Photo courtesy Cooper-Hewitt, National Design Museum, Smithsonian Institution

Bill Moggridge’s passing on September 8 at age 69 wasn’t totally unexpected–he had been battling cancer–but it was nevertheless a shock to the system. In the latest incarnation of his design life, Bill had taken the helm of the Cooper-Hewitt, the Smithsonian Institution’s National Design Museum housed in the former mansion of industrialist Andrew Carnegie on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. This assignment came as a delightful surprise to many in the design and museum worlds. The choice of placing a designer at the head of this museum was not only a bold one but also surprising and yet reassuring. It would be as if an art museum would choose an artist as its leader—something of a rarity and quite implausible in this age of museum management courses and arts administration degrees, and despite the assumed logical connection it might present at first glance. Of course, Bill was not just any designer to assume such a role and brought with him a passion for the subject that he had in fact been embodying his entire life.

While much of the memories about his life will undoubtedly reference his inventive work on the first laptop computer, as he himself has stated, all that industrial design work of shaping the package “melted away” when he turned on the machine and was drawn into the experience of interacting with the device. This was not just a personal epiphany for Bill but a paradigm shift for his chosen field of practice. The notion of ergonomics, or how humans interact with the world and use its manufactured objects and systems, had been part of the discipline for decades—a path paved by the likes of iconic figures such as Henry Dreyfus and Niels Diffrient. What Bill discovered was not just the relationship of humans to objects, no matter how dematerialized the product became, but rather a much more holistic anthropocentric universe that would eventually unfold as a world of human-centered design. In fact, his greatest legacy will be his contributions to this now-dominant approach to design. As one of the cofounders of IDEO, Bill was instrumental in bringing this philosophy and its working methods and strategies to the field largely on the strength of numerous and successful new consumer products, services, and experiences.

Compass computer for GRiD Systems. Designed by Bill Moggridge. Palo Alto, CA, 1982. Photo: Don Fogg, courtesy Cooper-Hewitt, National Design Museum, Smithsonian Institution

In many ways Bill was the perfect spokesperson for such an approach: an affable demeanor, truly engaged and curious about the world around him and the people in it, an avuncular figure capable of providing true insights through years of experience. This was a unique set of traits totally in keeping with a philosophy that claims to be as much about the humane and humanity as it is about human factors. Indeed, too many proponents of this approach come off more as human engineers than humane designers: a place where users are always right in the same way that customers are always right (despite the fact that anybody who has worked retail long enough has experienced otherwise).

This very human package is what gave me hope when I first met Bill at our annual low-key and lo-fi gatherings with other designers in the high altitudes of Colorado’s “Collegiate Peaks.” I felt hopelessly unfit and sedentary as I drove past Bill as he bicycled up the mountain each morning to our gathering. His physical stamina contrasted his rather matter-of-fact analysis and the inevitability of his logic, all delivered in that delightful English accent that is so convincing to American ears.

Bill’s Design Talks: Walter Hood. Photo: Shamus Adams, courtesy Cooper-Hewitt, National Design Museum, Smithsonian Institution

I had developed a rather skeptical disposition to the notion of so-called human factors design, fearing that it was less about design and that many of its proponents had succumbed to the allure of whatever new business strategy was in vogue and could be sold—belief without lasting conviction. It was also rather disconcerting to see so many Post-It notes stuck to the wall and so few drawings or sketches being produced. However, it was Bill’s very humanity that was in the end the best case that could be made for adopting a more human-centered approach to design. It was also the fact that Bill was a designer at heart that gave credence to the argument to rethink design itself beyond just objects. This was an expansive kind of thinking, one that quickly took hold at IDEO as it moved from developing new consumer products, both hardware and software, to retail experiences and customer services.

I believe that Bill also helped shape the future direction of the Cooper-Hewitt in both message and as messenger. After all, it’s a small step to rethink things such as the design museum and education when the business you helped found is trying to solve challenging  or “wicked” problems, including reinventing government or re-imagining healthcare. At the Cooper-Hewitt museum he was once again surrounded by objects and artifacts, but also by people, ideas, and the desire to explain the power and potential of design to the audience that probably matters the most, the public.

Cooper Hewitt National Design Awards Gala at Cipriani’s in NYC on October 13, 2010. Photo: Richard Patterson, courtesy Richard Patterson

Booksfromthefuture presents a ten-day summer course in London on conceptual book design and print production for students and graduates. Taught by designers and educators Yvan Martinez and Joshua Trees, with guest talks and seminars from artist Jaime Gili and art historian Gabriela Mendoza. There are 20 places available and open to international applicants. The course runs from July 9–20.

