(Friday.)

Well, the diagnosis on my computer was dire. It’s back with me, but with a new hard drive, and lighter by about 200 gigs of miscellaneous files. Hell, I don’t even know what’s missing. So, tonight I begin the long process or reinstalling Final Cut Studio. This is a massive suite of programs which will clog up this new hard drive with over 50 gigabytes of stuff. The first things I put on were the browsers I actually use. Firefox and Google Chrome. For some reason, I just can’t warm to Safari. Also, Handbrake and MPEG Streamclip (handy workhorses for video hackery). And you gotta have VLC, as a great universal (and free) media player.

The biggest pain in the ass was one lost file. A little and seemingly inconsequential Final Cut project file. This is what kept track of all my cuts and fades and effects of an 18 minute edit of the last Windows Performance for Jump-Start. About 15 hours of work has vanished. I still have the original HD video files, so I’m not in panic mode, just surly and bitchy.

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One of the more constructive things I accomplished today was to get my CAAP proposal off to OCA. OCA is the Office of Cultural Affairs. Most local artist know them because of the funding they provide to art and cultural organizations, as well as individual artists. They have a sizable budget, which is principally pulled from a percentage of the San Antonio hotel / motel tax. One of their new programs is the Community Arts Access Program. This initiative will allow the creation of a San Antonio artists roster. Artists and art organizations submit proposals of what they have to offer to communities. If they are chosen, then they will be placed on the roster list. Community organizations, cultural centers, schools, etc, can then request these artists, performers, groups, and such. The artists will get their full fee. OCA will match the fee on a sliding scale of 50% down to I believe 25% (depending on the total amount). It’s similar to successful programs which have been presented by Humanities Texas and the Texas Commission on the Arts. One big downside is that it actually puts the onus on the artists to get out and hustle and find community organizations to invite them to come do their thing.

The two videos I wanted to use for work samples were also lost on the Great Hard Drive Crash of 2011. But I had a third option. I went with that.

As I filled out the online proposal form last night and this morning, it occurred to me that my proposal might not fit the criteria. I offered what I called a Digital Documentation Workshop. I would work with various arts and cultural organizations, training their staff on how to record their projects and events using digital video cameras, audio recorders, and nonlinear editing systems. The hands-on workshop would also include taping one of their events or performances and making sure that, by the time the workshop had wrapped, they had a finished piece. These videos could be used for their archives, to broaden their audiences by posting video files online, and to create more polished and professional video clips when seeking grant funding.

Because what I’m proposing isn’t in itself art, I hope I don’t get kicked out in the early stages before I have a chance to defend the proposal.

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(Saturday.)

I woke up too late to make it to the Cesar Chavez March. Bummer. I love that feeling of positive group energy. If you’ve never marched in a rally, you’re missing out on an amazing experience. This is when you truly understand that the streets belong to the people, And if we ever become as complacent as I fear we will, it will be because fewer and fewer people and organizations take to the streets for events, rallies, demonstrations, and even parades. I remember once my sister asked me why I sometimes join with bicycle clubs on group rides. I couldn’t give her an answer. I had to confess that it’s just one of those things you have to experience for yourself. And I hate giving lame answers like that.

So, blowing off the Chavez march began a series of shirking other cool events I had wanted to attend. The Dignowity Park Pushcart Races. And the events put on by my friends at the American Indians of Texas (AIT-SCM) down on their land on the far southside.

I did, however, manage to take a short bike ride out along the Mission Trail. It is finally Spring, and there is no turning back. The swampy and rich fecundity wafting from that creek which feeds into the San Antonio River near MIssion San Jose was filled with all the odors of hatching mosquitos, the fruity-tinged scent of the mountain laurel, sun-warmed mud, algae blooms, and all the earthy agitations which come from the rising of the sap, from flora and fauna alike — all those birds and bees and horny feral dogs back in the thickets. I feel we’ve finally emerged from that dark tunnel of winter. Fuck, yeah!

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The big deal was Saturday night. I had a short film, “A Bourbon Would Be Nice,” screening at the Guadalupe Theater. It was selected to screen with over a dozen other entries to the Neighborhood Film Project contest. I was pretty sure I wouldn’t win the $3,000 prize for best film in the Southside division. I had seen Rod Guajardo’s short, and realized it was, um, well, a bit better then mine. But still, I wanted to see all the work; support my fellow local filmmakers; have my peers, cast, crew, and anonymous audience members, see my piece; also, I wanted to see how it played to a live audience (I’m still not sure if I want to fix the obvious problems and send it off to festivals, or just put it to bed and move on to the next project).

Click on this sentence to view the film on my Vimeo page.

Lisa Suarez is my star. I very much wanted her to see the piece, so I asked her to be my date some weeks back. This gave him time to contact a “Mami-sitter” to look after her mother, who has Alzheimer’s.

I was happy to have a good turn-out of my cast and crew. Below is a photo of Amanda, sporting a new ‘doo.

There was Lisa and I. Deborah came to join us. Shimi. Amanda. Nikki. And there were other supportive people around. Many of the cast and crew of Robb Garcia’s film were sitting in the row in front of us. Nikki, with her PrimaDonna Production posse, was across the aisle. The place was filled with many artistic people who I truly care about and who I respect. I felt very honored to be in such company. And my row had the coolest people. Amanda Silva, who I’ve known since she was 17. She was an amazing teen, and is now an even more amazing adult, A wonderful actress, performance artist, writer, producer, and so on. And then there was ST Shim, who I’m been so lucky to have befriended. We have collaborated on several projects. She is a wonderful actress, dancer, writer, and, well, she’s just incredible. And then Lisa Suarez. I don’t know her all that well yet. She’s an insanely gifted actress and writer, I certainly know that. And a warm and wonderful human being. I hope to work with her on future projects. And then there was also Deborah Keller-Rihn, one of my best friends. An important local artist who allows me to occasionally conscript her into helping me on my little movie projects. I hope my dependance on Deborah hasn’t kept her from doing her own work, because I think she’s one of San Antonio’s top visual artist. I sometimes wonder if I’d still be hanging around San Antonio if she wasn’t here.

The films began. They were broken up by the four regions. There were 16 in all. One might think that there would be four films for each region. And because there were two categories, student filmmakers and non-student filmmakers, it should have been the two strongest student films and the two strongest non-student films per each four regions. But one of the problems was that the Eastside only had two entries. Just two fucking entries!?!? And no student entry. This threw symmetry out the window.

Let me just say that I am not $3,000 richer (Rod won for the southside, and I applaud the judges, his piece is very well done — were I a judge I may well have awarded his piece more points than my own). But, and here’s the cool thing, while my piece screened, the people in the audience laughed when they were supposed to. I succeeded in entertaining people. And maybe, just maybe, the audience response has pushed me towards reshooting three scenes, adding three new scenes, and doing a bit of ADR … and then sending the piece off to the festivals. There is this major reality gap when your friends are giving you critical feedback. Your friends suck at this. And actors are even worse. And actor friends …. are you nuts? Anyway, I’ll switch this around and look at that one scene which people say they like most. The scene with Shimi and Chris. I agree. This is my favorite scene. It has the best acting, the besting lighting, the best location, the best background distraction (the very very sexy Shimi), the best audio, and, well, just the best sense of playfulness. So, if people are praising what I think is the most praiseworthy scene, it helps me to feel that I’m not too filled with absurd self-delusion (and, let me tell you, there’s that in shit-loads amongst San Antonio independent filmmakers). But, people, help me out. If you don’t want to tell me when I suck (and, really, I can take it), tell me when I DON’T suck. That also helps.

Mostly I agreed with the judges’ decisions. I’m proud for us all. And when I saw Joy-Marie Scott, one of the judges, I had to walk over and tell her how much I loved her FaceBook comment which she posted following the screening session for the judges. (Let me add that Joy has recently moved to San Antonio from the California Bay Area). Here’s what Joy wrote: “A few Saturdays ago, I was lucky enough to screen all the film projects in competition — what a way to get a crush on the city. I can’t wait to see the finalists on the big screen, and then I’m gonna search out those fish hanging from the bridge and the horses Southsiders keep in their garages.”

I was quite put off by the low turn-out. I’m not sure how many people the Guadalupe can fit, but the place was only about half-filled. Last year the event was held at SAMA, They filled up that auditorium (not too much smaller than the Guadalupe), and at the last minute they created a second screening.

So, by having the event on the westside, we lost serious audience. I don’t blame the westside. I blame ill-educated audiences. They need to learn that not only is the westside safe and friendly, it’s also pretty fucking hip.

Well, it was a great night.

One of the more high-profile after-parties was over at the El Tropicano Hotel. This party was put together by Rod Guajardo’s better half (and trust me, he’s a handsome guy, but reserve judgment until you meet Rosemary, because, well, oh my goodness). The party served to celebrate the whole night of great films. But also we were celebrating Rod’s birthday. It was all very sweet.

Here’s a photo of Roman Garcia, Me, and Lisa Suarez.

Around midnight I dropped Lisa off at her home. She needed to let her Mami-sitter leave. And I headed home. After I was back home at my computer, more than a bit inebriated, I got a text from Rod. It seemed the after-party had become an after-after-party at the Pedicab Bar and Grill. I ignored the text. I was already home. And ten minutes later, the phone rang. It was Rod. A bit drunk. I let him know I’d be at the Pedicab Bar in ten minutes, but he’d better buy me a beer, because last call was coming up fast.

