Bullough’s fog at sea, seen from an edit suite in Tehran
Edward Bullough's 1912 essay on "psychical distance" begins with a fog at sea. For the passengers it is mostly misery and anxiety: delays, danger, the foghorn. But if you can set the practical side aside, the fog becomes strange and beautiful: the milky veil, the muffled sounds, the sense of the sea close but unseen.
His key idea is what he calls the antinomy of distance. Too little distance and the work becomes personal: his example is a jealous husband watching Othello, who sees only his own suspicions. Too much and the work becomes cold and unintelligible. The ideal is to bring the distance as close as possible without letting it vanish.
I spend my working life adjusting exactly this. On a documentary I cut a few years ago, about families rebuilding after an earthquake, the hardest decisions were not about what to show but how close to bring the audience: how long to hold on a face, whether to let a mother's voice run over black, when to cut to the landscape. Hold too long and viewers feel like intruders; cut too soon and they feel nothing.
I also think of Suhrawardī here. He speaks of a world of images suspended between the material and the intelligible, where reflections in mirrors live. A film image is like that: not the event, not a concept, but something in between. Perhaps that in-between is where Bullough's distance actually lives.
Do others who make or perform things recognise this? And for the survivors themselves, watching their own story, is there any right distance at all?