Heidegger's, Tarkovsky's, and C. D. Friedrich's Landscapes: On the Perception of Space in Dreams
(Note: The present article was first written in French. I will be happy to send you the French original.) An extended version is contained in the book Films and Dreams.
The background images show a still from Nostalghia and Caspar David Friedrich's painting The Ruin Eldena.
Review of Geoff Dyer's Zona. A Book about a Film about a Journey to a Room.
In his essay on Hölderlin's poem "Poetically is Dwelling Man" ("...dichterisch wohnet der Mensch...") (1) Heidegger writes that any poetic dwelling on earth is determined by dreaming and not by action. Instead of acting, poets dream ("statt zu wirken, träumen sie"). Dwelling (wohnen) takes place between earth and sky but it does not consist of a realistic measuring of the space that extends itself between both. For Heidegger, a dreamlike moment enters into the process of perception of the space between earth and sky, and this moment of dream transforms perception itself into a "dwelling." Is it therfore possible to say that Heidegger's space which is not "measured" is a "dreamt space"? To answer this question, we will first need to specify the quality of this dream. The dream of space between earth and sky is the dream of "something," that is of a quantity known before it is dreamt. This is important and flows out of Heidegger's suggestion that the "dreamers of space" are poets. "Dreamlike desires" do not really help the poet since his aim is not simply to "dream" a world that is the world of his desires. What he wants is to see the "real" world in a dreamlike way: and only in this way can his seeing become his dwelling. The "non-poetic" or "non-creative" dreamer who only dreams what he intimately "wants" to dream, on the other hand, creates a picturesque "world of his dreams" or perhaps an idyll. He will never dream (create) a world that is limited by earth and by sky. Heidegger is aware of the negative side of "dreamworlds" when making - in a Nietzschean way - a derogatory remark about the "idyllic use" of poetry by modern, so-called "cultured" people. The same things are true for their use of space.
Real cultural space must be "gedichted" or also "dreamt." Elsewhere, in the essay "The Thing," (2) Heidegger explains that space should be seen as a "world" or as a "Geviert," that is as a self-sufficient entity which is neither explainable nor foundable on anything but itself (p. 172ff). The parallel which exists between the aforementioned idea of a "cultural space" and dream is maintained here. The world is a dream world founded on nothing but itself, which means that this world is not even founded on desires. The "world" that extends itself between earth and sky is an "aesthetic dream" by definition.
If we consider this thought further, we see that it actually corresponds with a certain idea of "dreamlike space." It is only through a "poetic dreaming" that man is able to "outwit himself" and to abandon, at least for a while, the measuring regard which he normally considers as his typically human, "inborn" capacity; this regard clings to his subjective as well as to his objective ways of "seeing the world." Only the poet and the dreamer (that is the real dreamer and not the Wunschträumer) live beyond both subjectivism and objectivism, and for this reason they can accept those things which appear strange to others as completely normal. The poet and the dreamer do not try to "correct" the space within which they see things according to certain subjective or objective criteria. Their perception surpasses the "all too human" ways of seeing the world, be it the objective or the subjective one. The self-sufficient world that is to be perceived, this space between earth and sky, even at moments where it appears as extremely strange, is accepted as normal. It is not the poet but the scientist with his measuring eye who "alienates" or "estranges" the world no matter how much he insists that he only "normalizes" it. In this way the scientifically measured space is estranged. The self-sufficient world of the "Geviert," however, as long as it is really dreamt, is neither strange nor "normal" but only "what it is." And this is the way in which the dreaming poet perceives it.
Heidegger also analyzes the role of "strangeness" (das Fremde) within his philosophical reflections on the phenomenon of space deployed in his essay on Hölderlin. Here he becomes poetical himself: "Das dichtende Sagen der Bilder versammelt Helle und Hall der Himmelsrichtungen in Eines mit dem Dunkel und dem Schweigen des Fremden. Durch solche Anblicke befremdet der Gott. In der Befremdung bekundet er seine unablässige Nähe." ("...dichterisch..." p. 195) We note that the Be-fremdung is caused here through a Ver-fremdung , this means through what we might call a modem alienation effect, because it is not even felt as fremd (strange). On the contrary, it is through the effect of strangeness that things are felt as "close" (nah).
