SFFILM Exclusive

Guest Post: SFFILM Westridge Grantee Kobi Libii on Making Art During a Pandemic

NON-ESSENTIAL WORK
by Kobi Libii

Guest Post: SFFILM Westridge Grantee Kobi Libii on Making Art During a Pandemic

NON-ESSENTIAL WORK
by Kobi Libii

I’d just gotten back from the store — one of those formerly mundane runs to the grocery store that now has strong Mad Max vibes — and I was sitting on my kitchen floor, crying.

I was surrounded by rolls of toilet paper.

Good news: the store had toilet paper for the first time in six weeks. And none of this doled-out-by-the-single-roll bullshit—a proper 18-pack. Bad news: I was curled up on my linoleum with it, a month into quarantine, not exactly bawling, but whatever you call it when sadness floods out of your body in waves.

I was also listening to a song on my headphones: Only Children by Jason Isbell.

Driving home, I had had a little swagger in my steer. All of my work and prospective work has ground to a halt, so my job for the last couple weeks has been Chief Forager, while my wife has worked remotely, turning the living room into a command center. And toilet paper has been my white whale. Apart from two, piddling rolls from Trader Joe’s a couple weeks ago, I had found none and was starting to take it personally. After all, I’m me. I clawed my way from non-equity open calls to a consistent living as a TV actor. I transitioned to writing and directing and got a feature financed that, before all this, was poised to shoot this summer. I’ve hustled and scraped and made a living as an artist for over a decade now: I should be able to scrounge for something to wipe my family’s ass, supply lines be damned. So, TP in my trunk like a ten point buck, I turned up a playlist of new songs on the ride home.

But I got stuck on one this one Jason Isbell track. Something about it was speaking at me, so on the whole ride home, I just kept hitting repeat, even transferring it to my headphones as I carried the groceries inside.

I only paused it when I stepped into the kitchen and dropped the toilet paper at my wife’s feet as she paced the room on a work call. There was a vague “tada!” in the way I presented the paper to her, like a cat dragging a dead bird to their owner’s feet. My wife, a deeply patient woman but our sole breadwinner right now, glanced up from the call and gave me the same kind-but-patronizing look the owner would give the cat: “It’s a sweet gesture, just not as grand as you think.”

It should be said that I’ll have no work for the foreseeable future. Nothing I have ever done to make money as an adult is possible right now. None of the side hustles. None of the hard-won hustle hustles. Yes, I’m working on longer term writing projects. Yes, I’m pestering my producers for updates on when we, or anyone, can safely shoot again. But mostly, these days consist of toilet paper runs, half-hearted calisthenics and hoping my wife doesn’t get fired.

This is all to explain why, after my wife wandered into the next room to finish her call, I curled up on the kitchen floor in a puddle of bathroom tissue, put my new favorite song on repeat and cried.

It was a good cry. A healthy cry. A stress-leaving-your-body cry. An I-didn’t-know-I-needed-a-cry cry.

It should also be said that the song slaps. It’s an uptempo ballad about love, loss and the childish audacity of young artists.

It’s also exactly how I feel about making art during a pandemic.

The song is wonderfully ambivalent about what artists do. It drips with nostalgia about the speaker’s early days living “hand-to-mouth” and “bet[ting] it all on a demo tape.” It has great affection for that time — those heady, early days — and great sadness that those years, and some of the people you shared them with, are gone. After all, there are few things as sublime as crafting something you love.

But the song is also skeptical of those young artists, repeatedly describing them as “overindulgent only children.” Too young and high and inspired to understand how short life is and how little their ambition or fights about Dylan really mattered. The implication is clear: there’s something deeply selfish about the choice to make art.

It feels that way right now.

