Based on a dream I had some weeks (or months) ago where I was back in 1973 directing a film. but couldn't figure out what we were doing.
The Weight of Sight is a playful and very personal essay where director Truls Krane Meby, through a massive archive of his own material - anything from DV-tapes to 35mm - explores the last 20 years of digital development - how it’s influenced the images we make, and our bodies. What kind of images do we get of the world now that everyone is a photographer, and what does it do with how we unfold our identities? How has the internet both captured and freed us? And will Truls even dare to show this film?
A person desperately searches for their lost little brother during a Memorial Day festival in this one take POV thriller
A pair of scavengers discover something strange after wandering onto the property of a mysterious technician.
Number Two’ is an audio visual work which materializes the definite possibilities of sight and the existence of light in space with the drama in between image and sound as a reaction . It treats the surface of the film itself as a digital artefact that forms an image with a human intervention .It can be seen as an enlargement of a moment in time where form and space breaks inside an indefinite reality .
Onward, upward, greener [redder] grasstures.
Radical recurrences & rancorous requests raze my daze.
I really hope this is well-received. I really hope there's some sort of reprieve.
Shadows frighten what one oughtn't be gripping (that thing before/hind you).
On the Clickity-clack Express it's clear I'm always under duress, unless I forget.
Running up that [mountainous-outcropping] because there is none of this that's stopping.
Remembrances past, remind me to pass.
Setting, settling; still seething as I barely breathe.
Rather pointless, rather stilted, fetid; not what we want us going after.
Tales of old springing forth underlying dissatisfaction with current states of being.
Flitter like tittertatter trying to breathe while working, like a mad hatter; the outofbreath feeling rising from recursive reforgettings (or their resemblances).
Abandoning the Abaddon-loathed abandoner opens plenty of reclaimed... everything(s).
Say Om as you reach home only to realize you never really left/stopped saying Om.
Don't ask me why, but I feel we're about to cry trying.