There is something you have that I want…

In the films of Rosa Joly, shot on 16 mm in bedrooms and hotels—sites of the most private exchange—the bulky camera itself appears greedy for closeness. Hardly optimized for the smooth operation of today’s film-making, the analogue device arrives on the scene as a commander of presence. Two hands are barely enough to move it around. Its recording time is limited, there is no monitor to oversee what passes through the lens, and a single strand of hair entering the camera gate can be the downfall of an entire roll. To this alchemy of inconvenience and unpredictability, only partly concealed between the stuttering of frames, Joly surrenders her most photogenic friends and sometimes herself. In exchange for what, one might ask. Vampire teeth and chocolate coins? For experiencing the combustive reaction between artist and machine, between artist and muse—more than occasionally an auto-erotic affair—or, perhaps, for obtaining proof.

Long before DNA…