Jane B. by Agnès V. (Jane B. par Agnès V.)

This image is very calm,

timeless,

motionless.

Yet time seems to be passing,

drop by drop.

Each minute,

each second,

weeks,

years.

I distinctly remember...

my 30th birthday.

I was alone in London.

The children had stayed in France.

I was making a movie in England.

I was alone in my room, in bed,

drinking a bottle of sherry...

Sickly sweet stuff.

I drank,

then I felt sick.

I crawled on my hands and knees to the bathroom,

to the toilet,

to puke in the toilet.

I pulled... the thingamajig.

Then I saw in the john

little bits of carrots floating about,

so I flushed again.

Off to one side,

I saw some socks hanging from a rack.

I took them to wipe my face

which was red and tearful.

I saw myself in the mirror

and said, "Shit!

"So this is 30!

"Ifs not a pretty sight!"

Jane b. by Agnes v.

B. for Birkin v. for Varda

2 questions:

Do you like being filmed? Talking about yourself?

Yes.

And no.

I like relating with the director,

finding out what he wants.

But sometimes...

I don't know the rules of the game.

In wanting to give my all,

I really try to drown myself.

They rescue me and say no.

"Be phony, that was too real."

Sometimes ifs the other way round.

What will you ask me?

Which questions? Real or phony?

Want a drink?

Coffee.

I've noticed in photos and interviews,

you never look at the camera.

Why?

I don't like the hole!

Look at it.

Ifs embarrassing.

Why?

It's too personal.

Why?

Like staring at someone.

It's too personal.

Maybe it's a mirror.

Others don't look at you in a mirror,

you look at yourself.

Exactly.

I'm filming your self-portrait.

But you won't be alone in the mirror.

There'll be the camera...

which is a bit me.

Never mind if I appear

in the mirror or the background.

I'll look at you, but not the camera.

It could be a trap.

I don't want to trap you, corner you.

But a film shows 24 portraits a second

or per hour.

You must play by the rules.

Look at the camera as much as you can.

Look into it.

Otherwise you won't be looking at me.

I'm trying!

- You agreed to do the film? - Yes, boss!

Action!

If a painter or a filmmaker wants to do my portrait,

I don't mind distortion.

Ifs like with you.

What counts is the eye behind the camera,

the person holding the paint brush.

I don't care what you do to me,

as long as I feel you like me.

Why a film with you?

You're beautiful.

Like a chance encounter on an editing table

between a tomboy Sloane Ranger and a plasticine Eve.

I agreed to act for you and be your model...

modestly.

But I suspect myself.

I'm not so sure I agreed out of modesty.

Let's start with a traditional portrait

a la Titian or a Ia Goya.

You're stuck on money!

Some princesses speak in jewels,

but when you speak, cash rules!

You were asking for it!

You're infuriating!

You claim you looked for the cash!

It's in a book?

Look at me! Which book?

Truth in eyes is worse than lies.

I'm looking at a real looker!

The only hitch,

you wanna be rich, not be with me.

I want you!

- Knock it off and look! - I am.

Then find it, don't look.

As Picasso...

used to say.

Damn! You lost $15,000.. In cash!

You told me to stash the cash.

Look at this red...

Blood!

Beautiful the way it spurts!

And the Hockney blue!

The color of parking tickets.

Clear blue.

"Big Splash"

Swimming pool blue.

California blue! All Hockney blues are beautiful.

The swimming pool freak.

It's all drivel.

He's got his pool, I've got my stripes.

You're finally selling,

don't change your style.

I shouldn't have trusted you.

I should have rented a safe.

Or a trunk.

Something weird about trunks.

In old portraits, in the background,

there's an open trunk

and a woman rummaging in it. Look

It's always the same.

Behind all the ladies,

a servant bending over a trunk.

Mysterious...

The only mystery is why you are lying.

Where's the cash?

Did you spend it?

Lose it'? Give it away?

Why are you hassling me?

I'm the painter, it's my money!

You may paint, but I sell.

Without me, you couldn't sell a single painting!

Was I thinking of a man I emulate?

EM... M...

Matisse!

Magritte.

Munch.

Monory.

Milshtein.

Manet.

Monet.

Money! That's it!

It must be in there!

No way, José!

I really don't know.

My memory's going...

You should've marked the loot.

Look at this article, "Magritte's Legacy:

A Surrealist Puzzle."

The only Belgian joke that's not funny.

Yours will be easy.

- My what? - Your legacy.

I'm not dead yet.

A dealer has to look ahead.

Dead painters

sell better.

Bitch!

You're tough, but I love you.

A girl disguised as a man-eater.

You're pathetic,

a loser.

I'm sick of you.

Don't say that, Janou.

Don't dump me for $15,000!

You're my everything. Give me time.

' Sot it!

Cash, wealth, dollars, Dali...

Golden Dali!

It was Breton's anagram. "Salvador Dali" becomes

"Avida Dollars!"

My love...

I was a good child.

I wanted to be like my big brother Andrew.

My sister Linda was more girlish.

She was pretty.

Once they disguised me as a girl to give flowers to the Queen.

Prince Philip asked, "Did you grow them yourself?"