Jamie Gili is a Venezuelan artist based in london. Participants will each design a book about his work, focusing on his lesser known practice of wall paintings installed in private spaces, whilst exploring the book as a contemporary project space. One book will be selected for publication and all books will be showcased in one of Gili’s future exhibitions.

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Booksfromthefuture is both a publisher and a school. Conceived as a think-and-do tank, Booksfromthefuture unites scholarship and apprenticeship towards the production of books that investigate different tomorrows in publishing in collaboration with external clients. Booksfromthefuture champions conceptual design through practical production. Books that question and experiment with ‘bookness’, whether print, digital or spatial. Booksfromthefuture mentors designers and artists to become independent thinkers and practitioners with the experience and confidence to initiate and sustain their own projects, collaborations and futures.

For more information about Bookfromthefuture and the course, visit their website.

Photo: Cameron Wittig.

For several decades, the Walker’s Design Studio made its home on the top level of the Edward Larrabee Barnes–designed building in a space that hosted an array of graphic designers, editors, curators and guests. Sometime in the late 1980s, one section of wall was conscripted to tally the presence — and heights — of the many people who passed through the studio’s doors. That tradition continued until 2004 when the wall came down as part of renovations to the space. Design is now housed in the new Herzog & de Meuron building, but an homage to the old office remains: A chunk of wall is preserved behind glass in the new studio, and with it the names of the many — including former design director Laurie Haycock Makela and the late Scott Makela, designers Andy Beach and Alex DeArmond, writer Jeff Kastner, illustrator J.Otto Seibold and, tallest of all, “The Japanese Emperor #2″ — who stepped up to be measured.

We’ve posted the photo on Facebook as well, so Walker alumni, please go tag yourself and help us get a comprehensive visual archive of all who’ve been part of this unusual yardstick.

Last fall I was enlisted to make a Photoshop file with the artist Goshka Macuga which would be made into a woven tapestry and hung in one of the Walker’s galleries. Needless to say, I was very excited to be involved in the production of such an unusual piece. To clarify, this wouldn’t be made by having ink from an inkjet printer sprayed on blank white fabric. The image in this case would actually be the threads. And it would be a large piece. At 48 x 14 feet, it is larger than the front of my house. Making it an even more involved project, it would have many elements from many sources which would need to be composited into a forest scene. In my position as Senior Imaging Specialist at the Walker, I do very detailed retouching and color-correcting on high-resolution images for publications. This would be a fun change. The finished tapestry, part of Goshka Macuga: It Broke from Within, is now on view in Burnet Gallery at the Walker.

My involvement with the project would be to assemble and produce the final file, in dialog with the artist, which would be given to the weaver. This would take place over a three-week period in January. During this time, there would be morning Skype sessions from Walker curator Bartholomew Ryan’s office with Macuga, who lives in London. The evening prior, I would save a compressed jpeg file of the work I had done that day and send it to the artist. Some of the issues that we were concerned with were relative placement and sizes of the figures and to accomplish a true sense of space and life-likeness for the viewers once it was hung in the gallery. In the end there were 22 elements that needed to be placed into the forest background.

The forest image was made from seven vertical images stitched together to form a panoramic. These images were made by Walker photographer, Cameron Wittig, using a 33mp (6726X5040 pixels) Leaf Aptus II 7 digital back on an Hasselblad camera and a 60mm wide-angle lens. Wittig traveled with Ryan and Macuga to the Lost Forty area of the Chippewa National Forest in northern Minnesota. Wittig’s account of his experience will be posted soon. Below is Ryan and the camera set-up in the Lost Forty. The orange hats were needed to protect them from hunters.

We provided Macuga with low-resolution versions of several forest panoramics. Using low-resolution scans she gathered during her many trips to the Walker for research and images she made at various events, she started “sketching” in Photoshop.

Above is an early draft by Macuga using an image from a woods in Europe. This was made before she had access the panoramics following her trip to the Lost Forty.

The above three are some of the many versions that Macuga “sketched” in Photoshop.