One of the many half-baked ideas that gets passed off as wisdom in artistic communities is the notion that you should only be an artist if you “can’t imagine doing anything else.” The thought goes that the rigors of artistry are so extreme, the career path so exacting that only the pathologically committed could possibly survive. This idea is insane to me. Who are these raging narcissists who, despite having world class imaginations, can’t conceive of other ways to contribute to the world? Teach. Volunteer. Build a Habitat-for-Humanity house, you fucking monsters. And in these times? Who, upon hearing horror stories from ICUs and unemployment lines, could possibly believe that our poetry is a better contribution to the world than what nurses, grocery store clerks, and other essential workers are doing right now? Yes, it’s nice to have Netflix in quarantine, but it’s nicer to have food and N-95 masks. And before you point to the great art in periods of great strife, go rewatch that tone-deaf Imagine cover and see how confident you feel that we, as a population, are the healers society needs right now.

I am not an essential worker. Not in this pandemic. Not even in my own family. For god’s sake, we could wipe with Kleenex if need be.

The hard truth is, pandemic or no, it’s always an indulgent choice to make art. There are always domestic pressures that make a career in the arts “impractical.” There are always global injustices that demand our full-time attention as activists, not dreamers. So in a moment when these realities are undeniable, how can I go back to my desk and write a screenplay? How can I even stand up off the kitchen floor?

Yet, there I sat, surrounded by toilet paper, listening to a song that was, by definition, non-essential. It was wise and full-hearted. It made me feel better.

It wasn’t until the song finished that I could stand up.

Kobi Libii is an actor, writer, and director, most recently seen writing and performing on Comedy Central’s The Opposition with Jordan Klepper and Klepper. Past acting credits include Transparent, Girls, Jessica Jones, Madam Secretary, Doubt and Alpha House, and the upcoming feature We Broke Up. Kobi studied theater at Yale University and comedy at Second City Chicago. As a writer/director, his feature debut The American Society of Magical Negroes has been supported by the Sundance Screenwriter’s Lab, Sundance Director’s Lab, and SFFILM Westridge Grant, and will be produced by Sight Unseen (Bad Education, Monsters and Men).

For more information about SFFILM’s artist development programs, visit sffilm.org/makers.

Nellie Wong Magic of Movies Education Fund Essay Contest

The winners of the Nellie Wong Magic of Movies Education Fund Essay Contest are in! Read the Winning Submissions below

Originally scheduled to screen in the Family Films shorts program at the 2020 SFFILM Festival, Camrus Johnson’s animated short film Grab My Hand: A Letter to My Dad was shown online as part of SFFILM at Home on April 23. Johnson charmed the virtual audience with an engaging Q&A that explored the creative process, directed toward youth storytellers.

Following the event, SFFILM Education and the Nellie Wong Magic of Movies Education Fund invited elementary, middle, and high school attendees to participate in an essay contest inspired by the online discussion. Students were asked to respond to the following writing prompts:

1. How did Grab My Hand: A Letter to My Dad and online Q&A with Camrus Johnson make you feel?
2. How do you feel in general right now?
3. During this difficult time, how are you staying connected to the people you love?
4. Are you staying creative while sheltering in place?

The SFFILM Education team and director Camrus Johnson reviewed all of the submissions, and we’re excited to present the winning essays.

Winner: Daphne Neel (Franklin High School)

TURNING AROUND
Nobody ever realizes what they have until it’s too late. We assume that everything and everyone is going to be “ok” because we don’t want to believe that they’re not. We can stay close to people even if we don’t talk. We can believe in something, even if we can’t see it. We’re capable of all these things, all these thoughts, and yet we don’t like to accept what’s there. Everybody gets scared. Everybody tries to ignore the signs, even when they’re right in front of you.

In watching Camrus’ film, I realized that not everything is going to turn out like you thought, and not all heroes last forever. Expressing your feelings is hard. You want to ignore them, and you want to act like everything is ok, because we don’t like facing the truth. The truth is so strong, so powerful, it keeps a hold on us. It weighs us down because we allow it to. Why? Because of fear? Because we thought that if we could ignore just long enough, that would make it a dream? It’s not a dream anymore; it’s a nightmare. A nightmare that we want to escape, a reality we don’t want to face, but everything catches up to us.

