Cinematographer
IN BETWEEN TIME, WE MOVE
In the stillness of summer twilight, the park transforms into a stage. The warmth of the sun lingers in the air, though the sky has softened into hues of blue. It is here, in this liminal space, that Nobu begins to dance.
Each step, each gesture, feels like a conversation with the trees, the grass, the fading light. He is not separate from nature—he is part of it, an extension of its flow, its quiet breath.
I stand at a distance, mesmerized, my camera in hand. A stroke of luck, this moment. I am drawn to him, my instinct pulling me closer. Without words, I join him, and together we embark on an improvised journey through the park.
This is not just a recording; it is a jam session—a dialogue between dancer and camera. I follow his movements, letting go of plans or conventions, allowing my intuition to guide me. The camera, too, becomes a participant, learning to dance, to move with the same fluidity. It is a discovery, not just of space and body, but of rhythm, trust, and connection.
For what feels like hours, we walk and dance, silently exploring the park’s hidden corners. The world narrows to this moment—his movement, my frame, the soft pulse of nature around us. Each step reveals something new, a meditation in motion.
This was more than a session; it was a gift. A rare, magical exchange where time seemed to pause, and the boundaries between dancer, filmmaker, and nature dissolved. It was a reminder that movement is not confined to bodies alone; it extends to the lens, to the eye, to the very act of seeing.
This film remains fragmented like memory, it captures a fleeting evening where movement, light, and intuition intertwined—a dance not just between Nobu and the park, but between us all.