When I was a student, I worked at a local arthouse cinema in Antwerp. Initially, I sold entry tickets and ushered viewers to one of the cozy screening rooms. Later, I tried my luck as a film projectionist. We had showings at 6, 8, 10 PM, and midnight screenings on weekends for film buffs, lovers, and lost souls who wandered in. Films ran simultaneously in three screening rooms, and I loved being enveloped by the mingling dialogues and music of the different movies in the projection booth.
After playing Kubrick’s "Lolita" for a few weeks, the fragile 35mm black-and-white celluloid started breaking almost every showing. Fortunately, we were always quick to intercept the broken film and wind it up on a spool to ensure the screening could proceed. Eventually, some scenes became so damaged that we had to cut them out entirely. With every new screening, "Lolita" became a bit shorter.
One night, while paying close attention to the projection of a film in one of the other screening rooms, I failed to notice that "Lolita" had broken again after being pulled past the projector’s lens at twenty-five frames a second. The celluloid was piling up on the floor, and I was obliged to stop the film before the end. Since resuming the projection was impossible, I faced the annoyed audience in the theater, explained the situation, and offered them free tickets as compensation. When someone inquired about the ending, I narrated the final fifteen minutes of "Lolita," complete with a clumsy Peter Sellers impression and pretending to dodge bullets, all while my shadow played on the white screen behind me.
A prelude to filmmaking and photography, they became my gateways to exploring the vast landscape of human experience and imagination.
This journey brought me to San Francisco, where I now reside with my family. I am represented by Caviar.
