“There’s that great passage in Proust where Marcel talks about imagining the face of the girl you’ve only glimpsed from behind. How beautiful the unseen face always is. I have yet to experience the disappointing reality of César.”
“We were liars, cheats, she began—none of it was real. The trees had been made to move by a trick, it was only the branches. someone was filming from a helicopter, circling around. The poplars hadn’t moved at all, but the viewer would think they were leaping about dancing, that the whole forest was spinning round. The was sheer deception; it was disgusting.
I defended myself. ‘You’re quite wrong,’ I said. ‘The tree really was dancing because that is how the viewer will experience it. What matters was the effect we achieved, not whether the tree moved or if a technician created the idea of movement. Did you think the forest could walk around, when the trees are held by their roots? Don’t you think it’s a function of art to create the illusion of reality?’
’Art,’ she repeated bitterly. ‘If that’s what you were—artists—then everything would be real, even the dance, because you would know how to make the leaves move to your words, not to a wind machine or whatever it was. But you people can’t do anything like that—not you, or the others. You’re all clowns, and more contemptible than clowns. You’re worse than con men.’”