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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 undertow
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the other man



The picture was taken by another man. The song, the voice - they are not mine. The screenplay that sits in a neat pile of pages on the kitchen table is foreign. When I look in the mirror, I see a husband, a father, the man that cooks dinner, the one who grumbles around the house in flip-flops working long into the night. I wish I knew him better, the person who knows when to click, how to focus, how to frame, how to wait, how to see. Sometimes, I do not even recognize him.

He has favorite turns of phrase. His characters tend to shuffle and mumble a lot. They stare off at things and catch themselves and then say something hushed, something secret. I notice when he does that, maybe a little too much actually. But it is him. Those are his people. I know them so differently, reading about them as they come alive in my thoughts, staggering and blundering their way towards morning, blind as bats.

As for F, C and A minor, and any open tuning on the guitar – that is his happy place. Sure, it is easier to sing when your left hand is doing easy things. The songs are simple, a little too simple when you get down to it, but they are not fussy. There is nothing extra in them. They are freaklishly sad, but they wear that sadness like a warm coat against a biting wind so it fits.




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