The Pedicab Bar is maybe four blocks away from my place as he crow flies. But there’s that pesky river. So I decided to drive. I was there in maybe five minutes. It was my first visit to the Pedicab Bar. Funny, I had tried to get the Bike Porn traveling film fest there many months ago. And I had written a short story where a fictionalized version of my actor / wrestler friend Gabe the Babe works as one of the Pedicab drivers for a somewhat fictionalized version of this bar and pedicab business. I was happy to find that it was just the sort of laid-back cool divey venue I had thought it to be.

And even though when I walked in to some motherfucking Karaoke, the coolnes of the place wasn’t diminished. The place is raw and punk. And no amount of flirtation with mainstream bullshit will strip away the Pedicab Bar’s friendly fuck-you attitude. I like the place.

I hate, and I mean absolutely hate stand-up-comedy. But when I arrived there was my friend Roman Garcia, actor and comic, He took to the stage (there were very few people in the bar). He did a version of his recent act. But very laid-back. He was talking to us, and responding to us. But not in some antagonistic format. The bottom line was that Roman was giving Rod a wonderful present — a free performance. I have to say it was one of the most sweet and playful stand-up routines I’ve ever seen. If all stand-up was like this (a weird kind of community event), there might be whole new audiences. And then Roman did some Karaoke. It was a Journey song, I think. He fucking nailed it. So now I know that Roman isn’t just a great actor and comedian (I already knew that), but he can fucking sing.

Jose Bañuelos was also there. I know him as an excellent actor and committed filmmaker, but until I heard him do Elvis — and damn well — I have to admit, I have new respect for the guy.

They eventually shut down the bar, and I was able to escape without ever having to take the stage and bellowing out some song.

The night eventually ended. I do wish I had won. Three grand would have been nice. If I won, I would have taken a thousand dollars and distributed it equally among cast and crew. And the balance I would have used for another project, where I could also pay my wonderful collaborators.

Oh, well. I’ll keep trying. Maybe I’ll get a bit better with each new project. That’s always been the idea. And sometimes it even seems to work out that way.

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(Sunday.)

The second screening of “A Bourbon Would Be Nice.” Again at the Guadalupe Theater. It played with about a dozen other films which were submitted to the Neighborhood Film Project. The Westside and Southside, only, in keeping with, I presume, the longstanding rivalry between those two sections of the city. This was part of the Guadalupe Cultural Arts Center’s Cinema in the Barrio series of free movies. I was glad to have an opportunity to see some films which weren’t selected to play last night. Such as a cute and polished narrative from Scott Greenberg. I was dismayed by the very thin turn out. And dumbfounded how few directors of these thirteen or so films were in attendance. Just Scott, Rod, and myself. (True, I did see Alejandro Rodriguez in the audience, and he was a central crew member on Ismael Leiva’s film.) Manuel with the Guadalupe contacted all us filmmakers. Free passes for ten of our friends and a chance to get on stage for a Q&A session. Who turns their backs on that? And we three all did films for the Southside. Not a single Westside filmmaker was in attendance. And the Guadalupe is ON the Westside — in fact, it was featured prominently in many of the Westside films. What’s up? I think I know who won this throwdown.

(Wednesday.)

I’d like to credit Kellen, of Bihl Haus Arts fame, for succeeding in driving me from my house today. I had been in a horrendously useless mode. How I even managed to drag my ass to Eddie’s Taco House to pick up a chilaquiles plate for breakfast at their drive-thru is beyond me. But sometime around 2:30 Kellen called to ask if I could help her burn a DVD which would loop for the Bihl Haus event Thursday night. No problem. I grabbed my laptop, a spindle of DVDs, and assorted devices (as I didn’t think to ask what sort of media I would be working with). I headed over to C4.

She showed up with a DVD, what I refer to as a “playable DVD,” meaning one which is encoded for a DVD player. I would have preferred a file, but ever since I’ve learned the ropes on HandBrake (a wonderful and free piece of software for ripping files from DVDs) I am no longer daunted by these sorts of procedures. After a couple of false starts, I had a disk formated the way she wanted. And finally I was able to see the video. This was the Bihl Haus offering for Luminaria. It’s about 6 minutes. The narrator is Barbara Renaud Gonzalez reading her own words. I’d never given much thought to how much strength of character her voice carries. Wow. Also, there was an appearance of Marisela Barrera’s adorable little girl.

Coincidently, I’m finishing up a quickie edit of a video clip of Marisela where she took her bilingual story-telling talents to a classroom of very young and very excited kids. (When I shot the performance one of the boys asked if I was Superman. Kids these days must be used to setting their bar very low. I tried my best to let him know that, on a good day, I might aspire to be Clark Kent, but that was about it.)

The one thing I planned on doing today was to attend a free film workshop at the El Tropicano Hotel (pardon my redundancy, but I think the sentence flows better with the double-barrel bilingual article, “the El” — also I don’t want people thinking I’m trying to write Tropicana, ’cause this super cool retro hotel is all male, baby, decorated in high Rat Pack machismo: I mean, fuck, the ballrooms are named after famous brands of cigars!). Workshop? No. I knew it wasn’t so much a workshop as an out-reach seminar. The idea was to let people know about the upcoming Texas Monthly short film contest, “Where I’m From.” But still, it sounded like the place to be on a Wednesday night.

First, I decided to get some grocery shopping out of the way. As I was getting out of my truck at the La Fiesta on S. Flores, my cell phone rang. It was Deborah. She wanted to know if I was going to this “workshop.” I said I was. And if she wanted to go, I’d pick her up after I shopped and put away my groceries.

Later I learned that she’d heard that the event started at six. I’d read the information on the Texas Monthly website which said seven o’clock. We arrived a few short minutes after six, and discovered that there was a free reception / mixer from 6 to 7, followed by the presentation. The local host for this event was the San Antonio FIlm Festival (AKA, SAFilm), which is headed by Adam Rocha. As Deborah and I were walking up to the entrance of the El Tropicano Hotel, we saw a couple of Adam’s film students walking up: the uber-talented Jessica Torres and her mom, Sandra. They were accompanied by Jessica’s boyfriend, whose name I’m embarrassed to say I forgot.

Inside we saw Adam in the lobby. Good thing, too. I was thinking the event was going to be held in one of the ballrooms or meeting rooms on the ground floor. Nope. Third floor. Adam let the way.

One of the first people I saw when entering the meeting room was Joy-Marie Scott. Her presence at an event is always a good indicator. There were somewhere between thirty and forty people there. And I only knew about half of them. This is good. This means new people are coming out who are interested in making movies.

Here we have Adam introducing the event.

Texas Monthly magazine is gearing up to promote the second year of their regionalism-embracing short film contest, “Where I’m From.” The panelists were John Phillip Santos (filmmaker, writer, and San Antonio native son), Miguel Alvarez (San Antonio-raised Austin filmmaker), and David Gil (representative of the Austin Film Festival, who are a major partner for this contest). John Phillip talked about his experience making his first film here in San Antonio years ago. And he talked about the “Where I’m From” essay he wrote for Texas Monthly. Miguel talked about his life as a filmmaker. We also had an opportunity to watch his short film, “Kid.” Well-crafted and powerful stuff. David Gil talked about, as he said, the “boring stuff,” like the contest rules. Be he also gave a bit of insight into how film festivals program their screenings.

Two additional films were shown. I hope neither won best film for last year. Both were rather weak. However, because both were created by nonprofessional filmmakers, they probably appealed to the curious amateurs still sitting on the fence as to whether they wanted to do this or not.

One was from Beaumont. It was rough and raw, but it made me smile. A lot. It was basically a slide show of decently composed photographs with a quirky voice-over narration. Oh, and the occasional animation was also pretty cool. And then we were shown a piece submitted last year from San Antonio. Another voice-over narration. The writing was promising. But I assume that the filmmaker was reading his own copy. He should have hired an actor. It would have sounded less pretentious. And even though I think the narrative arc to his video essay was smart and well-thought-out, it was emotionally flat.

I’m wondering, are we supposed to see these ephemeral works of hobbyists as something to emulate, or something to exceed?

I guess it really doesn’t matter. If I decide to submit something to this contest, I’ll simply do my best, and hope it doesn’t suck too much.

My hope is that San Antonio will be well-represented. I want loads of San Antonio filmmakers to submit. And for each of these semi-pros I want there to be at least one matching film made by an absolute amateur. I’m fine with some quasi-literate sewer worker to win with her flip camera documentary of her father’s westside taco truck. You bet!

So, let’s all roll up our sleeves and make some movies.

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(Thursday.)

As I was getting ready to burn a DVD for a fellow artsy type who needs some support material for a grant, I discovered that my fancy new MacBook Pro suffered some catastrophic ailment. It began the process of booting up, but it couldn’t progress beyond the corny Beatles chord, and then that pale blue screen would just star at me, with mute disinterest. I say mute, but I could just barely hear a soft clicking sound which I’ve always associated with dead and dying hard drives.