No matter how long we run, we will never escape what we don’t want to see: the truth. We’re not ok. We’re not. But what’s so wrong about admitting it? You aren’t weak; in fact, you’re strong enough to realize that no, things aren’t perfect. Nothing is going to play out the way you wanted it to, and you don’t know how long the things you have are going to last.

Instead of being scared, instead of running away, turn around. Turn around and face what is going to catch up to you, because facing it yourself will only make you fall, while running away will pull you down. Everybody trips over their shoelaces, but you need to decide whether you’re going to tie them before you get back up. Anyone and everyone can decide to be a hero, but your heroes aren’t there to solve your problems, they’re there to support you and to encourage you to get back up. They can help you fight off the battles, but they won’t fight your war. You might need your heroes, but your heroes need you too. So, are you going to run again? Or are you going to let the truth drag you down before you decide enough is enough?

Runner-up: Thalia White (Live Oak School)

ART TO SPREAD A MESSAGE
When I saw the short film Grab My Hand: A Letter to My Dad by Camrus Johnson, it really impacted me. The film was beautiful in a way that would make anyone watching feel deeply connected to Camrus and his story. As I watched and later heard Camrus talk about the film, it became clear he created this art to help his father and the people in similar situations feel heard and understood. The idea of creating art to help people through their pain is astonishing, and Camrus shows it through this beautiful film. But the reason this message is so meaningful to me is because of how much it connects to me personally.

Now, let’s go back to the summer of 2019.

Near the end of August, I was talking to my mom, and she told me about something that would change my life: The Butterfly Effect. The Butterfly Effect was a change-making group of kids around my age in the Bay Area — their mission: to change the world for the better. Their main goal — to free the children at detention centers on the border. And their project? To create forty-two thousand paper butterflies to represent each of the 42,000 children that were separated from their families at the borders. They chose butterflies because, as we say, “butterflies teach us that migration is beautiful.” They hoped to use these butterflies to create massive displays of stunning artwork that would hang in public buildings to spread awareness for the cause.

When I learned about this organization, I knew that I had to join their impactful cause and be a part of their vision. I had felt a lot of pain and fear when I learned about the detention centers at the border, and I wanted to turn that fear into hope. I immediately reached out to their leaders to ask if I could help collect and display butterflies. They agreed, and by the next week, my friends and I had started helping lead the effort in SF, and began collecting butterflies at our school. We worked with our library to host events and talk at school assemblies. In less than a month, the four girls and I had collected and strung two thousand paper butterflies and shipped them to the team in Oakland. The Butterfly Effect project was becoming a lot more known around the world, and we were so glad we could do our part. Then, in January, The Butterfly Effect got a display of fifteen thousand butterflies in the Rotunda of one of the Senate buildings in DC, And at the center of the display was my two thousand butterflies, distinctively arranged in a vibrant rainbow of color. Along with that, we would be going to DC to personally deliver butterflies to US Senators and to talk to key government officials such as House Speaker Nancy Pelosi. I remember walking through the halls of all those important buildings, feeling like I had a real voice. The most inspiring thing I was ever told was when a Congresswoman Jackie Speier from California told me “To others, we seem like very important people, but really, we work for the whole country. The people of the country are the real bosses.” That influenced me to realize that I could and was making a change in the world.

Even now, we continue to work hard on spreading our message to the world, meeting weekly over zoom even while in quarantine, including making two PSA’s that have been seen and heard by a total of 6 million people. The Butterfly Effect group started as one girl who wanted to make a difference. But kids around the world have come together to make a big change through one artistic vision.

Just like Camrus did in his film, I found making art to help people to be a wonderful and powerful experience that helped bring people together during their most challenging times. I learned a lot about myself and the world, and that one small intention from the heart can make a big difference.

