For me, constituting an archive goes far beyond the mere act of scrutinising the past. This process reminds me of Walter Benjamin's Theses on the Philosophy of History, in which he stresses the importance of capturing the past in a moment of ‘danger’. When you are lucky enough to collaborate with someone - in my case, an artist - who is still alive, every moment potentially becomes an archive in the making, a testimony in abeyance ready to be collected.
In this sense, building an archive doesn't just mean filing and preserving, but also being constantly attentive to what's happening here and now. This requires a posture of vigilance: the archivist must be a kind of receptive sponge, capable of capturing documents, even those that seem insignificant at first glance, the snippets of conversations and stories.
It's been several weeks since I've had the opportunity to see Nil. There are several reasons for this, but the most challenging is our respective availability. Between her need for rest and the other commitments that fill her diary, Nil is very busy. It goes without saying that I already have a substantial amount of material to build up a fairly complete archive of her 60-year career. However, part of me can't help thinking that every missed opportunity represents an important moment when archives, especially audiovisual ones, slip through our fingers. Moments of proximity during which I take out my camera and capture his daily life, her words and her laughter.
Moments when, scanning the desk, I notice a personal document that Nil underestimates, but which is so enriching for the archive. This anguish reminds me of Derrida's reflection in Mal d'archive: the desire for the archive, this urge to capture and preserve, is also marked by a constant fear of loss, of forgetting. But it is wrong to think in this way: archives only exist when they are created, there are no ‘potential’ archives. Our weeks away from home, far from being a void, are in themselves a kind of archive: a silent archive, a trace of absence, but an archive nonetheless. This idea is echoed in Derrida's concept of the trace, in which what is not said or captured becomes a form of paradoxical inscription.
I was thinking of the figure of the archivist of the contemporary (this seems to me to be the most appropriate expression to describe us; I archive the present, the here and now) like a sponge. Let's come back to this point: since the beginning of the project, I've been constantly on the lookout for any data about Nil that might enrich the final archive of Archivorum. I look for them, or sometimes they come to me. A recent example is an interview with Nil Yalter, Fabienne Dumont and Odile Aittouarès, filmed in November-December 2023 at the Berthet-Aittouarès gallery, during Nil's last exhibition there.
I say that this archive ‘appeared’ to me because, as a subscriber to the gallery's newsletter, I occasionally receive emails with information about forthcoming activities. It was with great pleasure that I discovered this interview with Nil. One more precious piece of information to add to the archive. In the end, it's a question of seizing the opportunity, recognising the value of information as it arises, and integrating it into a wider framework of meaning.
Watching this video not only reminded me of the importance of the interview, but also gave me the opportunity to hear Nil talk ‘behind the scenes’ of her iconic work The Headless Woman - information I didn't know. She talks about the conditions and means of production, as well as the many retakes of her filmed performance, constrained by spelling mistakes that forced her to wash her entire body for each new take. Isn't that an interesting anecdote? It amplifies our understanding of the work?
Finally, this anecdotal angle could very well be the one I explore for the critical publication. It would allow me to amplify Nil's voice, an aspect that, as I've mentioned several times already, is essential to this publication. What draws me to the concept of the anecdote is its unpredictable and ever-changing nature. Anecdotes exist on the edge between truth and fiction, evolving with each retelling. By its very nature, the anecdote resists control and simplification. It can transform, distort, and take on new meanings depending on who shares it. It's this ability to surprise and offer fresh perspectives that makes it so captivating. It's a risky angle that intrigues me, and given its marginality and Nil's anthropological focus on stories, it could be quite relevant. I'll think it over and discuss it with her.
Definition of ‘Anecdote’: A small historical fact that occurred at a specific moment in a person's life, on the fringes of the dominant events, and for this reason is often little known. From the Greek α privative prefix and εκδοτος: unpublished, unedited.
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