Of course, the event that "takes place" between earth and sky that Heidegger must have thought of is the landscape. The landscape is not only made of earth (though a scientist - a geologist - could, of course, say the contrary). For Heidegger it is the poetic, aesthetic landscape that is an event, taking place between earth and sky. How particular the status of landscape is in aesthetics, we understand if we remember that Hegel established in his Ästhetik the idea of "beauty" as an intermediary state between a Rousseauist idyll and a state of generalized civilization ("Die Idee des Schönen"). An idea of self-sufficiency clings to the landscape. This emphasizes my point that the absolutely non-prejudiced state of being of the very space which extends itself between earth and sky, can best be perceived through a certain dreamlike vision. Bachelard says that "with aesthetic passion we see only landscapes that we have first seen in dream." 3 The landscape is civilization but it does not need, as civilization does, a reason in order to be. It participates, as says Anne Cauquelin, "in nature's eternity, this means in that which has always been there before man, and which will still be there after him." 4 In this sense the landscape is a substance.
What enters through Heidegger and through Cauquelin into the discussion on landscape is the problem of the chôra , of the place, this means of that non-reality born out of reflections on problems which exist only in a spiritual world, this means in a world in which neither idyllism nor scientific measures can subsist. The landscape as an aesthetic phenomenon is a place, a chôra , for the simple reason that its character is more spiritual than positive. One can express the same thing by saying that the landscape is not an empty and closed space with eventual openings on each side, 5 that it is not a space within which we can perceive things, but that it is a thing itself. If all things are, as Heidegger says in his essay "Art and Space," places, 6 is then the landscape not one typical representative of the Heideggerian "thing"? Of course, we had already suspected this while thinking about the world and the "Geviert." The question now is how this thing can be perceived if the place (or the landscape) can neither be described by a subjective ("idyllic") observer, nor be told (through discourse), nor be conceptualized by means of philosophy.
Jean-Marc Ghitti says that places would be "played by thoughts." 7 This might point towards a solution. Similarly, Bachelard has insisted on the difference between perceptions of abstract spaces and perceptions of "thingly matter." In particular, Bachelard points to the "advantage of a specialized Einfühlung (empathy), of an Einfühlung which fuses with matter rather than getting dispersed in a differentiated universe." 8 For Bachelard there is a way to avoid the perception of an abstract (realist or idealist) space in order to "feel" space as if it were a concrete matter. What is necessary is an aesthetic perception able to perceive space like a thing, like matter. This is a perception that can take place best in a dream. Space can become aesthetic through a dreamlike perception.
I have said that the landscape is perhaps not nature but like nature because it is self-sufficient. Nature is self-sufficient in the sense that it does not even need a dreamer (who would create a dream world) in order to exist; nature dreams itself. Likewise can be explained the difference between nature and civilization: civilization is dreamt by man, whereas nature is its own self-sufficient dream. The landscape as an aesthetic problem needs to be considered on the grounds of this analysis of the phenomenon of dream.
Perhaps this can best be understood when comparing the landscape and the city. Often man likes to "idyllize" nature by making of it a "dreamy object" of his desires instead of dreaming it poetically. Civilization can undergo the same process. As matter of fact, it is not the "big city" which will become idyllic but the small village. The small city or the village can be man's dream; the nostalgic, "subjective" man likes to go through "his" city like through a dream. The problem is that it is his dream and not the dream of the city itself. It is the dream caused by his personal desires and his childhood memories. The capacity to "dream" is even accelerated through a division of the city into smaller sub-units. Then man dreams of his district, his quarter, his street. However, "the dream" in the way it has been designed above should exclude all such elements of subjective reveries.
We understand this when we consider that the function of the dream is fundamentally different when concerning "big cities." One reason for this is that big cities are more like landscapes which means that they seem to be dreaming themselves. Everybody agrees that no big city can be our dream, because everything that takes place in these "townscapes" is too unforeseeable, too surprising as that it could have its root in our subjective desires. The city is a collective dream and this obliges us to be aware at any moment of an infinite number of unforeseeable coincidences. The city is no longer a personal "reverie" but it looks much more like a "real" dream, far removed from the Wunschtraum that is the idyll. Furthermore, the dream of the city can be watched and admired, making one thing especially clear: dreaming has the status of vision. Since the dream of the city does not flow out of our personal desires, the city is necessarily a dream that we perceive. And in this way the city becomes also a place for dwelling.
