In your films, the forest and the city feel like they are breathing. Do you feel that landscapes have their own souls?
Landscapes shape us, especially the ones we grew up in. In a way, they become a part of who we are.
Your camera stays still for a long time. And we also become a part of the moment you film. Are you waiting for the place to tell you a secret?
It’s simply my way of exploring the gaze, its intensity, its focus, and its direction.
In Desire Lines, you film the night. Is the night a place where we can finally be our true selves?
Night is an environment, just like day. Each gives us space to exist in a different way.
There is a lot of touch and skin in your work, but it isn’t always about sex. Is touch a way of speaking when words aren’t enough?
Words and touch are intertwined, they are both part of what it means to be with one another.
Why is it important for you to show bodies just resting or sleeping together in the grass?
I’m drawn to filming bodies in various situations, positions, and gestures, capturing them in motion as well as in stillness.
A ‘desire line’ is a path made by many feet. Do you think filmmaking is a way of finding a path that isn’t on the map?
That’s a generous and thoughtful way of describing my work. Thank you.
If your films were a color or a season, which one would they be?
I really wanted Desire Lines to be a summer film.
Your films often taste like poetry. How do you see poetry? Or do you write poetry yourself? Do you have any favorite poets?
I’ve had a strong connection to poetry. I’ve been especially drawn to Anne Carson’s work for some time now.
I want to know the names of some of your favorite artists—those who have deeply inspired you in creating your own art.
It’s difficult for me to talk about influences. I ultimately want to make films that feel entirely my own.
