Rebecca Barten

With: Rebecca Barten, David Sherman, Guy Shewin, Barbara Meter, Ross Lipman, Brian Frye, and others Camera: Most of the above and Bruce Baillie Filmed in San Francisco, 1995

A synaptic celluloid requiem, propelling the High Priestess Aviator Earhart through far-sighted passages of flora, fauna, air, fire and water.

In a phantasmagoric landscape of beauty and catastrophe, an amnesiac's dream is realized through mid-century found celluloid.

A narrated found footage collage film bringing together fragments of writing by the French Surrealist poet, essayist and philosopher, Antonin Artaud. Fragments of a Journal in Hell both looks at and exemplifies a self under siege, undergoing extreme psycho-physical states. At the same time, the film celebrates a improbably joyful artistic practice struggling to still create personal metaphors during a wartime of the self and the world.

After the filmmaker Stan Vanderbeek died in 1984, I swept up small pieces of 16mm film from his dusty studio floor. Thirty-eight years later, a celluloid trance collage of his lost images and language fragments emerges in war song.

With: Rebecca Barten, David Sherman, Guy Shewin, Barbara Meter, Ross Lipman, Brian Frye, and others Camera: Most of the above and Bruce Baillie Filmed in San Francisco, 1995

A synaptic celluloid requiem, propelling the High Priestess Aviator Earhart through far-sighted passages of flora, fauna, air, fire and water.

In a phantasmagoric landscape of beauty and catastrophe, an amnesiac's dream is realized through mid-century found celluloid.

A narrated found footage collage film bringing together fragments of writing by the French Surrealist poet, essayist and philosopher, Antonin Artaud. Fragments of a Journal in Hell both looks at and exemplifies a self under siege, undergoing extreme psycho-physical states. At the same time, the film celebrates a improbably joyful artistic practice struggling to still create personal metaphors during a wartime of the self and the world.

After the filmmaker Stan Vanderbeek died in 1984, I swept up small pieces of 16mm film from his dusty studio floor. Thirty-eight years later, a celluloid trance collage of his lost images and language fragments emerges in war song.