Remembering that one can’t just tuck that laptop under one’s arm and saunter into an Apple Store, I went to the nearest Apple Store’s web page (thankfully I have another computer hanging about). I could find no link to make an appointment, so I of course called the store. After ten minutes of listening to Beatles music, Brent answered with a sort of chirpy disdain. I explained my problem, succinctly and calmly, and closed with, “so, could I go ahead and make an appointment?” He told me that there were three ways I could set up an appointment with one of their um geniuses. “Your iPhone, on the web, or by calling the Apple Care line …. would you like me to connect you?” I said sure.

I was at that point, of course, talking to a robot. I was instructed, by a prerecorded voice, to name the particular Apple product I was having trouble with. “MacBook Pro,” I said slow and firm. “I’m sorry, but could you repeat that, please?” I did. “You’ve said iPod Nano.” And then I was shouting into my phone, “MacBook Pro, MacBook Pro, you miserable fucking robot.” I rather think that my neighbor Debby, who usually returns around this time of the afternoon, must have been a bit concerned. I hung up. And after ten minutes of poking around on the Apple Store’s webpage, I finally found the labyrinth to make my appointment. 7pm.

This left me an hour to try and find away to get Mari’s DVD burned. Even though the Final Cut project file was trapped on my dead computer, I still have the media file on an external hard drive. So I fired up my old rickety version of Final Cut Pro, and began processing the video the way I wanted it. I started the DVD burn, gathered up my dead laptop, power cord, original disks which came with the machine, and even a couple of external drives just in case they were able to coax it back from the brink long enough for me to tease away a couple of crucial files.

When I walked into the Apple Store, Jared pushed his glasses up his nose and asked how he could help me. I explained I had an appointment, and– He held up a hand with a wisp of a smile. I should, he explained, check in with Marcus. He hooked his thumb over his shoulder and resumed his conversation with girl in dreadlocks. I walked towards the back of the store. I stopped in front of a young man whose tender years were telegraphed by the sad showing of an attempted mustache. “Marcus?” I asked. He nodded energetically. “Yep. And you?” I gave him my name. “I have a seven o’clock appointment.” He looked down at the iPad which he cradled like a clipboard. There was my name on a spread sheet. He tapped his finger on my name. A new screen appeared. “Consider yourself checked in! Jason will be with you momentarily.”

A couple of minutes later, Jason tracked me down. I followed him to a counter. I explained the problem and produced my computer. He nodded. Hooked it up to an ethernet cable. After a few minutes. “Yep, hard drive. Though it could just be the hard drive cable. And then you’d be fine. We’ll check it out.” He printed out some paperwork (which shocked me as a sort of throwback to the 20th century), and I signed … with ink … on paper. What a world. When he gave me that paper receipt I felt like snapping, “What, you want me to lug THAT around? Can’t you email it to me?” But I held my tongue, least Jason or one of his tribe spit into the exposed underbelly of my beloved laptop as it lays exposed under the harsh fluorescent lights of the back warehouse.

Here’s hoping it’s just a bum wire, because if I have to recut that Jump-Start Fish Tale performance again, I’ll open a vein (not because the [performance was bad — quite the contrary — but I fucked up on a couple of places whilst shooting, and it took me AGES to fix my messes). I did luck out because even though the Fish Tale files were on my sick (dead?) computer, I still have all the original files on my spare CF card.

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I drove home, pulled the burned DVD from my lesser laptop, and I headed out to Bihl Haus Arts. This disk was going to find it’s way into Mari’s hands no matter what. I know she’s insanely busy because she running so many events. And I wanted to make sure she got her work sample in hand on time to deliver for the grant deadline.

The Bihl Haus was putting on a multi-media performance, “I Was Born Here.” The piece was directed by Virginia Grise. The text which served as the foundation was a poem by Barbara Renaud Gonzalez, one of this city’s literary stars, a woman of playful wisdom and unyielding conviction. Of the four actresses who performed in various stations in the space, I was familiar with Marisela Barrera and Natalie Goodnow. Mari and Natalie were brilliant, as I knew they’d be. But everyone shined. While the performance was happening, a film component of the work screen on wall off to side. The video had been shot by my good friend Pocha Pena. Also, the video included a performance by Mari’s adorable little girl, Inez. The whole space was wonderfully decorated by Deborah Vasquez; it was a chaotically cozy installation … a sort of familiar organic psychedelia. Kellen Kee McIntyre, Executive Director of Bihl Haus Arts should be incredibly proud of all the creative individuals and forces she brought together to make this special night.

Here’s one of the performers who I don’t know. She kicked some serious ass!

And then I headed home. I too have a grant thingy I need to work on. The problem isn’t just that the media I want to use as support material is on an absent computer, but that now as I look at the proposal form, I’m beginning to wonder if my planned proposal actually fits the criteria….

Probably I should just go to bed and work on it in the morning. Too bad I never made it to the store to replenish my coffee.

Now THAT’S upsetting!

(Monday, March 21.)

Back in 2008 I took a little tour of the old Kress building in downtown San Antonio. Dora Pena was the head of the video component for the first year of Luminaria. Several rooms on the ground floor of the building would be set aside for video projections. It was an interesting space. Rough, and in various stages of demolition from it’s previous tenant, some sort of music club. Four years later (tonight, in fact) I entered the same space, now dramatically transformed into the restaurant Texas de Brazil. But the purpose of my visit was strangely similar — an echo through time. This is where a party was being held for the 2011 Luminaria Board and Steering Committee. I invited Deborah along because it helps to have a pretty woman to hide behind when one has little to say to a bunch of people — besides, Deborah knows about as many of these people there as do I.

We were in a side meeting room with a spread of munchies and a little bar area where a couple of guys were making some damn tasty caipirinhas. There was a point where the noise level in the room pretty much negated my ability to hear what people were saying to me (especially those of diminutive stature). So, I apologize to those of you who I was smiling and nodding to while you told me about your daughter’s divorce or that recent procedure to correct a prolapsed rectum. My condolences.

Deborah and I rode the trolly from King William to the Alamo and walked the three blocks to the Kress Building. Afterwards, we walked back to our neighborhood. It was a beautiful night, and it’s always a joy to walk through downtown and King William, especially with a good friend.

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My plan is to make it out to the Big Bend in a couple of weeks. Not the National Park, but the tiny town of Redford, AKA, El Polvo. It’s a tiny, impoverished farming community along the Rio Grande. The fertile river valley is between the Bofecillos Mountains on the US side, and Sierra Rica, on the Mexican side. I’d love to stay for a couple of weeks with my friends down there, but I’m involved in three projects which need my attention in April. And I can’t slip out of town until the very end of this month because of an unwise commitment I made. Well, there is also a fun gig as well (some work which will actually pay!).

(I feel a need for a digressive parenthetical rant. Many of us in the arts and the production communities find ourselves, on occasion, doing work for free. There are various reasons we do this. Me? I volunteer for loads of reasons. And sometimes I never explain why. The reason, at times, might be personal, and no one needs to know. But I’ve come to discover that many people who I find myself helping out take my willingness to give, as a form of weakness. This must be a common mindset, because I often see people treat their unpaid crew in shockingly crass and cavalier fashion. God, I hope I don’t do that to the wonderful people who have been so gracious to help me out. The bottom line is, if you ask me to help on your movie project and you don’t treat me with the slightest regard, and, in the future, you wonder why I don’t want to continue to do pro-bono work for you, well, it’s because I have had my fill. If you’ve brought me on to your project and I realize I’m not there to qualitatively enhance your production (such as adding a certain technical expertise or creative insight), but, instead, I see that I’m essentially a quantitative component (another pair of hands who will show up on time), well, don’t expect to see much of me in the future. This is not to say that I’m all pissy and will never help people again. Far from it. I love collaboration. But collaboration means mutual respect. I also am fine with helping intelligent and creative people on their excellent projects, if I’m quite certain that they will help me on mine. Mutuality and reciprocity kick ass! I will give until I have nothing left to like-minded and community-minded people and institutions. But ego-driven projects are pure poison to me. And the truth is, I’d rather be the first bridge someone burns than the last, because that sort of crude and dismissive behavior is bullshit–particularly when it dribbles down upon an unpaid crew.)

But I was talking about a trip to the desert. I hope that March has brought a fair amount of rain. The cactus flowers — yellow, white, and red — are beautiful. And the ocotillo, when in bloom, are amazing. This weird plant of twisted, thorny stalks, produces a tear-shaped cluster of blossoms at the tip of each stalk. The flowers are bright scarlet. And when they bloom, the desert is covered by a mist of red, floating five to twelve feet over the ground.

I also want to replenish my stocks of popotillo. This is a low-laying plant usually found in the arroyos. It grows as a cluster of green sticks, a little thicker than wooden matches. The plant has leaves, but they are so tiny they are often missed. Popotillo is cut from the bushy plant, allowed to dry, and boiled and drunk as a tea. It is also known as Mormon Tea and Apache Tea. The Mormon’s prize it because it has a kick to it which isn’t caffeine, which they avoid. The active alkaloid of popotillo is ephedrine. There is much evidence that the “soma” drink mentioned in the Vedas, half a world away from the Chihuahua Desert, utilized a plant almost identical to popotillo.

And what’s it like? It’s a tasty tea, when you add honey and lime. A bit bitter without. When I lived in the desert years ago I would make sure my canteen was filled with popotillo-infused water. And I would go out on ten hour hikes back into the Bofecillos Mountains in July and August, where it would get over 115 degrees. Yep. I swear I could walk all day. It’s the good stuff. In fact, I’m pro-popotillo.

