Frame by Frame (Vimeo)
I
try to come to terms with the fact that she’s dying. Beyond her eminent beauty
she may not even realize that her time is numbered. It’s a slow death, and she
doesn’t know it yet, because all she knows of is some altered space, rarely
ever an exact representation of what we call reality. She does well at
understanding this, but she can also articulate my struggles, my fears, and
most importantly my own identity. No one knows me as well as she does. I take
great care in making sure that she is satisfied, and I’m even more aware that I
need to spend as much time with her as I can before she is gone. I handle her
carefully and attentively, every time I hold her, the futility of her existence
is all but too clear to me. It is remarkable how we can come to know someone so
well in such a short amount of time, and end up feeling like we’ve been
lifelong partners. I would call her my second lover, but perhaps even that is
too superficial of a label. She ages just like you and I. With time, she begins
to forget who she is. The elements are not as kind to her as they are to us.
Who is she? She is film, a beauty
lost to the cold, cynical world of digital convenience, a virtual world that
does not exist. Film is tangible. I can hold it up to the light, scan single
frames with my own eyes, reach out, and freeze a single moment in time. I can
taste it if I wanted to. It is dissimilar to someone’s recording of a rabbit
that they saw out on the road, taken on their iPhone. Film has purpose, and
film is an experience. I like to think of the experience of film like those “Wonderballs”
that I had as a kid, those hollow chocolate spheres with a prize inside. When
I’m filming, I must pay attention to every last detail before sending it away
to be processed, praying to the film gods that I shot everything that I needed
and that it comes back in one piece. There is no way to view it instantly.
Before I even view it for the first time, it is at that point in time that it becomes
my Wonderball. I don’t know what is awaiting me inside. It is often then that
I’m surprised with images of quality, as a result of a satisfactory job. Or
perhaps I am met with awful sequences that weren’t filmed correctly, and have
to deal with pushing on with the project without pulling too much of my hair
out. That element of surprise is addicting, and no matter what the outcome
turns out to be, it is enlightening. You either go away from the experience
learning what worked, or learning what not to do next time.
I’m often asked what I want to do with film. To be
honest, I’m not entirely sure. It is, however, the strongest medium with which
I can express any form of catharsis, or perhaps even experience one as a result
of filming. Film keeps me grounded, like the roots of a grand tree snugly burrowed
into the earth; it has me connected with every facet of my life. Usually, we
like to run away from labels. But what is my art if it is not a reflection of
who I am? Labels and themes that I identify with run rampant through these
films. It is almost always about the topics I’m familiar with and my identity
as a gay, Mexican-American. Film allows me to reflect upon myself, but instead
of simply being a mirror image of my perceived reality, it has the ability to
exist as a new tool, offering perspectives and insights not otherwise available.
The content of a film are threads of a spider’s web: simple and ordinary on
their own, serving no purpose but to solely exist. When working together to
create the final product, as a whole, they are seamlessly intricate and unique,
capable of structure and pattern. Film gives me the opportunity to fill my
creative cup to the brim with personalized images. Some are too subtle for an
audience to catch, but the general idea is to create a metamorphosis from the
incredibly personal to a universal, visual vocabulary. It’s almost addicting to
be able to tell incredibly personal stories and present them to viewers who
will then be free to judge it as they please. It’s also one of my greatest
fears, right up there with heights.
Film has helped me make sense of heartbreak, depression,
the first time I fell in love, comedic experiences, fantasies, and death. Each experience
through film leaves a mark unseen to the eye, and gives me a new understanding
of how life can function around me. With film (or any form of video, for that
matter), I can explore my identity carefully. I can dissect who I am through
the process of brainstorming, filming, and editing. Without film, I feel
fragmented, as if I were missing vital organs but yet somehow manage to walk
around without them. Essentially, if I can’t satisfy my itch to create, to
film, I feel as if I’m not taking care of a basic need like breathing.
Furthermore, I can deal with situations or problems
by translating them into images for others to understand. I still think about
my sister’s battle with cancer at only four years of age. This dark period was
punctuated by walking into her hospital room and seeing her deeply under,
recovering from surgery. Through film, I’m able to share an experience with
her, and create a visual vocabulary to share with a larger audience without
having her directly relive those events.
Every walk of life presents an opportunity to be
translated into film. Film is incredibly tedious, incredibly expensive, but
incredibly fulfilling. After completing a new short film, it’s almost as if I’m
experiencing a new form of baptism, but instead of being cleansed and having my
slate wiped clean, I’m showered with knowledge, absorbing experiences, and
gaining a new lens in which I can experience life through. There is an
inexplicable rush of euphoria that no drug can come close to replicating.
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