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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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Eggs with the thinnest shells



I never imagined squeezing a piece of fruit at the market as something that could be taken for granted. I never imagined months and months of groceries being delivered to the door, some bruised, some rotten, some alright. Eggs with the thinnest shells ready to be broken. Meat in sagging, bloody bags. A glance at the prices on the receipt, watching things climb week to week, as if no one will notice while everything changes in that familiar dark of winter and the longest white nights. 

Instead of shopping and buying what looks best, improvising a dinner plan from a passing whim - I defrost something from the freezer instead, concocting dishes from a bland collection of vegetables that are bought on tiny screens. Stabbing at pictures of red onions and pumpkins, the process gives me an immediate headache. They had Padron peppers once, broccolini once, rainbow chard a few times but chances are it is just the same potatoes and dirt clogged carrots that stare back at me on the laptop in the kitchen.

Yes - everything has changed and to ignore this is to blind yourself. But there are the people in the street without a care in the world, walking their dogs, dragging their children on scooters, smoking long slow cigarettes and laughing with ugly voices. The playgrounds are still full. At night, there are random smacks of firecrackers downstairs. 

The new guitar looks back at me. 

I did a few shows in New York, singing and playing and it was terrifying. I would rather make raw, tender music in my living room and send it to you through those giant wires that stretch across the bottom of the ocean than play a live show. I would rather make music you listen to alone at 2AM, driving an empty stretch of highway with the entire world wrapped around you. As everything outside changes, the music does not. It is a constant, a spring of cold water to douse on the back of my neck. It is a blanket, a favorite pair of jeans, an old friend, a challenge, an invitation. Something real, in this blind age that I fear will go on for decades. 


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