Towards an Anthropology of Colour
Sara Cwynar’s (2016) begins without an image, only words: “A quick history in a single thing.” A phrase with the canned authority of the TED Talk, torqued by its curious preposition. It is spoken by a man, his tone and tempo even, presentational; a touch of expected authority. And then, the cropped torso of a woman in a loose cashmere sweater, soft grey, as she holds a jewelry box in her left hand: “The soft texture gets me here.” She runs her right hand across its front, down its side; it is persimmon velvet, its fixtures golden. Her nails are long, elegant but not polished. “It appears here.” Cut to her holding a velvet earring box, moss, which she turns in her hands: “And here.” Another velvet box, the size of the first, in a grey tinged with lavender. There is a scrape on the woman’s hand: does she work with them? . Now a longer shot. Her hand, emerging from the same sweater, is cut off just above the wrist, entering the right side of the frame; it holds yet another velvet box, periwinkle, and opened to reveal its silk interior and its brand’s gold lettering. Most of the image is a paper background, a green that is just green. “Soft misogyny…” A man’s arm enters from the opposite edge, bringing with it a light meter, placed atop the box to test the exposure. “…a line I read on the internet hits me hard.” Both exit, leaving for a beat only green, and re-enter as quickly: he reaches to retrieve the box across the empty frame, as “B calls them alienated things. They are hollowed out—” A match cut bridges her hand, held in an artificial gesture as she pushes the box into his, with the downward pointing hand of a man,” “—and as ciphers they draw in meaning.” Her hands enter from the top of the frame, joining the others briefly (she too now wears white shirtsleeves), and then reaching, with an automaton’s movement, past them (“Things you didn’t even know that you wanted” splinters into a stuttered layering: “The way that the things, ”), drawing the camera down to a mustard pegboard covered in whatsits. Her hand lands on something red, semicircular, plastic: “The way that the things that were the most stylish are the ones to warp the most quickly into kitsch.” Before he has finished saying “kitsch” his voice, from another track: “And what about value?” She pulls back her hand, chastened. The camera continues down, framing only the board. She begins to fidget with other objects: a candle, a hanger in mauve satin. Barely more than 30 seconds have passed. The rate of this description is roughly 20 words per second; thoroughness would demand a rate nearer to what a picture is typically taken to be worth.
