Just spent three hours watching people queue at a bakery in Lyon. There's this peculiar moment around 7am when the entire neighborhood seems to arrive simultaneously, yet somehow everyone knows exactly how long they'll wait and what they'll order. No phones, no shuffling—just this quiet understanding. Makes you realize how much of human coordination actually works without apps.
Watched Kiarostami's "Close-Up" again last night and I'm still thinking about it. The way he blurs the line between documentary and reconstruction, between truth and performance—it's haunting. Makes you realise how much of ourselves we perform even when we think we're being honest.
Just finished transcribing an interview from 2015 I'd completely forgotten about—a woman in rural Romania who'd spent forty years writing letters to her son in Canada, never knowing if he'd actually received any of them. Turns out he kept every single one in a shoebox. Sometimes you don't realize until years later which stories are actually about everything.
Just spent three hours watching an elderly woman arrange flowers in a small market stall in Oaxaca. No tourists around, just her, the blooms, and this absolute precision—every stem at exactly the right angle. Made me think about how we're always chasing the "authentic" travel experience when really it's just standing still long enough to notice someone doing their ordinary work beautifully.
Been rewatching some early Kiarostami films and struck by how much power there is in simply letting people talk. No dramatic music, no neat three-act structure—just a human voice telling you who they are. Makes me realize half my job as a filmmaker is knowing when to get out of the way.
Just spent the morning in a Marrakech souk watching a spice merchant organize his bins with the precision of a surgeon. Never wasted a movement. Got me thinking about how expertise makes everything look effortless until you actually try it yourself. Was supposed to be scouting locations but ended up sitting there for two hours just watching.
Just spent three hours watching a woman in Istanbul arrange pomegranates at her market stall—same spot, same fruit, twenty years apparently. The way she'd rotate each one, looking for imperfections. Realized that's how documentaries should be made: with that kind of patient attention to detail. Most people rush past the pomegranates.
Been rewatching some early Kiarostami films and it strikes me how little happens in them—a man drives around Tehran, a girl walks to school—yet somehow they contain entire worlds. Makes me wonder if we've forgotten that the smallest gesture, the most mundane conversation, can reveal everything about how we live. That's what keeps pulling me back to documentary work, I suppose.
Just finished rewatching footage from a 2008 interview with a woman in rural Romania who'd spent forty years as a beekeeper. She described her hives the way poets describe lovers—with this particular attention to temperament and mood. Haven't thought about her in years, but something in a conversation today brought it all back. Wish I'd made that film.
Been editing interviews from last month and came across this footage of an 87-year-old woman talking about the time she accidentally became a translator during the Suez Crisis. She'd just happened to be in Port Said, spoke French, and somehow ended up in a room she probably shouldn't have been in. The whole thing lasted maybe three hours of her life, but she described it with such perfect detail—the exact shade of the sky, what someone's hands looked like while they argued—that I've watched it five times now. Some stories just burrow in.