Once the decisions had been made for who and what was going to appear in the forest, new scans were made at the highest sample rate for a given scanner. Image resolution for most of Walker printed materials is 300-400 ppi. I was relieved to hear that the resolution of this file would only need to be 30 ppi. But because of its large size (17423 x 5040 pixels), I still found myself zooming in and out, even though I have a 26-inch display. The tonal quality of all elements need to be similar. This was done through Photoshop Levels and Curves. Contrast levels and lighting needed to match closely. Of course there was considerable cloning of dust and scratches from these old photographic prints. I didn’t want to effect film grain sharpness so I stayed away from filters. The most consuming part was isolating the figures to be copied into separate layers of the master file. There were 45 paths and 14 alpha masks.

At left is Walker Art Center founder, TB Walker in 1927. At right is artist Macuga during the trip to photograph the Lost Forty in 2010.

Above is Walker’s first director, Daniel Defenbacher in 1951. This was one of the many places where brush had to appear in front of a person.

Once it was finalized which elements were to be used, full-size strips were printed on our plotter and hung in the gallery. Ryan made the photos of me on a lift placed at 30 inches—the height that the raised floor would eventually be. This can be seen in the installation image at top.

Another consideration was predicting were where the seams would fall on the tapestry. The maximum width the loom could do is just under 10 feet. We divided the file evenly into five segments, and marked them with guides so we could see in advance (below). The goal was to be sure a seam didn’t cut directly through a person.

The final file is 762 MB and has 83 layers. Luckily this was one channel only (grayscale). To have done it in RGB or CMYK may have required it to be sectioned with multiple files. The final flattened file is 88 MB.

Late in the process, sections were cropped and sent to the weaver in Europe for testing. We needed to see the overall tonal range, resolution, and how the seams worked. This would be the closest thing to a proof. A month or so later, Macuga saw them. She approved. In late January, the final flattened file was ftp’d to the weaver. By late March, the five rolls arrived at the Walker. Below is Walker Registrar, Joe King, moments after unrolling one of the sections in art receiving. My first reaction was amazement at the resolution and tonal smoothness, followed closely by relief that it had actually worked so well.

Below is a close-up of the tapestry and a seam.

Below are images made during the installation.

Quoting co-curators Peter Eleey and Bartholomew Ryan in their introduction to the exhibition’s publication, “Goshka Macuga uses institutional histories as the staging ground for complex proposals. For her first solo museum exhibition in the United States, the London-based Polish artist delves into the Walker’s past, foregrounding the institution’s early link to the lumber business in which its founder flourished while considering the forest as a metaphor for American democracy and freedom. Within an exhibition architecture of her own design—inspired by a rendering of a “town square” lounge proposed for the Walker’s 2005 expansion—Macuga sets elements from the institution’s collections and archives against a monumental new tapestry depicting the Lost Forty, an old-growth forest in northern Minnesota that survived logging due to a surveying error in 1882. Amid the gargantuan white pines, the artist has collaged individuals related to her research.”

More about the tapestry can be found here.

Below is a spread from the gallery guide that Walker Senior Designer Dante Carlos made. His post about it is here.

One of our most basic forms of manipulation, we encounter knots in many situations, from shoelaces to tangled wires. But beyond their useful qualities, also have historical, cultural and scientific dimensions that make them a fascinating subject of investigation.

[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=enRL_1Ldh8Y[/youtube]
video: a demonstration of knot throwing, or tying a knot using only a single-handed maneuver

Culturally, knots have been used as tools of representation in a variety of ways. Incas used knots in complex recording devices called quipus (‘knot’ in Quecha), capable of operations like addition, subtraction, multiplication and division. In Taoist alchemy, knots appear in magic diagrams as a regular part of its supernatural vocabulary as talismans against evil or misfortune. European traditions range from celtic manuscripts to heraldic symbolism.

from left to right: Inca Quipu, a Taoist magical diagram, a Celtic knot, and a heraldic knot (Granny knot)

Various expressions like “tie the knot” (marriage) or “to the bitter end,” (originally a nautical expression which refers to the end of a rope tied to a bitt, or a metal posting on the deck of a boat) represent knots within language. A “Gordian knot” is often a metaphor for dealing with a difficult problem in a forceful manner. Knot names themselves reveal a rich folk-history, whether or not the accounts are true. Thief knots were a way of securing one’s belongings but also as detection device; a difficult knot to tie accidentally, an untrained thief would almost certainly re-tie the knot into the similar reef knot, revealing the tampering. Another example is Matthew Walker’s knot, which could possibly refer to a particularly interesting maritime legend about a commuted death sentence (which most certainly would have involved another knot, the Hangman):