The truth is, I’m afraid what I’ll find when I make it to Redford. It was freaky enough when I visited three or four years back and discovered that my friend Enrique had lost his leg to infection, compounded by diabetes. And while I was there he came down with some respiratory infection and was rushed to the nearest hospital over a hundred and twenty miles away where he almost died, and was eventually kicked out, still undiagnosed, because he had no insurance. The people of Redford have much in common with the people of the Rio Grande Valley, (where so many of my San Antonio friends come from). Crushing poverty, poor to nonexistent health care, and, to make life almost intolerable, they are essentially living under occupation in this insane war against drugs. In southern Presidio county there are paranoid bastards with badges over every hill and behind every bush. ICE agents, the DEA, Border Patrol, state troopers, National Guard, the US Marines (who are supposed to have been removed from the region following the shooting of Esequiel Hernandez in Redford some years back, but there are those who say they have returned), and  on a good day throw in the Texas Rangers, FBI, and, if you can believe some of the locals, the CIA. All this for an empty stretch of inhospitable desert, sparsely populated by some of the poorest people in the United States. It’s a pretty ugly situation. There are helicopters at night, unmanned drones, and motion detectors and hidden cameras placed on private property without the owners’ knowledge.

The history of abuse and violence directed towards the American citizens of Mexican heritage along the river in the Big Bend area goes back to the 1870s when citizenship and land was offered to Mexicans to settle this wild frontier. And ever since then, they have carried a metaphoric target on their backs for any American thug in uniform with a gun and a badge. This despicable heritage goes back much longer, because the Mexicanos of the Big Bend are, for the most part, descended from the Jumanos, the indigenous people who worked this rough region before European contact. If you want to know what THEY had to put up with, ignore the history books and pick up Cormac McCarthy’s grisly “Blood Meridian.”

I have visited this area often over the decades. The locals call it La Junto. Or, La Junto de Los Rios. This is where the Rio Conchos joins the Rio Grande. Archeologist have learned that this region has been settled, uninterrupted, for ten thousand years. These are proud people. They once had a sort of playful defeatist outlook. But when an American Marine, with a secret drug interdiction force, happened to shoot to death a young high school student who was out taking care of his family’s goats after school, well things changed dramatically on the US side of the border. A patient, pragmatic, and patriotic people were allowed to see just how ugly and boundless American institutionalized racism can be. These were law-abiding and innocent men and women who had problems mostly with the harassment of the Border Patrol agents and the corrupt legacy of Sheriff Thompson, of Presidio County, who is currently serving a life sentence for drug trafficking. But many of the men of La Junto proudly served their country in the armed services. And yet, the Marines, the best of the best, had been skulking around the farms of Redford, unknown to anyone. They were outfitted in ghillie suits which blended into the desert scrub. And when a young Marine, hunkered down with his camouflaged crew, grew suspicious of a carefree teenager, who was out walking on his family’s property with a small herd of goats and a couple of dogs, and happened to be carrying an ancient rusty single shot .22 rifle … well, some naive, ill-advised “profiling” got way out of control. We might never learn what really happened that day, but by the time the sun set, Esequiel Hernandez lay dead, having bled out before the Marines ever got around to radioing for help. And that’s when it all changed on this stretch of the border. When a large region of the United States views the US Marines as monsters because their most beloved and innocent teenage citizen was slaughtered by the most noblest branch of the US military, well, something has gone terribly wrong.

The most beautiful region of Texas has been wounded. The people are still in mourning. And the occupation continues. I want to go have fun, tramping around in the desert. But I know the locals aren’t the carefree gente I used to know.

We seem to always come in and fuck up paradise. We do it abroad, and we do it here at home. This is what happens when we turn our back on community.

(Friday.)

Because I don’t want to retype, please allow me to cut and paste from a FaceBook comment of mine:

“Friday, March 18, 2011. Spring Break, Lent, and Friday. These factors created a perfect storm on the southside where the crowds at Rudy’s Seafood on S. Flores were so massive that police were directing traffic in the parking lot. In fact, those who couldn’t get in had to take sloppy seconds at the Fred’s Fish Fry down the block (and I NEVER see people in there).”

I drive by this place a couple times a week and have never seen this sort of excitement. But I had a hint from Sandra Torres’ FaceBook comment that she’d seen the craziness during lunchtime. Apparently they have famous lent specials. And there I was, heading to the La Fiesta to buy groceries some hours later. This would be the early dinner crowd. People were parking in obviously illegal spots. But that’s fine. If you hire cops to keep order, they’ll watch your back, even turning a blind eye to minor infractions of your patrons. The right lane was all cars idling with flashers for two blocks waiting their turn at the Rudy’s goodness.

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At La Fiesta is a young woman who works the registers. Her name is Disney. That’s right, Disney. And yet she seems wonderfully well-adjusted. While I was waiting for my groceries to be rung up at the adjacent register, I overheard a woman tell Disney: “I love your name. My sister-in-law had two daughters who she named Merry and Melody.” For my San Antonio friends, this is exactly why I shop at La Fiesta instead of Central Market (AKA the Gucci HEB).

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My day was fairly unproductive. I did, however, deposit a smallish check into my bank over on the eastside. As I was returning, I noticed a film crew a few short blocks from my house. They were across the street from where Sam Lerma used to live, so I was pretty sure it was the crew for his new short, Lilia. I pulled over, grabbed my camera, and walked over. Producer Ralph Lopez came up. We chatted. They were in the middle of day two, with two more days scheduled. I watched the action happening across the street. There was Sam, Dago, Rosalva, and several people I recognized, but whose names I didn’t know. Ralph headed off to deal with important production stuff. I crossed the street and took some photos. Between setups Sam came over and said hello. Things seemed to be running smoothly. There was a shitload of equipment, and a crew who seemed on top of things. I’m looking forward to a truly fine and polished short film. I have been a fan of Sam’s vision for years. He is clearly one of the best filmmakers in town. I hope his steady successes culminate in a big break. It couldn’t happen to a better person.

Here’s a photo from Adams Street.

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I met with an emerging filmmaker tonight (Friday) at Tito’s. Noi Mahoney was at the PGA mixer the other night at the GCAC. He’s a newspaper writer and editor who’s wanting to get into filmmaking. He’s done some early work which is rough. He knows this. And, like all of us, we have to start somewhere. He’s eager to learn and I hope he begins to find like-minded people here in town he can work with and learn from.

The San Antonio film community does exist. It’s a bit fragmented, and certain corners seem to run on high-octane spite. But mostly, we’re nice and reasonable and helpful people. Yes, it’s great that we find ways to be polite and helpful even to those who we are periodically at war with. But what I really want to see is honest and constructive criticism. We, as a whole, need to stop sucking so much. I’m as guilty as the next person. Let’s admit our inherent lameness, and figure out each filmmaker’s particular weakness, and then, collectively work to remedy these defects.

Noi asked me to name some of my favorite filmmakers. When I mentioned Guy Madden, he said that not only was he aware of Madden’s work, but he had a friend who lives in Winnipeg. This is a city in the Canadian great plains where several wonderfully weird and idiosyncratic filmmakers live and work. Noi’s Winnipeg friend asked him if there was anything in San Antonio like the rich film culture in Winnipeg. Noi truthfully said no. The sad fact is that this Canadian hicksville with a population of 600,000 is internationally know as a home for innovative filmmaking, and San Antonio, with over twice the population, has little of which to be proud in the film area.

We need to find our odd, idiosyncratic, regional geniuses, and make them shine. Winnipeg has Guy Madden, Portland has Karl Krogstad, Baltimore has John Waters, Wellington has Jane Campion. We need our Guy Madden. And we need to stop making fucking zombie movies and films about drug deals gone bad. Jesus! What’s wrong with you people?

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(Sunday.)

I was cleaning my place earlier this afternoon. I’m not much for house-cleaning, so when I discovered a piece of mail addressed to one of my neighbor’s under my sofa, I realized it could be maybe two years stale. It was from his family in England and didn’t have any sort of dated cancelation stamp. This is a neighbor whose house and dogs I often looked after when he was out of town. I hope nothing horrible happened because he never got this letter. Perhaps there had been some rift in the family with him being eradicated from a will. The neighbor in question has moved to the other side of the county. I guess I’ll give him a call and get his new address.

Oh, well….

Rod Guajardo gave me a call about an hour later. He told me he was heading to Tito’s. Did I want to join him? I said, sure. If it got me away from cleaning (which was, in turn, keeping me from doing a final pass on editing a project which, um, I’ve already been paid for). When I walked into Tito’s, Rod was at a table in the side room with his wife Rosemary, and their two youngest kids.

(The other night Rod had emailed me a link with a password so I could view his submission to the Neighborhood Film Project. I did the same for him. He and I will be competing against one another as filmmakers representing the southside. I’m not sure who else we’re up against. His film is damn tight and very good. If I had been the judge, I would have given his work more points than mine. Ah, and now I’m depressed.)

