介绍 | Introduction

 

杰克凯鲁亚克 ｜ 著

 

街头骄阳似火，从自动点唱机中或是附近的葬礼中传来音乐，这是Robert Frank在路上捕捉到的疯狂的美国。他驾驶着（由古根海姆基金资助的）二手福特车，游历美国48个州，拍摄了大量之前从未在胶片上出现过的景象。这些影像蕴含着敏捷，神秘，天才，悲伤，或是奇异的不为人所知的秘密。因此，他被誉为在其领域的伟大的艺术家实属必然。看完这些照片，你不再能确信的知道点唱机是否比一场葬礼令人悲伤。那是因为他经常拍摄点唱机和棺椁 —— 和介于二者之间的神秘之物，比如在黄昏或黎明时分，一位黑人牧师不知出于何种原因，蹲坐在密西西比河Baton Rouge段明亮宽阔的水域旁的湿地沼泽中，雪白的十字架立在身旁，他诵念着秘密的祷文，河道之外的人永远无从知晓 - 或者是那张某个餐厅里的椅子的照片，阳光从窗户照射进来，椅子笼罩在一片圣光之中，我从未想到这种视觉的美感可以通过胶片上呈现，更别提用文字去描述了。

 

这些照片呈现了幽默的，悲伤的，“一切”的和“美国人”的！牛仔竞技赛季中，瘦高的牛仔在在麦迪逊花园广场卷着烟草，伤感，纤弱，难以置信 —— 那张长曝光照片，夜路孤凉地延伸进美国新墨西哥州那令人无法相信的广袤无垠之中，在囚徒之月下，在吉他巨星嗡嗡作响的演奏之下 —— 在洛杉矶，面容憔悴无精打采的老妇人，手搭在一辆老爷车的右侧前侧车门上，倚着车窗，带着星期天特有的呆滞向外张望，一边向眩光的车窗里后座上的孩子们评论着“美国”（爱尔兰口音） —— 纹身男子睡在Cleveland一处公园的草地上，在这个充斥着气球和帆船的周日下午，向全世界发出如雷鼾声 —— 冬日的Hoboken，台上站满了政客，他们看起来都很正常，直到你突然在这群”牧师政客”中发现最右侧的一位嘟起了嘴唇（可能是在打瞌睡），看起来并不是位“虔诚“的“教友” —— 一位老人拄着老年拐杖站在早已废弃的“老”台阶下迟疑徘徊 —— 疯子在他美妙的加州Venice的后院里惬意的休息，坐在汽车上拆下的旧座椅上，国旗搭成了天幕，我要是坐在里边一口气能写出三万字（作为火车制动驾驶员，经过这种后院时我会从巨大的蒸汽锅炉旁探出身子）（杂草丛中有托卡伊甜酒的空瓶子）—— Robert捎了两名搭车旅行者并且在夜间让他们来驾驶，于是人们看到两张冷峻的望向夜色的面庞，（像艾伦金斯伯格在《嚎叫》中所说“幻想中的印第安天使的幻象”），人们会说，“哦瞧他们多么的低贱卑劣”，但其实他们想做的只是沿着路走下去，回到他们被劫掠一空的生活 —— 这便是Robert在这里告诉我们的 —— 弗罗里达的St. Petersburg，退休的老人们坐在繁华大街边的长椅上，倚着拐杖谈论着社会保险的问题，一位不可思议的有黑人血统的塞米诺尔妇人独自抽着香烟沉思，如同爵士演奏中一段纯净的次中音萨克斯独奏。。。

 

这是”很美国“的画面 —— 人们不爱发表评论，不喜欢批评甚至压根不会去谈论，除了”这就是我们在真实生活中的样子，如果你不喜欢，那也没办法，‘因为我是在以自己的方式过我自己的人生，原上帝赐福于我们所有人，也说不定’“，“如果我们够得上的话”

 

Oi the lone woe of Lee Lucien, a basketa pittykats...（世界著名晦涩难懂的意识流写作。。。）

 

这会是怎样的一首诗歌啊，如果有一天一位年轻的新秀作家高举烛火俯身于这本照片书，用一首诗来讲述每一处黑白影调中的神秘细节，这将会是怎样的一首诗歌啊。那灰色的胶片捕捉到了粉嫩多汁鲜艳鲜活的人性，无论这是否是莎士比亚所说的“人情乳臭”，还是“淳朴善良的人性”，都不影响你欣赏这些图像，比演出更加精彩。