Stay In Touch With SFFILM

SFFILM is a nonprofit organization whose mission ensures independent voices in film are welcomed, heard, and given the resources to thrive. SFFILM works hard to bring the most exciting films and filmmakers to Bay Area movie lovers. To be the first to know what’s coming, sign up for our email alerts and watch your inbox.

SFFILM’s Youth Filmmakers Camp 2020

Students and Instructors Reflect on Remote Learning and the Importance of Film Education

Reflections on Teaching the Art & Craft of Film During a Pandemic
by Maddy Leonard with support from Davia Schendel, Rachel Gamson, and Jeanette Paak

When I found out that SFFILM was not going to have Youth Filmmakers Camp in person in July of 2020, I knew I still wanted to find a way to serve the young artists in our community in a fun and innovative way. Since teens were going to be forced to spend their summer in isolation, I proposed that we redesign camp to build an online resource and community support system for young filmmakers to gather, learn, grow, and develop stories they care about.

These are the goals I had going into camp:

Create meaningful relationships that students can draw from in the future — account for one-on-one time with teachers, so that students feel supported and have the opportunity to build a mentor/mentee relationship with their teachers.
Develop students’ independent filmmaking skills, so that they can emerge from camp as more self-sufficient filmmakers.
Train skills for online media creation that will help students be creative and innovative filmmakers and use the resources they have at their disposal to create art and film.
Finish camp having created several small but polished projects that students can add to their portfolios.
Provide the opportunity for students to learn from a diverse group of filmmakers.
Create safe spaces where students can ask questions and discover what working in the film industry feels like.
Introduce students to online and free resources that can be used to experiment with film outside of camp.

With these goals in mind, I began outlining a two-and-a-half-week-long schedule for campers that consisted of Zoom lectures, pre-recorded lessons, Zoom “check-ins, workshops, film screenings, guest presentations, and student activities. I understood that students had been forced to have classes on Zoom since the beginning of the pandemic, and they were probably suffering from Zoom fatigue, so my co-teacher Davia Schendel and I designed a daily curriculum that was diverse in terms of platform. Campers would spend a few hours a day doing solo work, and a few hours a day on Zoom in either large or small groups.

Campers were divided into two groups: beginner and advanced campers. The beginner campers started a few days earlier than the advanced ones, so that they could get oriented in the world of filmmaking by learning some basic terminology and film history. Once the advanced campers started their session, the students spent most of their time collaborating as one large group. Campers were engaged daily in Zoom lectures and supplementary activities on topics around film production, theory, and history, media literacy, and the social and cultural impacts of film. Outside of that work students were doing with their instructors, they also had the opportunity to speak with some pretty incredible guest speakers.

We had the pleasure of having Jonas Rivera, a producer from Pixar who produced Up, Inside Out, and Toy Story 4, as our first guest lecturer. Jonas shared his journey working for Pixar and the behind the scenes making of these beloved films. Jonas’s extensive art knowledge proved to be valuable during the story development process at Pixar, and campers learned much from him about how different aspect of the creative process intersect. He reassured the campers that they could always be part of the filmmaking creative process no matter the level of their technical skills by advising that “understanding art is equal to being an artist.”

Daniel Freeman was our second guest lecturer at camp. Daniel is a SFFILM FilmHouse resident who is currently working on a feature-length narrative film called Teddy Out of Tune. The campers loved chatting with Daniel about his process. He stressed how important it is for filmmaking to be accessible to everyone, and gave the campers excellent advice about how to get started on films with a minimal budget.

We were extremely lucky to have another FilmHouse resident come speak at camp. Reaa Puri, a cinematographer, director, editor, and founder of Breaktide Productions, brought her two other co-founders to camp to speak about their filmmaking careers. Breaktide is a production company that is owned and operated by women of color, and they work to democratize filmmaking while elevating underrepresented voices behind the scenes and in front of the camera. Gabby, an advanced camper, told me her favorite activity at camp was the guest speakers, because “they really offered insight into what it’s like to make films as a career.” She added, “my favorite lecture was from Breaktide Productions, because as a girl it was so inspiring to hear from an all-female team. I learned that film is a process, and about all the steps that are generally taken before and during the movie-making process.”

