by Rachel Staggs

In April of this year I challenged myself in a way that I never have before. The Austin Cinemaker Co-op put together an interesting project, "Make A Film In A Weekend," where filmmakers had two days to shoot a one-reel, in-camera edited Super8 film. Without viewing the finished product, participants were then to create a soundtrack for the film. I found this very intriguing. Honestly, I was most interested in developing the soundtrack, for I am not a filmmaker. So, without a plot or plan, I dove into the ocean of filmmaking.

Friday, April 9th at 5pm I arrived at the Artplex to pick up my "mystery prop." Everyone was given a prop to incorporate into his or her film. Our mystery prop happened to be children's block letters. Every filmmaker reached into a grocery bag full of blocks and randomly chose seven. After an hour of waiting, I was introduced to the camera that would be mine for the weekend. With my basic Super8 rented camera and no real training, I set out to make an avant-garde art film.

Saturday, April 10th was an extremely busy day in my life and time was limited. I called several places looking to buy film for the project. My desire was to film in color. Filmmakers were told that color Kodachrome film would not be accepted due to its long processing time. I searched for color film all over Austin (most places were sold out), and finally found a store that was not out of stock. I hurried over, frustrated to find that there were only two types of color film available. One was the Kodachrome and the other had "chrome" in the name. I tried calling the Cinemaker Co-op for help because I know absolutely nothing about Super8 film; no one was there. I was afraid that I would buy this other type of color film and it would also have a long processing time, thus I would be eliminated from the project. So I bought black and white film, came home, loaded the camera, and took off for Bass Concert Hall where I experienced the Broadway sensation of Rent. Upon returning home, I shot the title card before the sun went down.

It all came down to Sunday, April 11th. Beginning in my bedroom, I created several paintings encompassing the agony of being wronged by a lover. Almost like a silent film, these paintings spoke without sound. I had this ethereal image of myself covered in silver body paint from the waist up. My eyes were circled in black and my hair was completely covered in blue shimmer pomade. Instead of being afraid of this "fantasy me," I decided to bring it to life and share it with everyone in this short film. After an hour of work, I was transformed into an otherworldly creature. My friend Travis, who shot this segment of the film, said I looked like a figure from a Gustav Klimt painting. I then cooked the mystery block letters in my 1954 oven and completed the film with shots of angels that I glazed in a ceramics class years ago.

With no way to really edit the film or even see what shots came out, I dropped off my reel entitled "The Moment" about 15 minutes before it was due.

Still covered in silver and blue paint, I filled out a contract and developed a tagline. I was a bit overwhelmed at this point and nervous about others experiencing the vulnerable place I had created. My life tends to be scattered and connected at the same time. The word random comes to mind. "Randomness Is Bliss" was my tagline and maybe my life's swan song.

Making this film was a therapeutic process. I brought out old relationship baggage to draw from and hopefully put to rest forever.

Sunday evening I had a difficult time cleaning the pomade off of my body. My hair was a different story -- not only was it difficult, but impossible. It was greasy and extremely attached to my hair shaft. I had plans to bid farewell to the Electric Lounge that night, so I left the medusa hair in place. I danced the night away and had a fabulous time. Early Monday morning I received a call from my father. He told me that my grandmother, Mattie, passed away during the night while I was dancing. She had been living with Alzheimer's Disease for several years, so it was not a shock, but the news was heartbreaking just the same. As I prepared to leave town for the funeral, I compiled my soundtrack. I used excerpts from four songs I wrote and performed on, along with poetry written by my friend Paisley. I closed the soundtrack with a short poem I wrote about the death of my grandmother. Upon leaving town, I dropped off my soundtrack, not sure if it would coincide with my film.

I had plenty of time to work myself into a frantic state worrying that my film would suck. I thought about the audience viewing my breasts during those Klimt moments and became quite self-conscious. I even remember saying to my friend Paula, who accompanied me to the screening, "maybe it will all turn out black." Well, most of it did.

My grandmother died the day I created The Moment and maybe her spirit came through it. After the title card ran the film went black and my soundtrack took over, which included strong music and lyrics. In the black stillness and ambient music a single candle lit up the screen. Paisley's beautiful poetry fell from my lips as one angel with a glowing light above her head graced us with her presence and lingered. Experiencing Mattie's death and connecting to her spirit through this film was a moment I never expected.

Someone I barely know spoke to me about a week after the screening. He said he was going through the program reading the tag lines before the films began. He read "Randomness Is Bliss" and wondered in disbelief if someone could really create that feeling. He told me that I did capture the essence of that phrase and it was beautiful. Thank you, Michael.

Yes, I learned a bit about Super8 filmmaking and the fact that shooting indoors requires better lighting. But I walked away from the whole process with a larger understanding of myself. To me that was more important than impressing the masses with my Super8 skill. I do have a new desire to increase my knowledge in this area, and luckily the Cinemaker Co-op has opportunities for the novice and the experienced filmmaker -- side by side.

Just as it was therapeutic to create this piece, not having control over what others would see was a lesson in letting go. I had "my moment" that Sunday afternoon. I was a goddess. Those who saw my film had a moment as well, but it was their own.