 

Madroad一直向前 - 这疯狂之路，孤独的穿过宽广辽阔的平原，向着远方地平线上Wasatch山脉的积雪延伸，这一切告诉我们在这西部的景象中，在高高隆起的世界的尽头，柔软星夜中的蓝色太平洋海岸，半轮月牙斜挂在混沌的夜空中。迷雾中饱受折磨的身形，这蜷缩在飞驰向前的车里的隐形昆虫，车灯照亮 —— 原始的伤口，沉闷乏味，山丘，星星和草地上的向日葵 —— Arcadia这片橙色拼接而成的西部土地，这与世隔绝的之地上的孤独的沙丘，露水暴露在无限的黑暗空间，那响尾蛇和地鼠的家园 —— 这里地势低缓而平坦：沉默无言的公路急切的吸收着篷布的力量，土地所有者们的小块绿色土地时不时出现，道路旁也有沟渠出现，如我所见。从这里到Elko，在和电话线杆平行的立标的高度，我看到一只虫子在烈日下嬉戏 —— 你搭上最快的货运列车，穿过烟雾，寻觅大腿，享受美人儿，脱下这一身裹尸布，在晨间的玻璃上亲吻晨星 —— 疯狂之路驱使人们向前。铅笔记录着我们旅途中微弱的期盼，地平线交融，鼻状云在不可言说的遥远距离处模糊起来，积雨云紧贴着芝加哥，伯灵顿和昆西铁路，聚集在火车蒸汽的上方 —— 小密苏里河流域的荒野上岩石遍地，月光下干燥坚硬的棕色土地上，一头奶牛的屁股闪闪发光，电话线杆耸立牙签般竖立，强行为这孤独的汽车中狂热的旅行者附着在汽车前牌照板上渺小渴望赋予了广阔无垠的生命意义。排干你老俄亥俄州，印第安和伊利尼平原上的洼地，让大泥泞河穿过堪萨斯州，穿过泥泞，穿过冰冻北方的黄石公园，在弗罗里达和洛杉矶冲击出大湖，在白色平原上建起你的城市，铸起你的山脉，用遍布勇敢树篱的悬崖点缀的你的西部，高耸并如同普罗米修斯的悬崖一样享有盛名 —— 将监狱置于犹他州月光下的盆地中 —— 轻送加拿大人去探索那直至北极湾的大陆，编织你墨西哥的螺纹颈衣领，美国 —— 我们回家了，回家了。

 

他躺在缎质的枕头上，这个黑皮肤的男人死讯传遍四方，疯狂的哀悼者挤满了房间，为了一睹这圣洁的面庞，以及何为死亡，死就是生，还是别的什么？ —— 如果你了解过佛经的话 —— 芝加哥政治性的大会上，在充斥着震耳欲聋的啤酒碰杯声响的大厅中，圆滑的面孔通过真诚的倾述来哄骗手中夹着雪茄，像尼禄一样脑满肠肥，恺撒一样野心勃勃的工会老板 —— 蒙大拿州的Butte，游戏桌后背景中的选举海报和桌上即将被推倒的赌具，本身就是一页社论 ——

 

一辆汽车被昂贵华丽的油帆布（我认识一位卡车司机是这样发音的），避免灰尘落在一尘不染刚刚打蜡的的迈锐宝汽车上边，他的主人是时薪两美元的木工，正在屋内，和妻子在电视机前昏昏欲睡。在棕榈树下，在一个平常的加州墓园的夜晚，无事发生 —— 在爱达荷州，三个十字架立在车祸发生的地点，就在那个瘦高的牛仔还差一公里就要到达麦迪逊花园广场的时候 —— “和你说过让你在车里等我”，于是Robert四处溜达拍下了在车里等待的孩子们，无论是豪华运动轿车里的三个小男孩，侮慢的令人生厌，还是凌晨四点驶向德克萨斯州的车，困的睁不开眼的可怜孩子，他们的父亲到路旁的棺木丛中去伸懒腰了 —— 新墨西哥州的一处平地，加油站写着“打折” —— 可爱的白人小女孩儿被抱在黑人保姆的怀中，他们深处天堂而茫然不自知，这是一副应当被巨幅展示在小石头城的街道上的照片，展示普天之下的爱，展示宇宙母亲子宫里孕育出的爱。—— 还有这幅最孤独的图像，在女性无法看到的小便器之间，有人在为别人擦着鞋，这是永恒的悲伤 —— 