The FULL or DOUBLE MATTHEW WALKER KNOT. Lever in 1808 speaks of “MATTHEW WALKER’S KNOT” and describes the knot which Alston in 1860 calls the “DOUBLE MATTHEW WALKER KNOT.” A refinement of the original knot had in the meantime taken over the original name , which is now generally modified to “a MATTHEW WALKER.. Lever’s familiar expression, “MATTHEW WALKER’S KNOT,” suggests that he may have known the inventor, who was possibly a master rigger in one of the British naval dockyards. Many myths have grown up around Matthew Walker, “the only man ever to have a knot named for him.” Dr. Frederic Lucas, of the American Museum of Natural History, once told me the following story of the Origin of the knot, which he had heard off the Chincha Islands while loading guano in 1869. A sailor, having been sentenced to death by a judge who in earlier life had been a sailor himself, was reprieved by the judge because of their common fellowship of the sea. The judge offered the sailor a full pardon if he could show him a knot that he, the judge, could neither tie nor untie. The sailor called for ten fathoms of rope and, having retired to the privacy of his cell, unlaid the rope halfway, put in a MATTHEW WALKER KNOT, and then laid up the rope again to the end. So Matthew Walker secured his pardon, and the world gained an excellent knot. (Image from A. Hyatt Merill’s Knots, Splices and Rope Work, 1917)

from left to right: an excerpt from P. G. Tait’s treatise “On Knots (pdf)”, 1885; an electron micrograph of RecA protein-coated DNA trefoil knot, simulated rendering of a hologram manipulating light from a laser into a closed loop

Beyond practical uses for sailors, mountaineers or fishermen, knot theory was once a 19th century esoteric corner of topology, but recently has become an important field in mathematics, most notably with relevant applications in biochemistry (understanding the structural properties of proteins and potential “bad knots” and how these errors relate to disease). And in physics, scientists recently have found a way to bend and manipulate light into closed loops through specialized holograms, with a range of applications that includes a potential approach to fusion power. (The Walker recently addressed some of these issues in a lecture by The Institute for Figuring as part of the lecture series surrounding the exhibition, The Quick and the Dead.)

above: Knot Generator poster by Everything Studio

A particularly interesting recent example of knots showed up in 2008 in the form of an unusual catalogue, as part of a exhibition in Beijing. Designed by Everything Studio, the Knot Generator came out of an investigation into Celtic forms of knots, redrawn and represented as mathematical diagrams. The generator reduced the potential complexity of knot structures into 20 unique units, each representing different string relationships. They talk briefly about possible origins of knot-based works as ways of representing the divine while avoiding the taboo of idolatry. While that might be up for debate, the greater point may be that like many other basic mathematical constructs like the circle or natural logarithms, knots appear to be strongly integrated with human culture, as well as reveal much about ourselves and the observable universe.

In early January the Walker hosted more than 30 local architects, landscape architects, product and graphic designers, artists, and other cultural thinkers to help us think about the four-acre green space that was created as part of the museum’s 2005 expansion.

This convening took place as the first public step in an upcoming summer-long program called Open Field—an experiment in new educational and presentational platforms that can engage the public in a dialogue about what makes the “cultural commons”—that great reserve of collective knowledge and creativity that is publicly held. Open Field begins on June 3 and lasts through Labor Day. During that time there will be lectures, workshops, classes, and artist residency projects taking place around the Walker campus.

While our first impulse was to create an open competition, the decision to explore a more collaborative model proved a better fit given our themes of participation and collective culture. Free to convene in any size team and to work in any fashion that suited them, participants tackled the unique challenges posed not only by the site but also pondered the philosophical and logistical dilemmas of how best to engage with artists and the public. After eight hours of requisite site visits, intensive drawing, conceptual speculation, and shared presentations and critiques, five distinct groups emerged.

Highlighting the strengths and weaknesses of the site and project, the teams provocatively challenged many of our underlying assumptions, and most importantly, offered keen insights and creative solutions to our problems. Many designers are accustomed to some version of a charrette, or collective brainstorming session, during their education or perhaps later in their professional lives, such as consultations with community constituents. What was particularly unique about this charrette was the willingness of frequent competitors to work together.

