Legacy

The word 'legacy’ makes me squeamish. I’ve always chalked it up to the faint masculine musk that permeates the concept. A patina of elitism. An idea rooted in ego over impact. But then in March of this year, with one very talented jack-of-all-trades DP, I interviewed my mom in a first step toward making my personal documentary, If A Tree Falls. As I asked my mother questions about my dead father and his determination to be remembered, I realized that this was an effort to solidify my own legacy. And that my decades of false starts making this film were not because I am allergic to legacy, but because I am afraid of it.

My father was 37 when the cancer came back, promising to take him within months, and he was 38 when the inevitable happened. In his own attempt at legacy, he left behind 40 hours of self-documentation so that I might one day know him in spite of it all. It’s likely no coincidence that this footage gnawed through my procrastinating excuses and jolted me into action just before my own 38^th birthday. Now officially the age my father was at death, I sit squarely between the 50% of footage captured and the 50% of footage still needed. Staring down the barrel of legacy, I am flooded with… emotions? Notions? Ruminations? Like this edition’s short film’s namesake, I’m usually pretty good at naming things. For now, I am simply flooded.

I don’t think my associations with the word ‘legacy’ are totally baseless. Official definitions include monetary value and organizational status. But when I watch the footage of my dad, shot with a dinky 1980’s VHS camera, footage which is often blurry or tousled or achingly uneventful, I am struck by how perfectly and wholly meaningful this legacy is. He told his story authentically. That is a legacy I can carry on.

I will keep you posted on the progress of If A Tree Falls, and may even ask for help in various forms at some point. But for now, knowing I have left you quite peckish in the past 2 months, here is a platter of legacy snacks that are keeping my fear of failure at bay.

Movie: Flipside

A personal essay from a successful, white commercial director contemplating creative ennui is not the logline of my cinematic dreams. But director Chris Wilcha’s ability to use his own existential crisis as a mere gateway into our collective existential crisis transcends this film from self-indulgent to universally poignant. Wilcha’s amalgamation of false documentary starts creates a medley of insights from artistic greats. Like a tamer and saner How To With John Wilson, meandering thoughts seamlessly string together, the way one’s own life events feel both distinct and amorphous. A Gen X shadowbox, Flipside touches on 90’s nostalgia, corporate dread, and the ways in which art functions as a coping and processing mechanism, all with a playful sensibility. As I myself am haunted by a cornucopia of abandoned ideas, Flipside lends hope that, just as we evolve and re-emerge, so too can those precious creative sparks.

Quaint. Endearing. Reassuring.

Short: I'm Usually Pretty Good At Naming Things

A film made by Mac Premo himself describing his process of collage, it is no surprise that this short is a pastiche of the very art it features. Frenetic sound design blends with dynamic pacing, while quiet moments of reflection are punctuated by quick-cuts and patchwork music. More like a teaser than a short film, these 4 minutes of buzzing contemplation are just enough to convey one man’s heartfelt conclusion on what makes art ‘work.’

Thoughtful. Energetic. Crafted.

Art Book: Homesick

“When you’re sick, you notice things.” Homesick is the photo diary of photographer Sara J. Winston’s relocation from Michigan back to her hometown of New York, documenting the tiny anecdotal moments that make a place ‘home.’ Accompanied by poetically enigmatic text by Ani Katz, the ambiguous imagery is more concerned with capturing a feeling than a precise narrative. A lyrical meld of wistful resolve, one wonders if Winston is sick for her home, sick of her home, or if the home itself is sick. As in most cases, I suspect all 3.

Soft. Haunting. Vulnerable.

Snack: (Finding) Grandma’s Buttermilk Biscuits

During my early childhood in Oklahoma I spent most weekends 30 minutes north of home, in a tiny town called Chandler, where my grandma and grandpa lived in a trailer house nestled in the crackly sticks of the country. I have a handful of rich, vivid memories from that time. The type of memories that warm your senses and transport you. I remember the cold running down my throat after the first bite of a freeze-pop snuck from the shed. I remember the heat of bonfires, or “weenie roasts,” the adults boisterous and wobbly. I can see blood running down my shin as Grandpa pulled gravel from my knee, I can hear the clack of wooden stairs up to the tree house, I can smell the puff of dust when we rolled and then plopped the stained mattress into the living room. The thing I remember most fondly is Grandma in her kitchen, the soft glow of sun cast across her hands, the movement like a conductor’s, pale blue veins a blur, as hunks of dough globbed to her fingers with each gentle push. Her buttermilk biscuits were objectively, decidedly, empirically the best. Naturally, the recipe was never written down.

Although Beulah Mae is still alive, time has adorned her with shaky hands, a tank of oxygen, and a dismissal of any request for the biscuit recipe. When pressed she always responds, “Oh I don’t know!” with a shoo-ing wave. Not that a verbal account would be much help - her process was the traditional “handful” and “pinch” of ingredients, no timer or measuring device in sight. The only way to get the recipe, it seems, would have been to join my grandma in her divine creation.

I used to lament this missed opportunity for a culinary legacy. Years ago I began my own recipe book, now crusty and oil-pocked. While I am grateful to the friends who have passed to me their family’s legacy recipes, the absence of my own weighs heavy on my little green notebook. But then I realized, perhaps there is a different opportunity afoot. Maybe this is the precipice of an expedition. A journey, through trial and error, to embody the very hands that captivated me so. And thus I am on a hunt! With each new knead, each new roll, each new tweak and adjustment, I feel closer to the Beaulah Mae of yesterday, and today.

Not yet as good as Beulah Mae’s.

• Butter a baking sheet and get the oven up to 425°

• Whisk together 2 cups flour, 1 tbsp baking powder, ¼ tsp baking soda, 1 tsp salt

• Cut ½ cup of cold, thinly cubed butter into dry ingredients until it turns into coarse crumbs

• Make a well in the center of the crumblies and pour in 1 cup buttermilk, stirring gently to combine (but not too much!!)

• On a lightly floured surface, knead 3-4 times

• Roll into about ½ inch thickness and cut into 2½ inch rounds

• Arrange on pan with biscuits touching, and press your little thumb lightly into the top of the biscuits before brushing with buttermilk

• Bake 15 minutes until golden brown and then brush those cuties with more butter, ofc

• If you discover a new trick on this biscuit expedition, lmk <3

To moments that live on,

<3 Julie