 

哦，在旧金山三月的一个夜晚，中式的花圈在墓地中被吹倒，大雾中没有人看到，除了那只橡皮猫 ——

 

不喜欢这些照片的人不会喜欢诗歌，明白吗？不喜欢诗歌的人只喜欢晚上回家看电视里那带着大牛仔帽，被马折磨的够呛的牛仔们。

 

Robert Frank，瑞士人，低调，谦和，他单手举起他的小相机，按下快门，把一首美国的悲歌吸进胶片，跻身世界悲剧诗人之列。

 

对Robert Frank我想告诉他：你是真正的明目之人

 

最后我想说，那个在被恶魔模糊的身影占据的电梯中抬头叹息的电梯管理员，那个可爱的孤独的女孩，我可否知道她的姓名和电话号码。

 

 

 

 

by Jack Kerouac

 

That crazy feeling in America when the sun is hot on the streets and the music comes out of the jukebox or from a nearby funeral, that's what Robert Frank has captured in tremendous photographs taken as he traveled on the road around practically forty-eight states in an old used car (on Guggenheim Fellowship) and with the agility, mystery, genius, sadness and strange secrecy of a shadow photographed scenes that have never been seen before on film. For this he will definitely be hailed as a great artist in his field. After seeing these pictures you end up finally not knowing any more whether a jukebox is sadder than a coffin. That's because he's always taking pictures of jukeboxes and coffins -  and intermediary mysteries like the Negro priest squatting underneath the bright liquid belly mer of the Mississippi at Baton Rouge for some reason at dusk or early dawn with a white snowy cross and secret incantatons never known outside the bayou - Or the picture of a chair in some cafe with the sun coming in the window and setting on the chair in a holy halo I never thought could be caught on film much less described in its beautiful visual entirety in words.

 

The humor, the sadness, the EVERYTHING-ness and American-ness of these pictures! Tall thin cowboy rolling butt outside Madison Square Garden New York for rodeo season, sad, spindly, unbelievable - Long shot of night road arrowing forlorn into immensities and flat of impossible-to-believe America in New Mexico under the prisoner's moon - under the whang whang guitar star - Haggard old frowsy dames of Los Angeles leaning peering out the right front window of Old Paw's car on a Sunday gawking and criticizing to explain Amerikay to little children in the spattered back seat - tattooed guy sleeping on grass in park in Cleveland, snoring dead to the world on Sunday afternoon with too many balloons and sail-boats - Hoboken in the winter, platform full of politicians all ordinary looking till suddenly at the far end to the right you see one of them pursing his lips in prayer politico (yawning probably) not a soul cares - Old man standing hesitant with oldman cane under old steps long since torn down - Madman resting under American flag canopy in old busted car seat in fantastic Venice California backyard, I could sit in it and sketch 30,000 words (as a railroad brakeman I rode by such backyards leaning out of the old steam pot) (empty tokay bottles in the palm weeds) - Robert picks up two hitch hikers and lets them drive the car, at night. and people look at their two faces looking grimly onward into the night ("Visionary Indian angels who were visionary Indian angels" says Allen Ginsberg) and people say "Ooo how mean they look" but all they want to do is arrow on down that road and get back to the sack - Robert's here to tell us so - St. Petersburg Florida the retired old codgers on a bench in the busy mainstreet leaning on their canes and talking about social security and one incredible I think Seminole half Negro woman pulling on her cigarette with thoughts of her own, as pure a picture as the nicest tenor solo in jazz...

 

As American a picture - the faces don't editorialize or criticize or say anything but "This is the way we are in real life and if you don't like it I don't know anything about it 'cause I'm living my own life my way and may God bless us all, mebbe" "if we deserve it"

 

Oi the lone woe of Lee Lucien, a basketa pittykats...

 

What a poem this is, what poems can be written about this book of pictures some day by some young new writer high by candlelight bending over them describing every gray mysterious detail, the gray film that caught the actual pink juice of human kind. Whether 't is the milk of humankindness, of human-kindness, Shakespeare meant, makes no difference when you look at these pictures. Better than a show.