After a late lunch, we headed over to the Friendly Spot. This is a laid-back “ice house.” True, it’s infested by alcoholic hipster parents who can toss their kids into the fenced playground and suck back their cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon al fresco, but the truth is, it embraces all types of patrons. The place was pretty crowded. Rod showed me his new lens for his Canon Rebel. It was a zoom lens with a very wide aperture. I asked him how much it cost. Rod look up. Rosemary was fussing with their little girl, and was about to walk her back over to the playground corral. “I’ll tell you when Rosemary leaves.” I assume she heard him, be decided not to comment. When Rosemary walked out of hearing range, Rod told me. It was about what I had assumed. And as envious as I was, the lens was far beyond my budget.

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I headed home and took a short nap. Then I headed over to the series of events at Gallista Gallery. It was: “Spring Equinox: The Chicano New Year, Curated by David Zamora Casas.” The event had other events within. Such as an anti-nuke rally. Some music performances. And various artists with shows in the studios there at Gallista. The main reason I was going was because of Monessa M. Esquivel. Her show, “Underground Ghetto Cartoon People: Part Juan,” was also there at Gallista. I’m very fond of Monessa. She’s an extraordinary actress (one of this city’s best), a compelling performance artists, a sensitive and accomplished writer, and, I now know, a smart and playful artist who can damn well rock a sheet of graph paper. She’s also one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever met. I tend to get a bit tongue-tied around her, but I was able to get her to pose for a picture in front of her art.

I was also impressed by the work of Roberto Sifuentes. His flat varnished neo-pre-Renaissance panels were very impressive. Here’s the largest. Maybe ten feet by eight feet.

Some guy, and I forget his name, had a room of very cool stuff. But my favorite piece was this, which is clearly a collage made from the flattened paper of hundreds of roaches. What a beautiful abstract work!

I stayed for a few songs with Rithe, a tight trio very influenced (in a good way) by Joy Division.

A very nice Sunday. I just wish I could have made it to the eastside where there was an art kite event. That would have been fun to shot photos and video.

(Wednesday.)

I woke up feeling uninspired. Even after a huge mug of cappuccino, hecho a mono, and a tasty bowl of mote pillo, I still wasn’t up to much.

I did, however, call up my dear friend Enrique Madrid in Redford, Texas. I was hoping to be able to see him at a Big Bend conference coming up in San Marcos at the end of the month. He had been invited as a speaker. But because of recent health issues as well as a lack of funds to make the trip, he had to opt out. He sounded in good spirits. But it’s hard to tell over a phone. I didn’t get a chance to speak with Ruby, his wife. But I told him to expect me to come down for a visit in the beginning of April. I miss my friends down there. I miss the desert, too.

He wryly suggested that there was a new sport in Redford. “Oh, and what might that be?” I asked, playing the straight man. “Drone streaking,” he said. “Oh?” “Yes, it’s when you take off all your clothes and run along the dirt road atop the river levy. The Border Patrol sensors are activated and they send out the drones to video-tape the activity.” Yes, I remember now. Occupied southern Presidio County, where the only crimes seem to be committed by corrupt or ill-trained American men in uniform.

Enrique also said that he’d been recently interviewed by Texas Monthly for their Texas Food issue. He gave the reporter his famous tortilla-making lesson. Enrique has a mathematical formula for creating the perfectly round tortilla. I have it around somewhere, but it’d take awhile to find it. It is, as he is found of explaining, a formula analogous to the expansion of the universe following that early period of hyper-inflation. Enrique’s tortilla lessons are wonderful. I keep planing to make a short film. I’m not certain that the guy from Texas Monthly understands the charm and audacity of Enrique’s world view. But I understand completely. Enrique Madrid is one of my three mentors / gurus, all which, for some reason, are multidisciplinary intellectuals (mostly self-taught) who also all happen to be Chicano activists.

Maybe that’s what I’ll come back with. A video tutorial of how to make the perfectly round flour tortilla, using a mathematical formula which is shockingly simple, when you realize that the formula can also be used to recreate the universe if, you know, we fuck this one up.

San Marcos don’t know what it’s missing.

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Later in the afternoon, when the high octane caffeine was wearing thin, I decided that I needed to address the issue of a few up-coming projects. I might be working with Slab Cinema again for Alamo Heights Night. If so, it will be a live broadcast inter-active presentation. There are also two performances where I will be working with Seme Jatib. My hope is that we will be able to add a live video manipulation / projection component to her dance performances.

I priced out a few AV carts and tables. I decided on a particular portable DJ table. It is more than stable enough to support my laptops, switchers, faders, external drives, mix-board, and even a monitor. The price was right. And even though the adjustable legs can only raise it up to 40 inches, I can probably get two slabs of four inch thick styrofoam to lift the equipment to what I have become accustomed to, this four foot-high standing desk which I’m using right now.

I also placed an order with monoprice.com, a great place to buy cheap audio and video cables. I think I have ordered all the cables I need to do VJ work, as well as improve my home video and audio editing suite.

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Yesterday there had been some emails floating around. Someone was trying to find a place in San Antonio where a representative of PGA (the Producers Guild of America) could talk to San Antonio filmmakers.

When the dust settled, it was the Guadalupe Theater, 6pm, Wednesday night.

I was the first person there. The parking lot was empty. I thought I’d find out how to adjust my dashboard clock for the daylight savings time switchover. But before I could do that, Dago Patlan rolled up. He was one of the people who arrange this event. We went inside.

Manuel Solis, the head of the media programs at the Guadalupe Cultural Arts Center, greeted us. He was carrying a couple bags of ice through the lobby. The ice was for the keg of beer. And then I looked up and there was Vicente Williams, the representative of the PGA. He was carrying a stack of pizza boxes. The PGA paid for the pizza and the beer. Things were looking good.

Before the activities began I found myself talking with Manuel. I assume he knows who won the prizes for the Neighborhood Film Project, but he wasn’t saying nothing. He did, however, express delight in the performances in my submitted short film, “A Bourbon Would Be Nice.” He said that not only will it screen Saturday night (March 26), but also Sunday afternoon. The Cinema in the Barrio series at the Guadalupe will be a showdown between the Southside and the Westside, two regions with fierce pride and a long history of rivalry. Puro San Anto! And I’m representing the Southside. True, I’ve only been in the outer edge of the San Antonio Southside for a mere eight years or so, but my star, Lisa Suarez, is a Southside girl going all the way back.

I wandered inside and talked with the slowly growing crowd. Twenty-five San Antonio film people showed up. A good number for short notice. I knew everyone except four (and one of those, a journalist interested in making films, I later friended on FaceBook — we’re meeting soon for coffee). Vicente Williams gave us a fairly comprehensive explanation on what the PGA is, does, and how, if we can get in, it can help not only the fledgling members, but all filmmakers in a region with a sizable membership. Vicente is on the PGA Diversity Committee, and he gave us some insight into what that program offers. He mentioned more than on one occasional that he grew up in San Antonio, and because he returns often to visit family, more meetings and info sessions can be arranged in the future. In fact, Dago, who teaches filmmaking to high school kids at the Harlandale ISD’s Film School of San Antonio, has begun developing a program, via Vincente, with the PGA. There are opportunities everywhere. Every now and then you just need to stop, take a breath, and look around.

Here’s Vicente.

And some people I know who showed up:

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(Thursday.)

Actually, it’s Friday, as I noticed that it just turned midnight.

I’ve been procrastinating on what should be a small video project. I shot the Windows Show two weeks ago. (This is an occasional free show that Jump-Start stages in the window of their theater every couple of mouths or so during First Friday.) I used my 7D. There were two performances of the 18 minute show. This allowed me to shoot each performance from a different angle. The idea was to edit like a two camera shoot. I’ve done this before. It’s great as a theory, but in practice it can often bite you on the ass.

The footage looks great. And the finished product will be fine. But these sorts of things always take longer than expected. It’s like when I do rare book appraisals. I always quote an estimate based on how many hours it would take me to do the gig … if I was my idealized version of myself. Sorry to say, I’m not that guy. But I keep hoping. And I always honor my quotes. Same with video work.

Anyway, I’ve basically finished it. A quick tinker in the morning. Burn to disk. Deliver. Move on to what’s next…. What’s next? Oh, yeah. An internet commercial next week which should be a blast, because I’m working with friends.

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I took a low-impact bike ride this afternoon from Mission San Jose to Mission Espada and back, with several protracted dead end detours around where the work crews are taking their sweet time between Espada Dam and Mission San Juan.

On a return from one of these dead ends, I slowed down as another cyclist approahced. He made eye contact and we both stopped. “Hey, dude. You have a cigarette?” I shurgged stoically and gave him a sigh, as men do, and said I didn’t. I leaned forward and psuhed on. But, really, what the fuck? Do I look that awful? I should have locked eyes with him. “Nope. Furthermore, I do not have an apple pie, a tallboy of Lone Star, nor a gram of heroine stored up rectum in a fingerstall.”

It was a lovely day. The heavy wind coming from Matamoros helped to make the ride back effortless and exciting. I think winter is finally vanquished. And don’t think I’m not rejoicing.

