The now of the moving image is present, past and future, braided in ceaseless negotiation. The moment of the viewing, the gone event gifted to the eyes once more, and then offered to the years, the decades to come, almost as a wager, a loan, a sacrifice. But for us, now, the future does not exist and so the past becomes the future and the present is tense as it watches. What then is the matter, the subject of this now? What are we crafting as our totems, our hearths, our evidence to be discovered by tribes yet unborn? In one dish of the scales, Abu Ghraib
, the British interrogations in Basra, the dusty wash of beheadings, Darfur’s tented betrayals, the final greyscale glimpses of street corner cctv, the unending face, like a howl with skin, of all the deaths that capital sows.