One has said that Heidegger's philosophy would smell of earth and certain ideas concerning the earth-like character of his philosophy were sometimes pronounced along the lines of an ethical criticism. This criticism was "ethical" because one thought that any preference for the earth, especially for "one's earth" would imply a refusal of the city, that is a refusal of the place of human social relations which, important as they are, should have a determining effect on the thinking of any philosopher. At times one has also liked to impute Heidegger, because of his distance towards the social component of human existence, an idyllic attitude towards human culture. However, whatever it was which led Heidegger into an obvious state of urbanophobia - it was not his love for the "earth" alone. Nothing can justify the argument that the smell of earth does necessarily lead to idyllic reveries that overlap completely with those reveries dreamt in particularly small communities. The "smell of earth can also lead to the great dream of nature itself. This is an idea which I would like to explore with the help of another "thinker."
This "thinker" is Andrei Tarkovsky. A paradox clings to Tarkovsky. In Sculpting in Time he says that one should refrain from deciphering his films by locating symbolisms or by seeing them as an organization of signs. Instead one should, he says, "watch them as one watches the stars, or the sea, as one admires a landscape. There is no mathematical logic here, for it cannot explain what man is or what is the meaning of life." (9)
Tarkovsky points to the "landscape" as a conceptual means which serves – exactly like the chôra – to express that which is unconcep tualizable since it does not contain the slightest trace of positivity. The paradox clinging to Tarkovsky consists of the fact that, on the one had, he puts forward the notion of landscape as a major aesthetic principle but that, on the other hand, there are extremely few landscapes to see in his films. If we say "landscapes" here, we mean "great views on landscapes" in the sense of self-conscious reproductions of nature's beauty. Tarkovsky does not film "great landscapes," nor does he film cities (apart from where they appear - very briefly - as symbols of disaster). If there are landscapes in his films these landscapes are not geometrical but "mental landscapes." They are the "zone" in Stalker which represents an "area" attached to no country and no precise time and even seems to "ignore straight lines" (Amengual). They are mental landscapes like "cosmic oceans" or a certain space station where people live - like in a chôra - through their own memories (or dreams).
All these landscapes are anti-Euclidian "places" deducted from man's spiritual activity and not from an existing reality. As says Emmanuel Carrère about Nostalghia , they are "known territories where even the difficulty to orient oneself, to distinguish up from down, outside from inside, to establish a scale which would say that the lake is bigger than a drop of water appears as familiar." (1O) In other words, these landscapes are not products of civilization but simply nature which exists just for itself. And their existence appears as produced through the dream of their own being. The artist or the poet try to recapture this nature with the help of spirit. This does not mean that they try to dream this nature in the sense that they would try to invent it. Far from that, Tarkovsky's "landscapes" have nothing of the "real," picturesque, idyllic, images of nature that would have been dreamt (wished) by a subject. They represent the play-like and "light" being characteristic also for dreams, and which Tarkovsky classifies as "landscapes." They have their reason not in a human subject but only in itself.
Ingmar Bergman says that all his films are dreams. Tarkovsky says that his films are landscapes. It is useless to reproach Bergman that in this film or that – which is a dream – one does not actually see dreams. If we cannot see dreams in the film, this is simply because the film itself is a dream. Similarly, if Tarkovsky's films are landscapes, how could we expect to find a "real" landscape in it? How could we expect to find a "Russian landscape" with dachas and picturesque peasants, as they are common in so many Soviet films? As a matter of fact, we find Russian landscapes in "the earth scenes" of Solaris: a patriarchal family, a horse and a dog, and we find similar things in those images of Russia that appear in Nostalghia . But they never have any idyllizing function because they are not constructed.