Some years back I was walking around downtown San Antonio with one of the founders of a well-known local arts nonprofit group who can often be seen staging community-driven performances in the public spaces around town. As we were crossing Houston street she looked up with a smile and said, “We own this town.” It seemed rather an audacious statement to blurt out. At the time I assumed she meant that she and her organization are popular and highly-visible. Perhaps it isn’t such an peculiar thing to say of an organization which can be found in almost all parades and important events. And over the years I’ve spent in this strange and wonderful city I, too, have found myself becoming something of a public person. I have marched and paraded in the streets for both political and celebratory purposes on at least a dozen occasions. I have made my way into the local corridors of power (not too impressive in this sleepy little city), powwowed with the media for many diverse causes, and I have worked on committees and boards to bring art and expression into the streets. So now, when I think of the declarative pronouncement, “We own this town,” I see a much richer interpretation. Sure, there’s a bit of braggadocio, with the “we” becoming the “royal we.” But more importantly is the notion that the people, the entire population of San Antonio, owns this town. We politic in the streets, we honor our champions and our dead in the streets, we party in the streets. So, if you feel comfortable saying “we own this town,” I assume you are asserting that you are actively engaged in keeping San Antonio centered around the spirit of community.

And this brings us to Luminaria. There are champions and there are detractors. Me? I’m a little of both. This lavish one night annual art event brings in huge crowds to downtown San Antonio, makes shitloads of money for included vendors, and does a decent job of bringing attention to the arts. Last Saturday night brought us the fourth year of Luminaria. I’ve been involved since the beginning. The first year I volunteered. And for years two, three, and four I have sat on the steering committee as one of the artistic chairs. All four years I have contributed as an artist.

What I’ve noticed over the years is a tendency to release giddy rhetoric abut the importance of art and creatively. The artists are asked to dream big. But, for budgetary concerns, the funds available to help these artists bring these dreams into the real world begin to diminish as the logistical needs of running such a large production become more apparent. Renting stages, hiring security, closing streets, purchasing liability insurance, securing ASCAP and BMI event rights, marketing, lighting, audio equipment, chingos of projectors, and on and on.

There is that horrible realization that to be able to do a good job of presenting the art, the lion’s share of the budget goes, not to the art (ostensibly the reason people are coming), but to the infrastructure, the context in which the art will be inserted. I’m wondering if in the future this might be remedied by treating the artists as vendors or contractors, with their own legitimate needs to bringing in sub-contractors to help with the installations and equipment rental.

I could go on all night blathering on about what I think Luminaria should be. It’s a silly game which hundreds of people are doing this week.

But I think there is one thing of which Luminaria should never lose sight. The artists are the draw. Keep them front and center in all decisions.

One other important matter is the issue of diversity. What I have learned of San Antonio history has revealed a serious struggle over the past few decades where individuals and institutions have pushed for rights and inclusion of all people no matter what their gender, ethnicity, or sexual orientation might be. I do know that this was an issue for the first three years of Luminaria — by issue I mean that the committee members were all made to understand that the line-up of artists should represent the diverse face of San Antonio. I’m not so sure we succeeded this year. I do know that Victor and I — co-chairs of the Media Arts committee — kept diversity in the forefronts of our minds during the entire process. But the only reason we did this was because we have worked for community arts organizations in the past, and this sort of sensitivity is clearly etched in our minds.

(As an aside, I wonder if this was the reason that, during the opening ceremony, board member John Phillip Santos made something of a grand exit while the mayor was still speaking. I have a hard time thinking he was just looking for the water fountain.)

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Fuck the behind the scenes stuff. What did the punters see?

They saw something magical and extraordinary.

This year Luminaria filled almost all of HemisFair Park. There might have been 250,000 people. That’s what we were expecting. Personally I think it must have been less. The crush of humanity was heavy, but not intesne.

I was too busy trouble shooting various stages and artists to really explore. But what little I did see was so cool.

Of the curitorial zones, I was most cognizant of Ray and Cindy Palmer’s zone. It was between two areas I was shuttling back and forth between: the dance stage in Plaza de Mexico and the Pumphouse Lounge.

Ray and Cindy brought in some great artists. And two of my friends were right there in the Palmer’s zone. Gisha Zabala had a beautiful three channel video projection in one of the fountains. And Deborah Keller-Rihn had a breath-taking installation of illuminated floating altars in a little cement pond near Gisha’s piece.

I had little opportunity to take pictures. I did show up for the piece which ST Shimi and I collaborated on. “City Hoop.” I made a film. Shimi danced to it. It was pretty fucking awesome. Here are a couple of photos:

I also got an opportunity to see the dance piece created by my friend Seme Jatib. Amazing!

Okay. Here’s my Luminaria film, City Hoop, featuring ST Shimi. And because I still can’t figure out how to embed video on the blogs for this site, I’ll do the next best thing. Add a link:

vimeo.com/21004530

I’ve been laying low these last few post-Luminaria days. The whole thing left me physically tapped and mentally drained. And like the shutting down of any other sizable production, I’m sadden with the realization that many of the people I had been working with in such an intense manner I will not be seeing much in the future. A lot of the core players don’t move in my humble circles. The post production depression is a common affliction for those who work on collaborative time-based projects. I did make it out Monday to have a late breakfast with Deborah. Afterwards we took the thirteen inflated inner tubes out of the bed of my pickup truck. They were from her Luminaria installation. We were in the parking lot of Blue Star, each sitting on an inner tube and holding the stopper pin with a key. They deflate very slowly. After we’d done two apiece we decided to go ahead and take them all up to her studio. She could deflate them later, at her leisure. I suggested that she fob off this chore on the deadbeats who hang out in her studio while she’s trying to work — at the least, they can make themselves useful.

Deborah was also feeling that numb sense of bathos. She keeps saying how her piece would have been better had she done this or that. I keep reminding her that it was incredibly beautiful. She worked long and hard on it, and it paid off. Here’s a photo of her floating altars by Ramin Samandari:

There are twelve portraits (photos and paintings — all by San Antonio artists). The portraits are of leaders  in the creative communities who have passed away in recent years. As moving as the piece was (aesthetically and conceptually) I have to admit I laughed aloud when Deborah told me that during the night of Luminaria a drunk woman on her cell phone tried to walk across the floating art and fell into the pool. The only casually was Deborah’s new iPhone, which got wet when she got into the pool to reset her art. And as anyone who has ever dealt with a water-damaged iPhone knows, there’s no recourse but to buy another.

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I wasn’t able to spend much time at the Pumphouse Lounge, where some of the video was being screened. I was just too busy doing other things. Unfortunately, because of the high winds during the afternoon, Angela and Rick of Slab Cinema weren’t able to place their inflatable screen in our preferred area. There was no place to anchor the front of the screen, and the weights we borrowed from Magik Theatre just weren’t heavy enough. Also, it was too windy to blow up the inflatable furniture. Even if it wasn’t, I didn’t have anyone to help inflate them. Here’s a note to those of you on FaceBook. When someone posts a request for help on their page, don’t take that as an opportunity to crack wise or make pithy remarks. Find out how you can help, or shut the fuck up.

And while I’m bitching, this is for the passive aggressive tech guy at one of the stages who wanted to chew on me because there had been no plan on how to run audio from the DVD player beside the projector across the plaza, over to the the sound board beside the stage. While I was trying to figure out how to remedy the problem (instead of trying to find someone to blame), he finally let me know that he had taken it upon himself to drive to his house, on the other side of town, to get his own wireless equipment. I felt like explaining: “Dude, I assume you’re getting paid for this. Not me. And, yes, I for one am damn happy you took it upon yourself to save our asses, but, please, hold back the bile until you’re working for the Spurs or Cirque du Soleil, instead of a volunteer-driven arts event where the only people getting paid are the goddamn marketing firms, vendors, rental companies, and stage crew.”

Fuck.

But I was talking about the Pumphouse Lounge. Between screenings of short films, Aztec Gold was putting on an interactive show they called the Green Screen Bonanza, where people could walk in front of a green screen. A video camera would play back their images live, embedded into scens from one of several popular movies. I was curious how well this would work. And though I only had a short time to check it out, I was impressed. The technology, though low, worked well, and the people seemed to be digging it. Pocha and Payan pulled it off!

While I don’t recall having eaten anything that night, I did find myself passing one of the volunteer booths. Kathy waved me over and asked if I wanted a beer. Those volunteers have it all worked out it seems. I thanker her and took a short break on the porch near the command center to quickly down a can of beer. Also, on the two times I dropped by to check in on Joseph Hladeka, who had a three-channel projection on the south wall of Magik Theatre, he was happy to share with me a bottle of some sort of flavored vodka. So it wasn’t a night of total privation.

Probably my favorite part of the night was stopping every so often, in chance encounters, to chat with friends, enemies, colleagues, and FaceBook “friends,” most who are also, in some manner, involved in the San Antonio art world.

You see, we’re an amorphous and dysfunctional cabal who own this town. And we know it.

I’m afraid I’m shirking some of my Luminaria steering committee duties because I’m so busy working on own Luminaria project. I’ll try and get back up to speed tomorrow.

I got a call from one of the folks at Creative Civilization. They’re the one’s doing the marketing for Luminaria. Anyway, it looks like I’m going to be on the morning TV show on the local Fox affiliate. There are two local stations each with a morning show. I’ve been on each one or two times over the years. Because I haven’t had a TV since the big digital change-over, I really have no idea about local television. I will say that each time I’ve visited the local TV studios, everyone has been wonderful, professional, and amazingly efficient.

