Last year I decided to sort through some of the boxes of memorabilia and paperwork I’ve gathered over the years. Every time I do this I come across things I no longer recognize or remember or care about, versions of myself that seem less familiar as time passes. And so much unfinished work. Hundreds upon hundreds of stories, essays, books, paintings and sketches, half-fleshed ideas. What is the meaning of all of this looking and recording? What to do with it all? When I was in my twenties and painting, I had a moment of panic thinking of all the pieces I would make just to learn how to be an artist. Where would I put all the canvases and objects? Where would I store all the materials? Writing seemed so much more manageable—and compact. I had no idea.
I’m old enough to have boxes of negatives, VHS tapes, Zip drives I can no longer open, a small collection of fragile cassette tapes of family interviews recorded by my father in the 70s and 80s that still haven’t been digitized. I threw out piles of paperwork this time around, and then, facing thirty-some years worth of handwritten journals, I closed the remaining boxes and stuck everything back in the closet. But not before removing two unprocessed Super 8 film cartridges from the 90s.
Over the summer I sent the rolls out to two processing centers that specialize in vintage film. One of the films was so rare that they had to outsource it. This took many more months, so long that I was certain the roll was unsalvageable. When that second clip arrived last month I was shocked by the footage — my move from Minneapolis to Seattle in 1996. I don’t remember shooting it at all. A three-day roadtrip across the country in a rented car with a cat and a writing table in the backseat.
The film is obviously damaged. I love how it’s aged—the graininess and the flickering scratches, the blurred edges of landscapes. I shot both rolls with my friend Christina, who I met in Madison when we were both students at the UW. Christina was a bass player in a grunge band called Power Wagon. We worked at rival Italian restaurants, and we both studied German and wanted to travel. She intimidated me a little—with her wild red hair and her piercing stare. Our first real exchange happened while I was working at Gino’s and Christina came flying into the restaurant to tell me that our delivery truck was rolling down State Street—sans driver. The next time I talked to her was on a sweltering bus ride in the Black Forest for the start of our junior year abroad when I threw up in her open handbag.
Super 8 was already outdated when we took that road trip a few years after college. The camera had passed from me to my youngest brother, and then back to me after my brother died in a tragic accident the summer before. I remember taking the camera out to shows and filming friends at the park, screwing around. I have no idea what happened to those films. These are the only two that remain. I texted Christina to share this second clip. Wow, oh, wow, we said. And I said, “We look so happy. I remember that trip being so sad.” And Christina said, “I remember how sad you were too.” Grief. I see that too, in those long pans of the Badlands, in the image of me waving to Christina as I look back at her. I am trying. I don’t know if I am moving forward or running away. I only know I have to leave.
Still 2: Heading into Washington
These clips are rough and amateur and damaged by time. But I love the blurry shots of the roadtrip west. My favorite might be of Christina looking into the camera, braiding just one side of her hair. She is unselfconscious, fully in her body. I wish I had shot a complete film with her at the center. Then there’s the grainy image of the Stardust Hotel. We dreamed up an entire film we would make there. And my skinny arms flailing as I dance in my first Seattle apartment, The Laredo, with the Space Needle in the background. It will be months before I can afford a bed. Looking at those images I see how out of my own body I was then. I kept dancing to keep myself from floating away.
Still 3: Badlands at Dusk
West to Seattle, 1996
Seattle, 1996.