The idea of "construction" as opposed to a "dreamlike realism" can clarify many things in regard to Tarkovsky's position within aesthetic theory in this century. First of all it is important to underline that the "non-constructivist" component of Tarkovsky should be seen as one which testifies his modernism. "Flee all its picturesque constructions. The peasant does not dress in picturesque way but he is picturesque," a sentence not from Tarkovsky but from Adolf Loos, the Austrian architect and trailblazer of modernity. Simplicity, directness and clarity: by means of these principles modern architecture tries to create new places. As a matter of fact, they are also the cinematographic principles of Tarkovsky: "Let the camera only seize that which is and do not construct anything. " I have inserted the remark by Loos because it brings us closer to an understanding of the function of the earth in Tarkovsky's films. The earth becomes important in connection with the modern aesthetic strategy mentioned.
One has said that for the equally earth-loving Dovzhenko (whom Tarkovsky wanted to resemble) the characters were growing out of the earth. What is, is nature, and the simplicity of modern space is based on the idea that all objects are what they are, just as if they have been growing out of the earth. In this view, cConstructivism" represents an all too human subjectivist attitude that created not only scientifically measured spaces, but also idyllically constructed chronotopes.
I have said that Heidegger's philosophy smells of earth, as do Tarkovsky's films. A supplementary fact is that Tarkovsky is not interested in the sky which is for him totally empty: Clouds are preferably filmed as being reflected in puddles, and for Tarkovsky there is no link between earth and sky (cf. Interview in Positif oct. 69, 109). At least apparently, this would establish a distance between him and Heidegger's philosophy of the "Geviert." Above this it is the "Russian earth" with which Tarkovsky is in love, a preference that Heidegger – for matters of political correctness – would not have dared to express in regard to any "German earth." Concerning Tarkovsky, the question seems to arise of how an apparently "chauvinistic attitude" goes together with the modern spirit characterized above. It would be exaggerated to say that in Tarkovsky's films there is a "cult of the earth." On the contrary, the earth is always seen by certain people whose attitude towards earth is more interesting than the earth itself. In other words, it is through people that the earth becomes spiritualized and for this reason it is difficult to decide whether Tarkovsky is anti-platonic (or anti-neoplatonic) or not. What is clear, however, is that any Platonic, scientific optimism in regard to a spirituality obtained through the intellect alone is abandoned. In Tarkovsky's films the matter or the mud is not seen (as in the neo-Platonic tradition) as an evil but it becomes spiritual itself at the moment man, with all the subjective certitudes typical for him, ceases to be convinced by his own superiority. For this reason he decides to reunite himself with the mud, an effect which needs to be interpreted with much precaution.
By uniting himself with the earth, man cuts down his subjective being; he denies himself because any self, any body, exists only within empty spaces. Within the dreamlike chôra , on the other hand, there are no bodies: "Man's relation to the place is established through the body up to the point that one no longer knows where the body ends and where the place begins," says Marc Ghitti. (op. cit., p. 125) Tarkovsky, through his treatment of matter, appears not as Platonic but as Neo-Platonic in a way that would have pleased Plotinus. By reuniting the body of the hero with the mud, the "vision" of the hero ceases to be a vision in which a subject perceives an object. What has truly taken place is a union of subject and object in a really Plotinian sense.
Beyond this, with Tarkovsky the reunification with the mud has another dimension. A. de Baecque comments that many of the heroes in Tarkovsky's films (Rublev, the writer and the scientist in Stalker, Gorchakov in Nostalghia) renounce to the creation of their selves. (11) In The Sacrifice the hero destroys his house in an anti-idyllic gesture. The reunification with the creative mother earth undertaken by these creative persons is an act of humility. It signifies that they decide to stop any "subjective" (idealist) dreaming and that they are ready to dream nature as it really is (as it is dreaming itself). Here to "love the earth" is not at all an act of affirmation but of negation. In Nietzschean terms one could say that it is an affirmation of the will to power and at the same time an acceptance of the eternal return of the same.
The earth is as divine as are Tarkovsky's female heros. Their missions are clear and well defined but they are inexpressible neither through words nor through concepts. In general there is no "culte du vécu" in Tarkovsky's films, as has says Michel Chion. (l2) The earth is not chosen as a space for an idyllic and stylized life that could, in the end, become the subject of "political cults;" rather man and earth are united within a single quantity that one could call a dream or simply "style".