We crafted an inventory of current site problems and opportunities that was distilled from each team’s work and presentations. Many teams noted the Walker’s Vineland Place entry, located directly across the street from the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden, as an important threshold for the museum. But it’s one lacking shade, and is a jumbled and confusing patchwork of materials, pathways filled with obstacles, a necessary but unfortunately located fire lane, and a giant retaining wall—the collective effect contributing to the plaza’s homely face and unwelcoming presence.

Busting free from the box we originally placed them in (our prescribed zone of Vineland Plaza), the teams conceptualized the entire space as zones of different activities—with unique circulation issues and hidden vistas. A do-it-yourself ethos emerged frequently in solutions that called for visitors to participate directly by bringing their interests to the field, or in such schemes as a collective “tool box” that could house a variety of items—whether picnic blankets and umbrellas to use on the lawn, or even a machine like the kind used on ball fields to paint lines for a game that you create.

Big Tree Concept Sketch

Noting the Walker’s landscape as rather one-dimensional, with a penchant for sod and occasional prairie grasses, a couple of teams proposed planting some trees—or in the case of one enterprising team, planting a “big ass” tree. A beautiful metaphor of the cultural commons, the tree captivated many people. Evoking the social sculpture of Joseph Beuys’ 7,000 Oaks, or the spectacle of Maurizio Cattelan’s unearthed olive tree, this idea became pivotal to our thinking of how to re-invent the space.

Other teams urged us to unify our hardscape of mixed materials: continuous grass, crushed gravel like the Sculpture Garden paths, or even Astroturf were all suggested. Many tackled the nearly 100-foot-long white retaining wall that terminates the plaza, with solutions that included creating a living or “green” wall of plants, covering the entire surface in blackboard paint, or using it as a giant video screen. One team tried to overcome the wall as a barrier by building over it and around it—suggesting the importance of connecting the space above and below and reminding us of the axial alignment between the Spoonbridge and Cherry in the Sculpture Garden and the area atop the wall—a place currently inaccessible to the public.

"Raft and Plinth" concept sketch

Out of all of these ideas and insights, we are currently studying the feasibility of many of them: not one tree, but a grove of trees to provide shade on the plaza and also act as a gathering place; a communal “tool box” with a variety of items one might use on a summer day (umbrellas, radios, lawn chairs, etc.); a series of ramps and stairs to a platform or deck at the top of the retaining wall for classes and performances; a new beer garden and outdoor barbeque on the plaza; and better integration of the plaza hardscape.

"Umbrellas" concept sketch

"Green Wall" Concept Sketch

We will post blog updates on our progress as we continue to design and install our new outdoor lounge, and as our programs and projects evolve. Drop by on June 3 for a special Target Free Thursday Night launch party as we invite you to spend the summer in our new backyard.

E: Hey, where’s that blog post you were going to finish two weeks ago?
A: I, uh, have been working on it.
E: Really? It looked to me like you were watching movies.
A: I was refreshing my memory.
E: Uh huh. What’s this post about then?
A: It’s about Jean-Luc Godard. And it’s done.

Stills selected from Pierrot le fou, 1965 ↑

Jean-Luc Godard, arguably the most radical of the Nouvelle Vague filmmakers, is an artist whose imaginative typographic title sequences, intertitles, still and animated imagery inspires me as a designer. Posted here, are stills selected from four of his films from the mid- to late 1960s.

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Godard inserts text and image into a variety of contexts, including, but not limited to: handwritten letters, neon signs, shop signage, book and magazine covers, collages, grafitti, posters, cinema marquees, corporate logos, the pages of comic books, advertisements, newspapers, children’s books and political pamphlets. Pierrot le fou (above) is rich with contextualized text. Its narrative is reinforced by the images of handwritten letters between protagonists, signs from the places they travel, and a book called, “La bande des pied nickelés,” a cartoon about a group of ne’re-do-wells who make their living scamming the bourgeois. Cropped and blinking neon signs highlight specific words, or segments thereof (e.g. “Riviera” becomes “vie), a mercurial device well-suited to Pierrot le fou. Overall, the embedded texts add meaning and beauty to the film, with patterns of live action and still text reminiscent of a graphic novel. There are few purely typographic titles in this film, but all have dotted upper case “I”s and capital letters centered on black backgrounds—the default Godardian style—set in Antique Olive, a face newly developed in the early ’60s by Fonderie Olive.

