My first real music video gets nominated for a Grammy

"Splash" is Ponypak's shoe-gazing treatment of lost love set in a bildungsroman about the human potential for redemption.

It's a booty video with a great house track.
The shoot was such a party at Susan Aurinko's Flatfile Gallery that it took quite a while just to ferry all the food into the kitchen. I don't want to spoil the plot (there isn't one), but let me just say I'm still trying to get the milk spots off my camera.
The white guy who carries off the girl is Mike Beck, 6'10" demolition racer and stuntman from Joliet.

My thanks to every single person at the shoot for all the good vibes.
See it here. Turn it way up.


Inglourious Basterds, great looks.


Any one of these shots would have let me die happy if I had made them:
The scene at the farmhouse table, seemingly lit by the bright sun on the table.
The back of the screen, just catching fire from the bottom.
The giant face of jewish vengeance, projected on smoke.

That first one has a technique I use a lot, either with available light or my own lights. Motivated soft glows from visible surfaces. There's a wonderful bit of it in the projection booth scene with "Mimieux" and Zoller. The arc light that leaks out of the projector reflects off her red dress and gives a red glow. When I'm shooting with motivated bright stage lighting (lots of hip hop videos lately), I let it bounce off skin or cloth onto faces. It's a lifesaver for beautiful dark skin. Likewise, in a recent shoot lit by motorcycles, the headlights bounced off clothes and onto faces.

A morning routine, September 2, 2009

4:40 am.


Sweater, cool indoors, so can’t just stay in drafty pajamas.

Corduroy pants, warm socks, turtleneck, yellow sweater for happiness.

To Spike and Samba, “No, not yet.”

Loud stretching.

Measured cup of water on to boil, clickclickclickwhooshclickclick.

Dry the cup so all the cereal will come out of it.

Big knife-halve an apple.

Small knife-sculpt out the core.

Big knife-slice two ways. Eat a little.

Peel banana. One strip peeled then fold back the bottom so the whole peel goes. A few strings. Proof that there is no god.

Drape strings onto inside of garbage bin, sticking there instead of on fingers.

Big knife-split the banana. Slice, andante. Left forefingers clean the blade.

Eat a piece.

Cinnamon and vanilla in the water.

Shake the raisin jar to loosen a handful. Into the water. Then a few more.

1/3 cup of cereal shaken into the water and stirred.

Big knife and left hand-scoop fruit into water.

Cover. Almost done.

Tea kettle filled from the tap. Count seven, that’s a cup. Friction fit lid.


Stir the fruit, stuck together with cereal.

Big cup, gold basket goes in. Northwest Breakfast tea, a rounded teaspoon, but not the most you can fit on the spoon.

“No, not yet.” Petting. “Let’s have some scratching.” Arching up to be scratched.

Choose the yogurt container by heft. Check the yogurt. What’s that? Look close. Okay, I guess, it’s still food.

Fifteen crunches on the kitchen floor. Thirty pushups to a verse and chorus of ‘Simple Gifts.’

Noisy stretching, every important joint sounding.

Kettle almost boiling. Bubbles forming on the bottom, but collapsing with a little sound as they reach the colder water above.

The little sound stops.

Pour it into the gold basket, tea floating up. Twirl basket and lift it a little to wet everything.

Cereal pan on folded towel to protect great-granddad’s handmade table.

Big spoon. Big dollops of yogurt.

“No, not yet.

Read. Eat. Something in the stomach before the tea.

Pull the gold basket, bang it five times in the garbage, like the beginning of The Who song.

Sip. Not yet.

“No, not yet.”

Read, eat, scratch, sip.