Stylized spaces have not only three but many dimensions, because there is also a political, rhetorical dimension etc. Intimate space, on the other hand has, as says Bachelard, "no dimensions," not even the usual three ( L'Air et les songes , p. 17). "Space" functions here rather, as says Georges Perrec about the space of his room, like a "Proustian madeleine" which one can perceive best when "lying in bed," meaning when suffering from a reduced mobility. In Tarkovsky such a space is produced by letting it be perceived not by a proud, conceptual, subjective man convinced of his mathematical capacity or in his "stylizing" (Nietzsche would have said "decorative") power; but by a man whose Being is reduced to nature. Perrec writes about his body lying in bed: "Comme un mot ramene d'un rêve restitué, a peine écrit, tout un souvenir de ce rêve, ici, le seul fait de savoir (sans presque même avoir eu besoin de le chercher, simplement en s'étant étendu quelques instants en ayant fermé les yeux) que le mur était droite, la porte à côté de moi a gauche (en levant le bras, je pouvais toucher la poignée), la fenêtre en face, fait surgir, instantanément et pêlemêle, un lot de détails dont la vivacité me laisse pantois. (...) C'est sans doute parce que l'espace de la chambre fonctionne chez moi comme un madeleine proustienne." (13) How much spirituality and dream are linked with regard to perception of place clarifies a similar passage from Baudelaire which describes "une chambre qui ressemble a une rêverie, une chambre véritablement spirituelle (...) L'âme y prend un bain de paresse, aromatisé par le regret et le désir (...). Les meubles ont des formes allongées, prostrées, alanguies. Les meubles ont l'air de rêver; on les dirait doués d'une vie somnambulique, comme le végétal et le mineral." (14)
Caspar David Friedrich
Bachelard says that during the Romantic period the landscape would have been a means of expressing subjective sentimentalities. In Poétique de l'espace he examines the possibility of expanding these Romantic dreams of landscapes into cosmic reveries. He concludes that "to imagine a cosmos is the most natural destiny of any reverie." (15) In Tarkovsky's films which function, as he has said himself, according to the model of the landscape, the destiny of his creative dreams has been fulfilled in Solaris . Still, it is unjust to say that at the root of all landscape dreams would be, even in Romanticism, "sentimentality." There is a Romantic landscape painter whom Tarkovsky very much admired and whose dreamlike visions permitted few sentimentalities: Caspar David Friedrich.
As in many romanticist landscape paintings, also in Friedrich landscape becomes a bearer of meanings that transcend the landscape itself. This alone, however, is not what makes Friedrich so particular.
In general, Romanticist landscape painting is inscribed in a movement at whose origin can be found Rousseau's idyllism, though this alone would have lead it to paintings of certain "jardins à l'anglaise" without ever leading to the upheaval of artistic language generally produced by Romanticist landscape paintings. Romanticism developed an intermediary line of expression bringing together objectivism and subjectivism. The painting of landscapes played an essential role here because through it certain classicist conventions could be overcome. In Friedrich's art, the theoretical battle between objectivism and subjectivism manifests itself through the development of a language that is linked to the language examined above: the language of dreams. Thus Tarkovsky's fascination with Friedrich's landscape paintings is no coincidence.
Romanticist subjectivism gave, especially through Schelling's writings on aesthetics, explicit theoretical indications about how landscapes should be painted. Friedrich was directly influenced by Schelling's philosophy. Schelling's idea of the "subjectively painted" landscape (a kind of reproduction of the observer's mental image) provided an intellectual foundation for Friedrich's paintings, but was, at the same time, submitted to modifications. Finally, Friedrich's variations of aesthetic subjectivism make his paintings more captivating than could do an art that follows purely subjectivist laws. Here the element of dream plays an essential role.
In his essay on "The Relationship Between Plastical Arts and Nature," (16) Schelling criticizes any intellectual attitude, which sees nature as an accumulation of dead objects. The reason for his refusal is that such an attitude produces the idea of nature as a "container" within which are "put" diverse things. The problem of the chôra arises here not only indirectly (especially if we think of the similarities between chôra and the landscape examined above with regard to Heidegger). Schelling wants to "solve" the problem of the chôra by insisting on the status of nature as a "creative original power." The artist who recognizes nature as such a self-sufficient entity will represent nature as a "life image." For Schelling nature is spiritual; in other words, nature is matter whose spirituality has become visible. It has become visible through an aesthetic representation of nature.