Speaking of Luminaria, I decided to look at the website the other day. There’s a schedule of the evening’s events as well as a list of artists. The link to my web presence goes to my WordPress blog. I stopped using my website (www.eyewashpictures.com) because I hate those swine at 1&1 which were hosting my site. Also, I decided I no longer wanted to brand my work under the kooky, self-deprecating, and slightly clever banner of Eyewash Pictures. Anyway, I had not yet got my new website (www.rebosse.com) when I submitted my artists proposal, so I used my blog instead. Now I should point out that I’ve pretty much stopped posting on my blog. I’m currently blogging on my website. And so, when people click over to my blog from the Luminaria webpage, they are confronted by the bold title of my last blog posted to this site, with the piquant title of “Recovering from the Suburban Shit Hole.”

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Tonight I headed out to shoot some miscellaneous urban video clips downtown. I wanted some generic nighttime scenes of lights and traffic to use for the one minute introduction to the video component of the Luminaria collaboration Shimi and I are putting together.

Here’s a quickie edit of what I shot tonight. I hope this Vimeo link will embed on this new website.

vimeo.com/20863527

Well, I can’t figure out how to embed. Do just click on the link.

I don’t do this enough. Make video montages.

For people working in video, this is an interesting period of history. The DSLR is king for low-budget movie makers. But the DSLR as a hot tool is already being pushed aside by a new breed of camcorder with a large chip, the ability to take cheap prime lenses, and topnotch audio acquisition. So, for the period of 2010 to 2012, we will see an influx of photographers playing around with digital cinematography, seeing as how their tools can take great HD video. I’ve already seen some great still shooters enter into the movie world. This is good. Many people I know who have trained to make movies with three chip prosumer camcorders are horrible shooters. They have no sense of composition, can’t light worth shit, and are absolutely clueless about optics 101. Enter the photographer who begins to play around with motion on his or her HD vid-enable DSLR. These folks are kick-ass from set-up to set-up. But sometimes they are weak understanding how to shoot for mise en scene editing. But, as I have always maintained, when I find myself on set (for a project of mine or someone else) I’m always heartened if the lead cast members have a deep theater history and if the camera crew have a serious background in still photography.

And so, I’m wondering, is there is a sudden resurgence of those wonderful pretentious experimental films of decades past when it was common to find breathtaking art films with beautifully composed clips? Is this happening? I’m a bit out of touch.

I want the San Antonio chapter of NALIP to return to those great video slams of the past. Anyone was welcome to show up with a DVD and share their work. There was no slamming, really. Just keep the clip under a certain length. It helped to bring people together. And it helped to see what the seasoned professionals were doing in their spare time, as well as the sometimes brilliant work which came from self-taught hobbyists.

Maybe I’ll bring this up at the next NALIP-SA meeting. I sometimes forget I’m a board member.

So, if you’re playing around with making movies on a DSLR, please stretch your creative wings and take our breath away.

An actor I worked recently — great guy, talented and professional — called up to know if could pass my contact information on to a friend who was working on making a TV series. “A cross between Seinfeld and Sex in the City.” I help my tongue and didn’t say what I was thinking. (Which was: “I can’t think of anything more horrendous.”)

Because of all the shit I’ve seen generated by well-meaning naifs who own a video camera and an editing suite, I no longer will work on projects which can be pitched as resembling this or that TV show or Hollywood blockbuster. Folks, you are all in over your heads.

Give me artists, documentarians, and those pimply-faced neurotics with their “passion projects” which resemble nothing you’ve ever heard of before.

What I really should be doing right now is editing two particular projects. I’m helping Jump-Start put together a short reel for a grant application. I said I’d turn in a preliminary edit tomorrow afternoon. Also, my Luminaria film needs some serious attention. The deadline isn’t going to go away.

On a positive note, I now have all the video shot for my Luminaria film. I just need to knit it together into something on the fabulous side of adequate.

The film is a simple affair. A series of night shots of ST Shimi hoop-dancing in interesting areas of downtown. We’d already shot several locations along the river walk. In Main Plaza. Under the arch at HemisFair park. And tonight we shot bridges.

First was Houston Street where it passes under highway 281. This is part of Bill FitzGibbon’s permeant art installation titled “Light Channels.” Both the Commerce Street and Houston Street underpasses are lit with LED lights which change colors and flash in patterns. They are collectively and colloquailly known as the “Disco Underpass.” It’s an awkward place to shoot. The level of light coming off the LEDs (though they create a lovely tableau) is fairly dim for shooting video. Even with my f1.4 lens and my ISO cranked up around 4000, it was a challenge. I set up a little kicker light I picked up years ago to mount on my Canon GL2. I used my Gorillapod as a light stand. Here are a few still images from the shoot.

Next, Shimi and I headed over to the Hays Street Bridge. Now I should come clean and admit that I’m generally suspicious of urban renewal projects. They usually portend some savage gentrification master plan (which is why I hope that the vile motherfuckers responsible for the Cevallos Street Loft project all fall on their asses and fail — if it succeeds as the developers wish, it will drive a stake into the heart of Southtown and South Flores, eventually pricing all of the artists from the neighborhood). But I digress.  I was talking about a bridge project. A bridge which is fucking awesome. It serves no real purpose. Sure, it goes over a railroad track. The train still runs down there. But the steel girder bridge was not originally built to handle heavy vehicular traffic. When I visited before the renovation, it had a wooden surface which was heavily rotted. Anyway, the bridge has a new wooden floor. It is now a huge foot bridge. But more than that, it’s a park, a piece of preserved history, an example of industrial construction as historical sculpture … it’s a lot of things. But mostly it’s fucking awesome.

I want to stage theater, dance, and film events here. I want to use it as a location in every film I shoot.

Here are a couple of photos from tonight’s shoot. The wider shot is perfect, except Shimi has her eyes closed. In the close-up photo I have used my kicker light mounted on my Gorillapod with its articulated legs wrapped around a nearby girder. The wide shot is all existing light on the bridge.

Friday.

A nice San Antonio day. I started things off with a late breakfast at Los Sarapes, one of my local eateries. Their chicken chilaquiles in a tomatillo sauce is sweet ambrosia. I lounged in my booth, sipping coffee and reading the paper. I hadn’t read the Express-News in months. It’s become a piss poor excuse for a newspaper. Or so I’d thought. This issue was heady with conflict, San Anto-style. All sorts of shit about the Alamo. The 175 anniversary of the battle is underway. There was a story about the Daughters of the Republic of Texas (a seething and disfunction snake pit of bigoted harridans), and how charges have been aimed their way that they have mismanaged resources. There was also an article as well as an editorial about the goddamn tourist traps in Alamo Plaza, like the Ripley’s Museum. And then there was a piece about how the Alamo narrative taught in schools ignores the importance of the Tejanos, those people here for generations before the fight at the Alamo–people who, in fact, built the Alamo, and the missions, and this city.

Next I stopped by URBAN-15 to drop off my video projector. They want to use it for their event Saturday night. A big party where the ensemble members watch a live feed from the Carnival parades in Brazil. George Cisneros wasn’t around. He’s in Savannah. David Rubin’s Psychedelic Show, which originated at the SanAntonio Museum of Art, is now on the road. And George has a room-sized installation. So I guess he was traveling to set it up in Georgia.

There are a couple of things which have happened concerning URBAN-15 and George Cisneros having to do with Luminaria–actions I find fairly disturbing. I hope these over-sights and poor behavior seemingly originating from Luminaria can be resolved. I don’t want to see something with such great potential as Luminaria becoming a battlefield because of petty and ill-advised behavior.

Time will tell.

I then had to motor up to the outer cracker belt where Seme Jatib is teaching at some suburban dance studio. She wanted to show me what she’s been working on with her three dancers. She has a work in progress which she will be presenting at Luminaria. I like it a lot. Very energetic.

She also showed me a few parts of a long work she will be presenting in April and May, work which she wants me to help with video work for the final multi-media performance. And I’m already coming up with greet ideas. It’s gong to be two extraordinary performances!

I drove back home and began gathering video and audio equipment. I’d been asked to video tape the First Friday show at Jump-Start.

The show, titled “Fish Tale,” was part of Jump-Start’s window series. These are free shows which seem to happen during First Friday events. They’re short and innovative, and utilize the large window which looks out from the theater’s lobby. Sometimes that action also happens outside, in front of the window. “Fish Tale” was created by Billy Munoz and ST Shimi, with Shimi performing the solo performance art piece.

I showed up with my 7D. I love this camera, but the limitation of each clip (about 12 minutes, and you need to start again), while doesn’t bother me when shooting production style, is a bitch when you’re shooting a real world event which unfolds for more than those measly 12 minutes. But, I knew I had two performances to shoot. I’d have material with which to cut back and forth to.

Once I checked out the layout of the performance space, I left my stuff inside Jump-Start and checked out some of the galleries and studios. Now that Annette Laundry and her husband (both excellent photographers) have moved into a space upstairs from Jump-Start, I now have another studio where I can drop in and visit with a talented artist who I enjoy talking with.

I made it back to “Fish Tale” and set up my tripod for the first performance. I had almost no idea how the piece would unfold. But I knew I would have a second chance to shoot. So, suddenly, show time!