Anaiis Cisco, a filmmaker from Brooklyn and an Assistant Professor of Moving Image Production at Smith College, spoke with the campers about halfway through camp. At the beginning of her scheduled hour, she took the time to learn every student’s name and hear about their filmmaking interests. This activity not only helped Anaiis get to know the campers, but it also helped the campers get to know each other a little better outside of the normal camp day proceedings. Many of them described how they developed new interests during camp and were excited to dive deeper into these aspects of filmmaking.

The day after Anaiis’s lecture, Andy Jimenez of Pixar Animation Studios spoke with the campers about his collaborations on several films, such as One Man Band and The Incredibles. Incorporating his pre-production documents and animatics for both live action and animation, Andy shared an incredible wealth of materials that the campers were truly fascinated by. Sharing with campers that the road of an creative artist can be winding, Andy reassured them that everything one does in life will become part of their art practice in surprising and very useful ways.

Alice Wu, director of Netflix’s The Half of It, joined us for a very special guest lecture towards the end of camp. She shared some background information about how The Half of It came to be, but focused a lot of her time connecting on a personal level with the campers. She was very honest and vulnerable about the lessons she’s learned throughout her career. She reflected on her experience with us by saying “I really loved getting a chance to chat with the young filmmakers at SFFILM. The way they think about storytelling, about their lives, is so fresh and sophisticated — so much more sophisticated than I was at their age — and I say with pleasure that these kids are almost certainly coming for our jobs! And it’ll be a good thing.”

The last filmmakers to join us as guest lecturers were Anne Flatté and Marlon Johnson. This director/producer duo spoke to the campers about their newest film River City Drumbeat, a documentary about music, love, and legacies set in the American South. They also facilitated a lengthy discussion with campers about the ethics of documentary filmmaking and sparked the curiosity of these young filmmakers.

Our last presenter was SFFILM’s very own Rosa Morales, who works as part of the SFFILM Makers team. Rosa had a wonderful conversation with campers about how to market yourself as an artist and filmmaker, and helped them understand how they can stay involved with SFFILM in the future if they are ever in need of support or funding.

Among my favorite parts of camp were the moments when the campers, other instructors, and I had radically honest conversations about how film and media play into this moment in US history. I was so impressed by the introspective comments students shared about representation in the media they consume, and how they want to make the film industry a more just industry to work in. Here are just a few examples of the insights campers shared while Davia was lecturing about diversity, representation, and allegory:

“There’s a big shift happening in representation in media — we’re not all the way there yet, but let’s not disregard our accomplishments.” — Rose

“She-ra in the new She-Ra and the Princesses of Power was the first lesbian kiss I had ever seen, and the first gay main character. As someone who was obsessed with 80s She-ra as a kid… I was again inspired by her in the new one as a lesbian main character. It really helped me come out to my family.” — Shayla

“The show Sex Education on Netflix… represented women so well and in an accurate way. They represent them with goals other than chasing boys or dating which I thought was important. I really appreciated women being seen as powerful without having to actually be tough.” — Gabby

Here are some other very insightful reflections students had when we were discussing why it’s important to learn the history of race in film:

“I thought that the evolution of black representation in film was interesting… I found that it was important to have diversity in the film industry because it inspires younger girls and people of color and gives role models to them.” — Ella

“I think that diversity in film is extremely important. As children we are very impressionable, and seeing ourselves on screen makes us realize that we can do anything. When movies are more diverse, they are relatable to a broader group of people. It is also important to portray different groups of people in diverse roles so that they aren’t just playing the same types of roles every time. I think that studying film is important, because it is a big part of our society today.” — Grace

“We need to study film to learn about our past just as we study history in schools. It is extremely important to make sure you understand the mistakes of the past so as a nation and society we do not repeat them. But like any part of history we must be careful and think about who is the one creating the film and what biases they might have. In the early years of film, there was not much diversity in the cast and crew, now as we are entering a new era of digital film we are realizing the importance of having diversity in organizations such as Hollywood to inspire different types of people across many generations.” — Lathrop

Over the course of camp, I was really impressed by the vulnerability these teens were willing to share with each other. They really connected as a group, and made plans to stay in touch after camp to support each other’s art. These campers didn’t just learn how to make films but they learned how to support other filmmakers. It was really special to be able to see the constant encouragement they had for each other’s projects, and the friendships that they formed.