 

Madroad driving men ahead - the mad road, lonely, leading around the bend into the openings of space towards the horizon Wasatch snows promised us in the vision of the west, spine heights at the world's end, coast of blue Pacific starry night-nobone half-banana moons sloping in the tangled night sky, the torments of great formations in mist, the huddled invisible insect in the car racing onward, illuminate - The raw cut, the drag, the butte, the star, the draw, the sunflower in the grass - orangebutted west lands of Arcadia, forlorn sands of the isolate earth, dewy exposures to infinity in black space, home of the rattlesnake and the gopher - the level of the world, low and flat: the charging restless mute unvoiced road keening in a seizure of tarpaulin power into the route, fabulous plots of landowners in green unexpecteds, ditches by the side of the road, as I look. From here to Elko along the level of this pin parallel to telephone poles I can see a bug playing in the hot sun - swush, hitch yourself a ride beyond the fastest freight train, beat the smoke, find the thighs, spend the shiney, throw the shroud, kiss the morning star in the morning glass - madroad driving men ahead. Pencil traceries of our faintest wish in the travel of the horizon merged, nosey cloud obfusks in a drabble of speechless distance, the black sheep clouds cling a parallel above the steams of C.B.Q. - serried Little Missouri rocks haunt the badlands, harsh dry brown fields roll in the moonlight with a shiny cow's ass, telephone poles toothpick time, "dotting immensity" the crazed voyageur of the lone automobile presses forth his eager insignificance in noseplates & licenses into the vast promise of life. Drain your basins in old Ohio and the Indian and the Illini plains, bring your Big Muddy rivers thru Kansas and the mudlands, Yellowstone in the frozen North, punch lake holes in Florida and L.A., raise your cities in the white plain, cast your mountains up, bedawze the west, bedight the west with brave hedgerow cliffs rising to Promethean heights and fame - plant your prisons in the basin of the Utah moon - nudge Canadian groping lands that end in Arctic bays, purl your Mexican ribneck, America - we're going home, going home.

 

Lying on his satin pillow in the tremendous fame of death, Man, black, mad mourners filing by to take a peek at Holy Face to see what death is like and death is like life, what else? -If you know what the sutras say - Chicago convention with sleek face earnest wheedling confiding cigarholding union boss fat as Nero and eager as Caesar in the thunderous beer crash hall leaning over to confide - Gaming table at Butte Montana with background election posters and little gambling doodads to knock over, editorial page in itself -

 

Car shrouded in fancy expensive designed tarpolian (I knew a truckdriver pronounced it "tarpolian") to keep soots of no-soot Malibu from falling on new simonize job as owner who is a two-dollar-an-hour carpenter snoozes in house with wife and TV, all under palm trees for nothing in the cemeterial California night, ag, ack - In Idaho three crosses where the cars crashed, where that long thin cowboy just barely made it to Madison Square Garden as he was about a mile down the road then - "I told you to wait in the car" say people in America so Robert sneaks around and photographs little kids waiting in the car, whether three little boys in a motorama limousine, ompious & opiful, or poor little kids can't keep their eyes open on Route go Texas at 4 A.M. as dad goes to the bushes and stretches - The gasoline monsters stand in the New Mexico flats under big sign says SAVE - the sweet little white baby in the black nurse's arms both of them bemused in Heaven, a picture that should have been blown up and hung in the street of Little Rock showing love under the sky and in the womb of our universe the Mother - And the loneliest picture ever made, the urinals that women never see, the shoeshine going on in sad eternity -

 

Wow, and blown over Chinese cemetery flowers in a San Francisco hill being hammered by potatopatch fog on a March night I'd say nobody there but the rubber cat -

 

Anybody doesnt like these pitchers dont like potry, sce? Anybody dont like potry go home see Television shots of big hatted cowboys being tolerated by kind horses.

 

Robert Frank, Swiss, unobtrusive, nice, with that little camera that he raises and snaps with one hand he sucked a sad poem right out of America onto film, taking rank among the tragic poets of the world.

 

To Robert Frank I now give this message: You got eyes.

 

And I say: That little ole lonely elevator girl looking up sighing in an elevator full of blurred demons, what's her name & address?