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somewhere over the rainbow (and other stories)

  Exactly two years ago I found myself flying through a corner of a rainbow, and landed in Oaxaca, Mexico. It was the last film festival I traveled to, a brutal and sweet experience in the harshest of realities, trying to wrap my arms around the slipperiest industry and failing magnificently. Surrounded by fresh faces and eager eyes I ran from the rooms and into the street time and again, wandering off with the camera in my bag as a companion. I took pictures of a blind man that sang on the same corner every day, of wedding parades, of an old woman waiting to see the dentist.  Literally somewhere over the rainbow, I met the ugliest answers to questions I had been dragging my feet towards for years. Cramming the most delicious food into my mouth, joking at the nightly rooftop cocktail parties, grinning like the Cheshire Cat it was all coming to an end. Actually, it had ended before it even started though - and on the plane back to New York and finally Moscow the bone-crunching ...
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grace


The car is sloshing through flooded roads, the water reaching halfway up the tires. There is fog, and old bridges. There are weeds, and tall stalks of dry grass, abandoned car tires and a handful of birds. I have been drawn to these places my entire life. Backwaters, forgotten industrial kingdoms. Old trains, empty parking lots and the phantoms of another time. The camera is heavy in my arms, a familiar weight. Favorite lenses, favorite compositions, the sound of distant traffic. The story to unearth and tell, with paintbrushes of gravel, grit and the sheen of cold rain. This is my kind of filmmaking, and has been for 30 years now.

Later, we are in a cemetery and it strikes me that all of the shots are graves of some kind. Something stopped breathing, and now rests here - a person, or a bridge, a car, a bicycle. They all eventually find their way back to the mud. There is something terribly graceful about that, not sad or depressing but elegant.





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