Maddy Leonard (she/her) is a filmmaker, artist, and the former Education Program Coordinator at SFFILM. She is a creative educator who has spent half a decade teaching youth about film and media literacy, and mentoring youth as they produce their own films. She has a degree in Cinema and Women and Gender Studies from San Francisco State University, and has a passion for learning from and creating socially aware documentaries and experimental films.

Stay In Touch With SFFILM

Guest Post: Novelist-Turned-Filmmaker Natalie Baszile on Her SFFILM Djerassi Fellowship Experience

June: Good News
It’s mid-June at Chicago O’Hare, and I’m standing at the edge of Terminal C food court, debating whether a quick bite at…

Guest Post: Novelist-Turned-Filmmaker Natalie Baszile on Her SFFILM Djerassi Fellowship Experience

June: Good News
It’s mid-June at Chicago O’Hare, and I’m standing at the edge of Terminal C food court, debating whether a quick bite at Billy Goat Tavern or Manchu Wok is less likely to kill me, when I check my phone and see a new email from the folks at SFFILM. The email says they’re offering me a month-long residency at Djerassi Resident Arts Program. They want to know if I’m interested and available. I’ve been to artists residencies a small handful of times although it’s been many years. I’ve been so busy trying to get my new novel on its feet and write the accompanying screenplay that I haven’t applied for any, not wanting to pester friends for recommendations. I keep telling myself I’ll get around to it “next year,” but “next year” never seems to come. Still, I know they are magical spaces where time slows and the world falls away. I know how glorious it feels to step away from the daily grind and completely lose one’s self in one’s work. I know that even two weeks at a residency can be as productive as three months at home.

It takes me approximately 5 seconds to respond to the invitation. “I’m In!” I write back.

August: Breaking Away
It’s one thing to accept a 30-day residency; it’s another thing to prepare for it. There are bills to pay, dogs to board, laundry to do, plants to water. Normally, there’d be a husband to console, but he packed his bags two weeks ago and relocated to Los Angeles. He’s a lawyer and has a big trial that’s demanding every ounce of his time and attention. THANK GOD. Otherwise, I’d have to watch him mope and listen to him sigh dramatically about spending a month by himself. “Man up!” I fantasize about saying. “You don’t hear me complaining when you travel for your job.” It’s an old response to an old dynamic; one that arose years ago when I was struggling to write while taking care of kids and pets and managing the challenges that come along with having creative life and a family. But those days are long gone. Our daughters are young adults with lives of their own. It’s just the two of us. We’re Empty Nesters. And the truth is, he’s happy for me, excited for this new phase I have pivoted into as a novelist-turned-filmmaker. So, I give myself a little pep talk. “Come on, Baszile. Be fair.” Then I head down to the garage where I’ve set aside one of the super-sturdy cardboard boxes from Sunbasket, the meal delivery service we subscribe to now that we don’t have to cook for kids. I drag it up to my office and for the next two weeks toss in every novel, craft book and film script I think will inspire me, along with all the notecards, notepads, and Post-Its on which I’ve scribbled notes for my story. I shove in the three-ring binder that houses my novel draft and the folder where I keep the different versions of my script. A bundle of Ticonderoga #2 Pencils. A ream of paper just in case I need to print pages. Extra pens. A fresh pack of highlighters. Poetry books. A hole punch and paperclips. Everything I can think goes into my box. If I were stranded on a desert island, I could keep myself occupied — no problem — until the rescue party arrived. By the time I finish packing everything I think I might need, I can’t lift the box.

