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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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Monday mornings and Tuesday afternoons


Sometimes I wonder what E will think of her childhood when she is older. Nostalgia, and a sense of romance can paint a tender portrait no matter how nutty life gets. How many mornings did we set out with cameras tucked into bags, a tripod on my shoulder in an accidental homage to Dziga Vertov, her with a sense of the day's work ahead of us. The shots we needed to get, the triumphant journey back home to a hearty lunch and an odd sense of satisfaction.

Will she remember the heartache and disappointments, the betrayals and doors that closed slowly on us? Maybe it is all recorded in her curious mind, a chowder of happy accidents and disappointment, of waiting by windows for people that never arrived, me in the living room shuffling around long into the night hunched in front of a screen until that odd moment when the plaster dries, the glue sticks, and the magic happens.
"Come, take a look." I offer.
She ambles over, more puppy than teenager.
I play a sequence down. She stares at it, squinting in thought. Her opinion presents itself. We talk. A shrug of her shoulders, and she disappears back into the world of her bedroom.

I wore my tattered orange hat today, a good luck charm from shoots we have gone on for the past nine years. One day she will inherit it, tucked in the back of a drawer, a shortcut to some memories, clouds and mud puddles, adventures on trolley buses, a DIY religion of filmmaking, the things we did together on Monday mornings and Tuesday afternoons.
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