It was a great piece.We open on a beach. This is a region of pavement in front of the Jump-Start window. A woman who is visiting the beach as a tourist is having a nice relaxing time in her lounge chair as she slathers on the suntan lotion and then begins to read a magazine. But then things go wrong. She begins to explore. Discovers tar balls all over the place. The damn stuff is on her skin. She can’t get it off. Not with rubbing, not with sea water. She panics. And then she finds herself turning into a fish … well, sort of a Lady Gaga sexy mermaid. This takes us to the second and final act. She appears inside, fully fishyfied. The tableau is a lovely art-designed underwater set with seaweed and shit. Fans mounted on the floor of the stage (the seafloor) are blowing Shimi-fish-Gaga’s blond wig all over the place, and it looks damn well like she’s swimming around. All is wonderful as this sexy fish-woman is cavorting under the sea … until the music turns terse. And a curtain slowly rises, from the bottom of the window, to the top–it’s the rising of crude oil mucking up the ocean. Shimi-fish is struggling, panicking. It dons’t end on a good note. (A smart mom adroitly escorted her toddler son off when she saw how the narrative would play out … she left the boy with a sweet memory of “that pretty mermaid girl.”)

The second show was just as good. I switched angles. And I think I cut together both performances.

As I was packing up my equipment, I took this still image. Troy Wise was snapping some of his brilliant photos after the show, and I surreptitiously snapped a few shots of my own from the wings. Here’s a nice shot of Shimi, in her under-the-sea environment. And even though the photo is from behind, I think most people will agree that ST Shimi is sexy and compelling and outrageously fit from any point of view.

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Saturday.

Another nice San Antonio day.

I caught up on my RSS feeds. Had a sumptuous double cappuccino from the espresso machine. And eventually I made my way downtown. I had a meeting with ST Shimi. And because I had squandered away so much time making dirty love to dark roast coffee and foamed milk whilst browsing Reddit, I realized I didn’t have time to walk or take the trolly downtown. So I hopped in my truck and drove to my favorite and super-secret parking space which is always available. Because I was lugging my camera with me, I took a couple of photos around the corner where I park. Check them out. Maybe you will recognize the block and crack my code.

I met Shimi at Luke. And as much as I want to add an apostrophe and “S,” I’ll respect the signage and website. It’s a Louisiana-style eatery on the River Walk. I’d been there once before with Shimi and Marisela. Good fishy fare with nice happy hour prices.

The bottom line is, this place is too damn fancy for me. But one of the things which endears me towards Shimi is her love of mildly sophisticated comforts. She’s not a snob, but she loves good food, good drink, and generally being treated special. I can dig it. And though it isn’t my personal custom, I do enjoy this world on occasion.

I got there about five minutes before Shimi. I took a seat at the bar and ordered a pricy and tasty brown ale on tap. When Shimi showed up, we decided to sit outside. We ordered the craw-fish boil, because Shimi had been thinking about craw-fish all day. And little did I know, Shimi wanted us to sit outside because she’d learned a Mardi-Gras-esque river parade was scheduled at a bit after we arrived.

It was pretty cool. We were looking over a stone wall down at the river as boats filled with costumed dancers threw beaded necklaces up to us. It was a lot of fun.

Our meeting involved several projects. First there is our Luminaria project. It’s a film and live performance collaboration. We still need one more night of shooting. And then there is a performance coming up at Jump-Start. There is a need for some video, and I’ve been asked to help out. Of course I said yes. Once things are put into place, I’ll mention in this blog the particulars. And then there was a lager matter. Jump-Start wants to bring me on as their official video person. The pay might not be so great, but I will know in advance what work is coming my way. Also, I will be working with people I respect and care about. But most important, I will be in a position to expand my relationships with some of the most interesting and accomplished creative individuals working in the performance arts of San Antonio.

I feel incredibly honored to be asked to be part of what I have called on several occasions the only truly experimental theater in San Antonio. Also, Jump-Start is the venue where some of the most interesting dance performances are held. There are easily ten individuals who are either Jump-Start company members, or folks who often perform at Jump-Start, who I hold in rock star status–well, local rock star status. It’s very satisfying to find myself on friendly terms with people like Shimi, Lisa, Monessa, Steve, Billy, Dino, Laurie, Marisela, Ana, Doyle, and on and on.

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Back home I took a nap. And then I headed out to pay my rent check … a bit late, but I’ve been distracted recently. True, not an excuse I would ever articulate, but, well, whatever ….

As I was leaving the house to drive to my landlady’s place I noticed Doyle Avant riding his bike down my street. I had been talking to Doyle the previous night at the Jump-Start window show. Doyle does, on occasion, these massively brilliant performance art monologues at the W-I-P (Works in Progress) program at Jump-Start. He’s a very good performer, but what always amazes me is the writing he does for his monologues. He’s probably the best writer currently working in San Antonio. And, yes, I know what I’m saying. He’s even better than me.

I dropped my rent check off to my landlady. I then made a stop at my grocery store (the La Fiesta on S. Flores). The lovely young Latina working the register was new to me. I read her name tag. Disney. I really wanted to ask her how she felt about her name, but because I have little respect for the Disney industry I was afraid I might come across dickish. Actually, it could be a pretty name, were it not tainted by, well, you know, Disney.

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Around 9:45 tonight I decided to head over to URBAN-15. I was invited to their private viewing party. They were watching the Carnival events from Brazil televised on satellite TV. I’ve been to a couple of these parties before. The feed from Brazil is insane. This stuff is pure psychedelia. You need no drugs. But it’s exhausting to watch this sort of stuff. The imagery is so dense and varied that the brain, at a certain point, no longer cares to try and make sense of all this vibrantly colored madness.

And so, tonight at URBAN-15, I had a great deal of fun, for a short period of time.

Back in 2008 I was selected to attend a weekend professional development workshop for artists run by the NYC art funding organization Creative Capital. The San Antonio Office of Cultural Affairs sponsored this event, and I assume that members of that bureaucracy were involved in the vetting process. If that’s the case, thank you so much OCA! There were, I believe, 23 of us at this two day session. Twenty-three San Antonio artists. Of this group, I only personally knew two; three others I had heard of; the rest were new to me. But after the workshop, I would say that fifteen of these folks I am now connected to — I go to their shows, I advocate their work, and some of them I collaborate with. The truth is, these annual workshops have run from 2007 to 2010 (and hopefully they will continue), and my deepest artistic collaborative relationships are with these Creative Capital alumni.

Creative Capital provides funding for many artistic disciplines. They divide them into two clumps. One clump per year. So, each disciplines, like, say, film/video, is funded every other year. I missed the last funding cycle. But not this one. I cut short my lucrative gig in Dallas a day early to head home. There were some important materials I needed for my proposal which were in a hard drive I’d left back home in San Antonio. So, I hopped in my truck, and headed out of Dallas around 8:30 at night. I got home a little after one in the morning. I worked on my proposal until about 4 when I took a nap for a few hours. I got back up, made coffee, and got back to work. And, hey, don’t point and laugh. I had begun it a couple days back. But it’s deceptively comprehensive. Eventually I hammered out something …. at least. It probably sucks. But I made the deadline. I have placed my proposal into the 2011 Creative Capital hopper.

Here’s hoping the hopper smiles back. But I won’t know until sometime in June. We’ll wait and see.

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I’ve been in a fairly foul mood lately. Luckily I’m unemployed, so I can lay low and not make other people miserable.

In fact, I wrote a lengthy blog the other night railing against things which were pissing me off. I decided not to post it because, even though I didn’t mention people by name, canny San Antonians might be able to read between the lines. And it’s not those people I’m upset about. Sure, I find myself, often, interacting with people who grate on my nerves and who I have little respect for, but whose fault is that? Certainly not theirs. So, I decided that unless I have a solution, I need to stop bitching about the problem. But, damn, I get sick of hearing myself bitch.

Instead of just lashing out and shutting people out of my life who I think are even more pathetic than myself, I’ve decided to take it slow. I’ve managed this with a couple of individuals already. Just dialed down my interaction. Eventually I just stopped reading their emails and listening to their voice mails. There are maybe six other people I need to start doing this to. Now that I have a a successful non-confrontational passive-aggressive template of success, it’s time to take it to prime time.

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It was a lovely day. My iPhone promised it’d get up to 80 or so. I don’t know if it ever did. When I went out for a bike ride around one this afternoon it was about 70. I wasn’t feeling very ambitious, so I tossed my bike in my truck. On my way to Mission park I stopped at the fruteria on Roosevelt near the golf course. I picked up a fruit cup. And then I drove to the parking lot of Mission Park behind the old Mission Drive-In. I picnicked on my fruit cup. Then I suited up and rode out to Mission Espada and back. Maybe 10 miles. I stopped at a little hill between Mission Espada and the San Antonio River. I sprawled out on the grass and took a little nap in the sun. I forget, sometimes, that life can be good.

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I’ve been asked to film the window show at Jump-Start tomorrow. Jump-Start Performance Company often has free outdoor theater events during the monthly First Friday art celebration in my neighborhood. The Blue Star Art Complex is ground zero for this artsy bacchanalia. And Jump-Start, one of the most prestigious venues in Blue Star, makes its presence known by staging experimental theatrical works for free. The crowds remain outside. The action happens in a large window, or the raised loading dock of their front entrance, or the ground level, under the window … or, more often, a combination of two or more of these locations.

I have no idea how tomorrow’s show will play out. But I’ll be there. It’ll be fun. Jump-Start never disappoints. And I understand that tomorrow’s show was created by ST Shimi and Billy Munoz. And, they too, never disappoint.