September
In the past, I’ve always flown to the residencies I’ve attended, but now, for the first time, I can drive. Djerassi is a little over an hour south of Oakland; 50 minutes if I time the traffic just right. My Toyota Prius is packed with everything I think I might need and then some. In addition to my box of work stuff, I’ve stocked up on gummy bears, potato chips, those sinfully delicious baked Cheeto-type-things from Trader Joes. I never eat this stuff at home (well, not too often, and certainly not in these quantities) but I’ve never been away for a month and Dejerassi is located on a sprawling 600-acre ranch in the middle of nowhere. Who knows when I’ll next see civilization. I’ve packed my special tea and my favorite ceramic mug with the thick handle, along with two containers of whipped honey. I don’t have a lot of writing rituals, but a morning cup of tea is essential. I cram everything into my car, double-check the front door, and set off by 11:00 am. For the last three months I have dreamed about this day, wondered how I’d get everything done so I could step away, but now I seem to have done it.

Yield To Whim
That’s what the sign on the Djerassi Property reads as I pull through the big iron gates and make my way down along the winding road to the barn. I’ve actually seen that sign once before — 10 years ago when I visited a friend who had a residency here. She invited me down for dinner and we spent the late afternoon hiking around the property — past the enormous nest made of fallen branches and across the babbling stream that cut through the redwood grove. She showed me the watercolors she painted on the private deck outside her room and introduced me to a French dancer whose tumble of blond curls and child-like figure made me think of pixies and wood nymphs. After dinner he handed out hand-drawn maps and invited everyone to his performance, which he held in a cave somewhere on the property. Gripping our flashlights in one hand and each other’s elbows with the other, we stumbled through the dark until we found the cave entrance then inched our way through the tunnel until we reached the den where he lay naked except for a baby-blue blanket. We all huddled around shivering as he recited poetry. It might sound crazy, but it was a magical.

Now, as I pull up to the barn, I think about that night, that dancer. I can already feel myself relaxing.

But it’s when I get to my Middlebrook studio that the real magic happens. The moment I open the door and step into my room overlooking the wide meadow and the ocean beyond, I know I’ve made the right decision in coming here. There is nothing to hear but the wind in the grass and the occasional screech of a hawk overhead. The quiet is ABSOLUTE and for the first time in so long I can’t remember, I can actually hear myself think. The silence is revelation — a reminder of how noisy my life is with constant drone of BART trains and the low din of traffic, the text notifications and the occasional sing-song of my neighbors’ voices. The news. The News. THE NEWS! No wonder I haven’t been able to dream my way into my story that way I need to. No wonder I haven’t been able to hear what my characters have to say. No wonder that for months I’ve felt like I had cotton in my ears and a layer of cement spread over the top of my brain. No wonder.

Kabuki Dancers, Playwrights, Painters, Poets & Mountain Lions
Just as I suspected, my fellow residents are a fascinating bunch. They hail from states as far as Vermont and Main, and countries as far as Australia and Argentina. They are visual artists and playwrights, memoirists and Kabuki dancers. There’s a young composer who sings like an angel, a woman who paints by shooting ink through tanks of water, and another who fashions rope from items she finds in the natural world. On our first group hike, we all show up with our sunhats, water bottles filled, and our long pants tucked into our socks.

We are a gentle group, curious about each others’ work and various life’s journeys. Over the next 30 days we will laugh together and cook together, listen to presentations on each others’ work and engage in deep conversation about music and the power of dance and poetry. We will reveal our vulnerabilities and insecurities. Drink too much wine and kombucha and eat too many avocados and chocolate chip cookies. We will bond over many things, most of all a shared preoccupation with mountain lions which we’ve been told roam the property. At dinner every evening, we talk about what we might do it we were to encounter one on the trail. We keep an eye out for their scat. We listen for their cries in the night. And when one resident celebrates her birthday, we toast her with a homemade mountain lion-themed card and a toy someone bought on their trip to town.

