No Frame Saved For Me
Language: en
My father dominated New York documentary circles, his shelves bowed under industry awards. When my sister turned sixteen, he flew her to New Mexico for a month to film Native folklore. He pinned her campfire photo holding a boom mic to his studio’s corkboard. Later, I asked him to be DP for my graduation film. Eyes glued to monitors, he scrubbed footage my sister shot. “Just use your iPhone,” he muttered. I pressed for better cinematography. He finally spun his chair. “Artistry isn’t about gear.” Yet in New Mexico, my sister had used his borrowed ARRI Alexa kit. After my screening, Mother…