In Schelling's reflection is crystallized the logical contradiction which represents perhaps the most dramatic paradox of all human art: how can a concrete thing like matter (what nature finally is) represent a quality like beauty which, in itself, has no concrete characteristics but is completely abstract. The problem is so general that one might not be all too enthusiastic in regard to its discussion because it is well known that no philosopher since Plato has solved it. However, the reason to insist on this problem in the present context is that, first, Schelling represents it as an idea linked to the question of space; second, it is Friedrich who provides not its theoretical but its practical solution. Schelling says that the highest beauty is "without character" which means for him that it has no extension: it is like the universe that has "neither length nor breadth nor depth." (p. 69) To a landscape painter inspired by Schelling's ideas, the problem must present itself as follows. The landscape is nature as such, it is a thing which is concrete but which is at the same time, because of its prolongation into an abstract eternity, not allowed to have dimensions in the same self-evident way as have those things that we see in "reality."
Friedrich's manipulation of classical schemes of dimension in representations of landscapes can be explained from there. Already in his early paintings he deconstructs the "classicist" hierarchy of pictorial components. As is well known, in his Altar of Tetschen any fore-, middle-, and background hierarchy which permitted classicist painters the installation of a "scene" into the space of nature, is destroyed. The space has no depth, everything on the picture is concentrated in one mountain. The play with dimensions, with the confusion of the different levels of the picture creates here a dream effect. Nature speaks "directly" through the painting (of course without being able to cancel all conventional symbolisms), a condition brought forward by subjectivism . On the other hand, the directness of the expression is maintained also on an objective level, because the picture representing the landscape becomes, through the manipulation of the dimensions, a "directly speaking" object .
Catherine Lépront says that in some of Friedrich's paintings "the only perceptible plan is the one of the painting and (...) this one is irreducible to any particular world, not even to the undermined reality..." (17) In this way the landscape painting becomes a world in itself. There is no "place" here to measure because such a place must always be measured, as we already know since Plato's Timeus, from the point of view of a certain person or at least from a certain point whose position needs to be fixed within the space to measure. Dreamlike effects in paintings can be well produced through this dissolution of the dichotomy of movement and standstill. In dreams one often has the feeling, as says John Michaels, of "being in the dream through direct identification with the dream character, the object or the landscape; at the same time there is often a sense of being an observer of our dreams [and] a spectator from that scene of presence."(18)
While for Schlegel a painter should not imitate nature but work on or even exaggerate nature's characteristics, Friedrich understands the exaggeration not as a painterly, picturesque "make up" of reality (as did contemporary Biedermeier art) whose aim was to achieve a higher authenticity. On the contrary, Friedrich works towards a mystification effect which makes nature more "real" not because it has becom authentic but because it has become stranger.
We touch here upon what seems to link most Friedrich and Tarkovsky: their preferences for the kind of strangeness crystallized in ruins. Being both opposed to a painterly style (Tarkovsky found Fellini's 'live pictures' unacceptable), the ruin as a lifeless and colorless object stimulates both Tarkovsky's and Friedrich's imagination. Friedrich's picture of the Ruin Aldena that show a ruin in which has been inserted a small wooden hat inspired Tarkovsky's peasant house in the ruin of the chuch in Nostalghia . For both Tarkovsky and Friedrich, Gothic ruins symbolize the death of past beliefs. Kovacs and Szilagyi have written in their book of Tarkovsky that "great culture" is today constituted of "cultural debris" normally conserved like ruins. (19) For Walter Benjamin ruins are those allegories, which flash from time to time in front of our mind when we ponder upon the world's meaning without being diverted by all those various worldly speeches that pretend to know the sense of the world. "Allegories are in the realm of thought what are ruins in the realm of things," is one was of the most miraculous sentences by Benjamin. (20)
The dreamlike strangeness of the Tarkovsky's and Friedrich's spaces imposes itself like an allegory of a world in which modern enthusiasm for material progress does not exist but which nevertheless has the power to claim to be "real." (21) The ruin as a central piece of a landscape painting becomes here the allegory of the world. Strangeness has become a "reality" because the landscape of dreams has a mainly allegorical character whose materialization depends on a concept of space that is neither subjective-idyllic, nor objective-conceptual. Only through this concept of space that comes close to the chôra and that also Heidegger was looking for in his essay "Art and Space," not only the ruin but also the landscape itself, will appear as a "thing" in the Heideggerian sense.
