Carolina Moscoso Briceno

Eight years after having been raped at a beach near Santiago, a young filmmaker tells the story of the assault, the revictimizing judicial processes, and the friendship that helps her heal, in dozens of video-diary entries that comprise an artfully crafted, intimate documentary. A question remains: What is a rape, really, and when does it end?

The first light becomes the raw material of an introspective diary. Through ten sequence shots conceived for the album and directed by Carolina Moscoso, the work builds a single audiovisual current in which music, image, and logbook intertwine. It is not a documentary in the traditional sense, but a continuous flow that brings together the everyday and the imaginative, revealing the most intimate dimension of an artist’s creative universe and the shared attempt with cinema to touch the everyday life of creation.

My uncle gave me his film archives. When I watched them, I realized that he had a comprehensive video diary, that he is a lover of images, and that he recorded everything as if he had been mandated by a public administrator to create memories. I see myself surrounded by them in his archives. They are my uncles, cousins and grandfathers – all policemen. My childhood with my family was surrounded by the PDI, Chile’s investigative police. Guns, badges, uniforms, gunshots. Almost all the men in my family are policemen. I look at my uncle’s images, at these ordinary men, even though I don’t know what that means. The story, the archives, the future, the violence and the police. Men and police as an inescapable relationship to think about.

Eight years after having been raped at a beach near Santiago, a young filmmaker tells the story of the assault, the revictimizing judicial processes, and the friendship that helps her heal, in dozens of video-diary entries that comprise an artfully crafted, intimate documentary. A question remains: What is a rape, really, and when does it end?

Eight years after having been raped at a beach near Santiago, a young filmmaker tells the story of the assault, the revictimizing judicial processes, and the friendship that helps her heal, in dozens of video-diary entries that comprise an artfully crafted, intimate documentary. A question remains: What is a rape, really, and when does it end?

The first light becomes the raw material of an introspective diary. Through ten sequence shots conceived for the album and directed by Carolina Moscoso, the work builds a single audiovisual current in which music, image, and logbook intertwine. It is not a documentary in the traditional sense, but a continuous flow that brings together the everyday and the imaginative, revealing the most intimate dimension of an artist’s creative universe and the shared attempt with cinema to touch the everyday life of creation.

My uncle gave me his film archives. When I watched them, I realized that he had a comprehensive video diary, that he is a lover of images, and that he recorded everything as if he had been mandated by a public administrator to create memories. I see myself surrounded by them in his archives. They are my uncles, cousins and grandfathers – all policemen. My childhood with my family was surrounded by the PDI, Chile’s investigative police. Guns, badges, uniforms, gunshots. Almost all the men in my family are policemen. I look at my uncle’s images, at these ordinary men, even though I don’t know what that means. The story, the archives, the future, the violence and the police. Men and police as an inescapable relationship to think about.

My uncle gave me his film archives. When I watched them, I realized that he had a comprehensive video diary, that he is a lover of images, and that he recorded everything as if he had been mandated by a public administrator to create memories. I see myself surrounded by them in his archives. They are my uncles, cousins and grandfathers – all policemen. My childhood with my family was surrounded by the PDI, Chile’s investigative police. Guns, badges, uniforms, gunshots. Almost all the men in my family are policemen. I look at my uncle’s images, at these ordinary men, even though I don’t know what that means. The story, the archives, the future, the violence and the police. Men and police as an inescapable relationship to think about.