October: Souvenirs
How do you sum up 30 days of uninterrupted creativity? What price to do put on 30 days of peace and quiet? How do you measure the gift of time and space? I don’t know.

What I do know is that as I packed up my studio and returned everything I’d brought with me to my cardboard box, I promised to take a bit of Djerassi home with me. I vowed to remember the stunning quiet and the view of the rolling hills unfurling all around. I promised to remember friends I’d made and the conversations I’d had. The redwood groves and the sunsets.

December: Reflections
I’ve been home for exactly two months and I am happy to report I’m still able to slip back into that space. The difference my Djerassi residency made has been profound.

So, thank you to SFFILM for the generous gift of time, space and quiet. I had no idea I needed it as much as I did.

For more information about SFFILM’s artist development programs, visit sffilm.org/makers.

Guest Post: ‘Hair Love’ Filmmaker Matthew Cherry Spends Time with SFFILM Education

In late October, SFFILM Education brought the creators of the Sony Pictures Animation short film, Hair Love to San Francisco. We hosted…

Hair Love, a short film by Matthew A. Cherry

Guest Post: ‘Hair Love’ Filmmaker Matthew Cherry Spends Time with SFFILM Education

In late October, SFFILM Education brought the creators of the Sony Pictures Animation short film, Hair Love to San Francisco. We hosted school visits, special screenings, and an animation workshop giving Bay Area students, teachers, children, families, and animation enthusiasts the opportunity to engage with the film’s director Matthew A. Cherry and its executive producer Frank Abney III. Matthew and Frank were able to speak about the inspiration behind the story and elaborate on the film’s themes of family and diversity.

Our Education Coordinator Maddy Leonard and Education Intern Hannah Wheeler wrote this wonderful recap of the multi-day events.

We kicked off our Hair Love events with a screening at Alamo Drafthouse. The audience had the chance to view the short film, and then engage with a special “Behind the Making of Hair Love” presentation. Matthew and Frank shared insights into their filmmaking process and showed examples of animation and character development. At the end of the presentation, Frank lead a “draw along”, and the audience was encouraged to follow along as he drew the main character Zuri.

Frank Abney III and Matthew A. Cherry at SFFILM FilmHouse

Later that afternoon, SFFILM Education and the Hair Love team brought the short film to SFFILM’s Filmhouse for a workshop. Close to 30 young participants screened the short then watched a presentation that highlighted the way the story, characters, and overall aesthetic of the film evolved throughout the filmmaking process. After the presentation, the participants engaged in a Q&A session with the creators, sparking their curiosity by allowing them to individually engage with the industry professionals.

The event concluded with a hands-on activity in which participants were guided through the process of creating the main character Zuri. They were then encouraged to take the activity a step further by creating their own characters. After learning how Matthew created Hair Love out of a lack of representation of different identities in animation, the participants were inspired to come up with a character of their own that represented either themselves or someone in their community that they would like to see up on the big screen!

The following Monday afternoon, SFFILM Education hosted about 275 students from multiple Bay Area Schools at SFMOMA for another special Hair Love presentation. The students were incredibly engaged throughout the presentation and had many questions for Matthew during the Q&A. The event concluded with a meet and greet, allowing one-on-one interactions between Matthew and the students and teachers!

Finally, SFFILM Education brought Hair Love to three separate San Francisco classrooms. We visited 4th and 5th graders at Sanchez Elementary, high school youth at Woodside Juvenile Learning Center, and a class of after-school elementary and middle school youth at San Francisco Community School. Matthew presented the film to the students, gave its back story, and answered all of their questions. The students at every school reacted to the film extremely positively and were able to connect with its themes. Multiple students expressed how the film related to their relationships with their parents or to challenges they have faced in their own life. Some young animation fans, loved the more technical aspects of the presentation, and were inspired by Matthew to continue working towards their goals of becoming animators themselves one day!