On Tarkovsky: see also Review of Geoff Dyer's Zona. A Book about a Film about a Journey to a Room.
1. Heidegger: "...dichterisch wohnet der Mensch..." in Vorträge und Aufsätze (Pfullingen: Neske, 1954), p. 182ff.
2. Heidegger: "Das Ding" in Vorträge und Aufsätze (Pfullingen: Neske, 1954)
3. G. Bachelard: L'Eau et les rêves (Paris: Corti, 1942)
4. Anne Cauquelin: L'Invention du paysage (Paris: Plon, 1989), p. 31.
5. Cf. Heidegger: "Zeit und Sein" in Zur Sache des Denkens (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1969)
6. Heidegger: "L'art et l'espace" in Questions IV (Paris: Gallimard, 1976) Essay added to the French version of "Zeit und Sein" ("Temps et être"). Does not appear in Zur Sache des Denkens (Tübingen: Niemeyer, 1969), volume in which is published as "Zeit und Sein."
7. Jean-Marc Ghitti: La Parole et le lieu (Paris: Minuit, 1998), p. 146.
8. G. Bachelard: L'Air et les songes (Paris: Corti, 1943), p. 17.
9. Andrei Tarkovsky: Sculpting in Time (London: The Bodley Head, 1986), p. 9. It is interesting to note that Tarkovsky's statement overlaps almost completely with one made by Wittgenstein who writes in Vermischte Bemerkungen . 'It could be that what is essential in Shakespeare is the lightness, the arrogance that one would have, if one really wants to admire him, to accept him in the way one accepts nature, for example a landscape." (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1977, p. 98). The self-sufficient, "played" state of being of the landscape is consistently seen as an aesthetic quality and it appears as suitable for the plays of Shakespeare In other words, the "perception of the landscape" becomes a generalized model for aesthetic understanding. As a matter of fact, Wittgenstein continues the aphorism by pointing to another aesthetic quality which is closely linked to that of "play" and which he sees as the principal structure underlying Shakespeare's "landscape": it is the notion of style. "If I am right in this it would mean that the style of his entire work is the essential which justifies itself." If the landscape is here opposed to the Cartesian extensio , "style" is opposed here to the formal structure of the play. (By following the same pattern one could oppose, by taking up a suggestion by Marc Ghitti, the speech of the play to its discourse.)
10. E. Carrère: " Etat stationnaire: où s'arrête-t-il?" in Positif, 1984.
11. A. de Baecque: Tarkovski (Paris: Cahiers du cinema), p. 84.
12. M. Chion: "La maison où il pleut" in Cahiers du cinéma 358, 1984.
13. Georges Perrec: Espèces d'espaces (Paris: Denoël Gonthier, 1974), p. 32-33.
14. Baudelaire: Le Spleen de Paris et Petits poésies en prose ed. par M. Milner (Paris: Lettres Françaises, 1979), p. 62.
15. G. Bachelard: La Poétique de la rêverie (Paris: PUF, 1960), p. 21.
16. F.W.J. Schelling: Sämtliche Werke Bd. 7 (Stuttgart: Augsburg: Cotta, 1860), p. 289-329.
17. Catherine Lépront: Caspar David Friedrich: Des Paysages les yeux fermés (Paris: Gallimard, 1995), p. 140
18. John Michaels: "Film and Dream" in Journal of the University Film Association 32, 1-2, Winter-Spring 1980, p. 85.
19. B.A. Kovacs A. Szilagyi: Les Mondes d'Andrei Tarkovski (Lausanne: L'Age d'homme, 1987)
20. W. Benjamin: Gesammelte Werke 1:1, ed. by R. Tiedemann and H. Schweppenhäuser (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1982), p. 354.
21. M. Esteve: "Stalker" in Esprit 2, fev. 1982.