(no subject)
The Documentary Artist
By Jaime Manrique
Part II
Sebastian turned in his first movie, an absurdist zany farce shot in one room and in which he played all the roles and murdered all the characters in very gruesome ways. The boundless energy of this work excited me.
One afternoon, late that fall, he came to see me, looking upset. His father had had a heart attack and Sebastian was going to home to New Hampshire to see him in the hospital. I had already approved his proposal for his final project that semester, an adaptation of Kafkas The Hunger Artist . I reassured him that even if he had to be absent for a couple of weeks, it would not affect his final grade.
"Oh, thats good," he said, lowering his head. "But, you know, I'm upset about going home, because I'm gay."
"Have you come out to them?" I asked.
"Are you kidding?" his eyes filled with rage. "My parents would shit cookies if they knew."
"You never know," I said. "Parents can be very forgiving when it comes to their children."
"Not my parents," he snorted. Sebastian then told me his story.
"When I was in my teens I took one of those IQ tests and it said I was a mathematical genius or something. Thats how I ended up at MIT, at 15, with a full scholarship. You know, I was just kind of a loner All I wanted was to make my parents hapy. So I studied hard and made straight A's but I hated that shit and those people. My classmates and teachers were as..." he paiused, and there was anger and sadness in his voice. "They were as abstract and as dry as those numbers and theories they pumped into my head. One day I thought, if I stay here, I'm going to be a basket case before I graduate. I had always wanted to make horror films. Movies are the only thing I care about. Thats when I announced to my parenst my decision to quit MIT and pursue my studies in film directing."
his parents, as Sebastian put it, "freaked". They were blue collar people who had pinned all their hopes and dreams on him and his brother, an engineer. There was a terrible row. Sebastian went to a friends house and got drunk. That night, driving back home, he lost control of his car and crashed it against a tree. For forty five days he was in a coma. When he came out of it, nothing could shake his decision to become a filmmaker. He recieved a partial scholarship at the school where I teach and he supported himself by doing catering jobs and working as an extra in movies. he told me about how brutal his father was to the entire family; about the mans bitterness. So now, a year after he left MIT, going back home to see his father in the hospital was hard. Sebastian wasnt sure he should go, but he wanted to be there in case his father died.
When Sebastian didnt return to school in two weeks I called his number in the city but got a machine. I left messages on a couple of occasions but got no reply. Next I called his parents. His mother informed me that his father was out of danger and that Sebastian had returned to New York. At the end of the semester I gave him an "incomplete."
In the summer I started a documentary of street life in New York. I spent a great deal of time in the streets with my camera, shooting whatever struck me as odd or reperesentative of street life. In the fall, Sebastian did not show up and I thought about him less and less.
By Jaime Manrique
Part II
Sebastian turned in his first movie, an absurdist zany farce shot in one room and in which he played all the roles and murdered all the characters in very gruesome ways. The boundless energy of this work excited me.
One afternoon, late that fall, he came to see me, looking upset. His father had had a heart attack and Sebastian was going to home to New Hampshire to see him in the hospital. I had already approved his proposal for his final project that semester, an adaptation of Kafkas The Hunger Artist . I reassured him that even if he had to be absent for a couple of weeks, it would not affect his final grade.
"Oh, thats good," he said, lowering his head. "But, you know, I'm upset about going home, because I'm gay."
"Have you come out to them?" I asked.
"Are you kidding?" his eyes filled with rage. "My parents would shit cookies if they knew."
"You never know," I said. "Parents can be very forgiving when it comes to their children."
"Not my parents," he snorted. Sebastian then told me his story.
"When I was in my teens I took one of those IQ tests and it said I was a mathematical genius or something. Thats how I ended up at MIT, at 15, with a full scholarship. You know, I was just kind of a loner All I wanted was to make my parents hapy. So I studied hard and made straight A's but I hated that shit and those people. My classmates and teachers were as..." he paiused, and there was anger and sadness in his voice. "They were as abstract and as dry as those numbers and theories they pumped into my head. One day I thought, if I stay here, I'm going to be a basket case before I graduate. I had always wanted to make horror films. Movies are the only thing I care about. Thats when I announced to my parenst my decision to quit MIT and pursue my studies in film directing."
his parents, as Sebastian put it, "freaked". They were blue collar people who had pinned all their hopes and dreams on him and his brother, an engineer. There was a terrible row. Sebastian went to a friends house and got drunk. That night, driving back home, he lost control of his car and crashed it against a tree. For forty five days he was in a coma. When he came out of it, nothing could shake his decision to become a filmmaker. He recieved a partial scholarship at the school where I teach and he supported himself by doing catering jobs and working as an extra in movies. he told me about how brutal his father was to the entire family; about the mans bitterness. So now, a year after he left MIT, going back home to see his father in the hospital was hard. Sebastian wasnt sure he should go, but he wanted to be there in case his father died.
When Sebastian didnt return to school in two weeks I called his number in the city but got a machine. I left messages on a couple of occasions but got no reply. Next I called his parents. His mother informed me that his father was out of danger and that Sebastian had returned to New York. At the end of the semester I gave him an "incomplete."
In the summer I started a documentary of street life in New York. I spent a great deal of time in the streets with my camera, shooting whatever struck me as odd or reperesentative of street life. In the fall, Sebastian did not show up and I thought about him less and less.