination on stillness and restraint, Jeanne Dielman, 23, Quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles (1975), utilizes long takes and scrupulous framing to create what is arguably one of cinema’s most mesmerizing and comprehensive representations of time and space. Akerman’s minimalist, static camerawork and use of real-time representation allows viewers to experience the materiality and literal duration of cinema by creating space for thought. As she states: “I don’t want it to look real, I don’t want it to look natural, but I want people to feel the time that it takes, which is not the time that it really takes.” The deliberate pacing, meticulous composition and disquieting atmosphere that characterize Jeanne Dielman are also present in Kelly Reichardt’s taut period Western, Meek’s Cutoff (2011). By subverting the familiar and clichéd conventions that define the genre – specifically its reliance on spectacle and emphasis on narrative closure – Reichardt creates an understated, minimalist masterpiece of contemplative cinema. Mark Lewis creates slow, meditative films that simultaneously reference and deconstruct the conventions of cinema by exposing – and embracing – its smoke and mirrors. Steeped in the formal austerity of structural film, Lewis’s works fuse the fixity of the still image with cinematic movement. This is particularly evident in his film North Circular (2000), which uses the minimal narrativity of a slow, tracking zoom shot to explore duration and place, drawing our attention to the movement of the camera and the passage of time. Paul Pfeiffer’s visually breathtaking yet destabilizing video Morning After the Deluge (2003), in which dazzling Cape Cod sunrises and sunsets are digitally fused into a single, incomprehensible image, creates an unsettling sense of timelessness that elicits and rewards patient, sustained attention. Like Lewis, Pfeiffer’s work can be seen within the tradition of formalist experimentation in film; his utilization of digital technology to create a seamless illusion, one that alerts the viewer to the very mechanics of that illusion, amplifies the work’s self-reflexivity. Sharon Lockhart crafts a rich and fascinating dialogue between still photography and cinema by pushing the formal boundaries of both mediums. This is especially evident in her quasi-structuralist “still film” LUNCH BREAK (Assembly Hall, Bath Iron Works, November 5, 2007, Bath, Maine) (2008), which consists of a single, uninterrupted tracking shot in which the camera moves in extreme slow motion through the corridor of a shipyard. By deliberately slowing the pace of the film, Lockhart brings into clear focus the seemingly mundane details and gestures of everyday life that typically escape our collective (in)attention. Bound by their deployment of reductive cinematic and visual strategies – including minimal narrative structure, the long take, a pronounced emphasis on quietude and the everyday, and a forensic attention to detail and temporality – the films and videos featured in The Long Now present the viewer with moments of stillness and slowness that counter the epidemic fetishism of technology and spectacle that defines modern life. Positioned in the interstitial space between motion (the cinematic) and stillness (the photographic), they elicit and reward patient, sustained attention and, ultimately, allow us to fully experience “the depths of things so easy to miss” in what writer Don DeLillo has described as “the shallow habit of seeing.”