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Stills selected from Masculin féminin: 15 faits précis, 1966  ↑

In Masculin féminin, Godard begins to use purely typographic intertitles, a break from earlier films’ embedded texts (e.g. the book cover argument between lovers in Une femme est une femme, 1961), or alternating texts and titles (e.g. Les Carabiniers, 1963 and Alphaville, une étrange aventure de Lemmy Caution, 1965). Devoid of imagery, these intertitles look like “title cards” from the silent film era. Unlike silent film titles—which provide dialog and narration—the content both reflects the thoughts of the protagonists and comments on the culture-at-large, addressing film, politics, and commercialism. Like previous films, Godard continues to play with language. Letters drop in and out to reveal new words, as in the the closing title, when “Féminin” becomes “Fin.” Formally, the titles are consistent: dotted upper case “I”s and centered justified text on black backgrounds, likely set in a custom version of Futura with a shortened “M” centre vertex. The film, shot in flat black and white, manages beautifully with white text.

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Stills selected from La Chinoise, 1967  ↑

Though stylistically more similar to Pierrot le fou than to Masculin féminin, the intertitles in La Chinoisecontinue Godard’s move toward the politicized texts he continues to use into the ’70s and ’80s. His presentation of images and titles reads like a manifesto, eerily predicting the political unrest of May 1968. The inclusion of embedded texts (e.g. color swatches, pages from comic books and political publications) reduces the contrast between mise en scène and intertitle. The contrast is also blurred as texts are altered, presumably by narrator or protagonist: 1) colored markers decorate a Karl Marx caricature, 2) suction cup arrows attack a collage of French thinkers and revolutionaries, and 3) “défendre” is crossed-out in favor of trahir. Large, cropped portions of books and newspapers highlight specific words, and function both as embedded text and typographic intertitle.

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Stills selected from Le Weekend, 1967 ↑

In Le Weekend, Godard returns to the purely typographic titles last seen in Masculin féminin. He inserts line breaks, shifts color, repeats titles and uses graphic elements (e.g. the crossed-out “Front de Libération de Seine at Oise”) to play with words, numbers, and their meanings. “Analyse,” broken into two lines, serves as the chapter title for an explicit pseudo-psychoanalytic scene in the beginning of the film. “Photographie” is cleverly renamed “Fauxtographie,” and is made more striking by strictly justifying the text letter-for-letter, achievable with an H/I hybrid letterform. There is even a speedometer, tracking the protagonists’ km/h throughout the film. Blue, white and red text is a common Godardian palette, usually referring to American cultural hegemony and aggression, in addition to rising tide of nationalism in France. In this film, the color scheme may also refer to the titles’ gradual shift from Gregorian calendar dates to French Revolution events. Formally, the colors highlight specific characters or words, and contrast nicely with the black backgrounds and the warm, sunny style of the live-action sequences. The mostly-justified, all-cap titles are again set in Antique Olive.

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Godard’s style developed from various influences in his life and career: 1) He came from a well-to-do Franco-Swiss family where poetry and philosophical texts were regularly recited. The reading and recitation of text is a common thread in his films, often represented typographically. 2) Godard has a reverence for, and an encyclopedic knowledge of film, including the works of F.W. Murnau, Jean Cocteau, and Alfred Hitchcock, all known for the style of their embedded text and imagery. Murnau, as a silent film director, used intertitles as they were first intended—to deliver dialog and narration—though he experimented with contextualization, using pages from old books and letters between characters. Cocteau, inserted his own untranslated handwriting into The Blood of a Poet. The film is not silent, and the writing is not necessary, though it adds texture and meaning to his work. Godard uses intertitles the same way, as vehicles for content and style not always immediately relevant to his narrative. Hitchcock, began his film career as a writer of intertitles. As a director he embedded texts into everyday cultural displays such as street signs, posters, bilboards and newspapers, a practice Godard repeats in films like Le Mépris, 1963, and Une femme mariée, 1964. 3) Godard was a film critic and a contributor to Cahiers du cinéma. Via intertitles and embedded texts, he continues to write, peppering his films with homages, critiques and references.

Stills from F.W. Murnau’s Nosferatu (updated), 1992, and Sunrise, 1927 ↑

Still from Jean Cocteau’s The Blood of a Poet, 1930 ↑

Still from Alfred Hitchcock’s The Farmer’s Wife, 1928 ↑

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A: See? I’ve been reviewing some of Godard’s films to write this post. I’m thinking of a followup entry to add and discuss more stills from other films.
<silence>
A: Are you still there? Is this thing on?
<crickets chirp>