Making sense of the world

I am typing this on my phone from thousands upon thousands of feet in the air. My thumbs struggle to tap the correct letters as we are experiencing a bit of turbulence. The girl beside me clutches the ends of the arm rest. I am going over fatal flight statistics in my head-- I don't know any, I am currently just makin up random numbers to calm my own nerves. Is that an indication of multiple personality disorder?

The red light of the wing flashes, briefly exposing enough light to render us all seated upright in a dark void. Only a handful of seconds pass between each flash, a long shutter speed allowing just enough light to pass through the lens to capture the wing, the fog, the wing, more fog. Then lightning in the distance. How far in the distance, I can not tell. I can not grasp any concept of space or time at this altitude, on this magnificent piece of aircraft.

Animation on Glass is yet another entirely tactile approach to filmmaking. It is intimate, driven by passion, forging a deep connection with the image as its conception, birth, life, and death is guided by the artist's own hands. Both the physical proximity of the artist to the medium and the extensive amount of time and effort spent in order to achieve the smooth motion of each individual image into the next-- How deeply personal these images must be to the artist, how deeply personal they must continue to become. As the animation filmmaker illustrates the minute detail of fragmented motion, they grow to understand the intricacies of life, of the kinetic relationship each living and nonliving subject has with one another, the potential of motion and the suspension of time within every crystallization of a muscle contraction-- we begin to understand and appreciate underlying, ongoing processes, perceiving them to be much more important than before.

I am excited, yet completely intimidated by the immediacy of this filmmaking technique. Working with sand, paint, and charcoal on Glass will be challenging, but I am excited to see the images created from the gradual chipping-away of the original.

Self-evaluation of Bright

We began editing our project with the idea of creating the image of looking up at the sun through the ocean. The sound should convey entering the water, the water filling up the ears as you become fully submerged, then the sound of bubbles and underwater creaks as you turn upwards to open your eyes and face the sun. Maura's voice was very ethereal and reminded me of a mermaid, which gave me the idea of giving "Bright" some nautical undertones, as the beach is one of the brightest, most over exposed places I have ever been.

I wish we had more time and had developed a plan in pre-production, however I enjoyed the free flowing, "anything goes" project model we developed instead. Maura and I collaborated very well on the concept, she is easy to get along with and I trust her opinions. I also wish I was better versed on how to manipulate sounds in Premiere Pro, as Pro Tools wasn't working on our computer and I honestly just didn't feel like messing with it.

The most challenging aspect of this project was just not being able to work with Maura at the same time because we didn't have headphone splitters. We overcame this by taking turns editing and adding sounds to the mix, discussing what we would like to hear, what we enjoyed about our edits, what we wish there was, etc.

I discovered that working with a partner is only fun if you are both on the same page. Luckily, Maura is one of the most easy-going people I have ever met. She has such a positive attitude that I never felt disappointed with our sound, I never felt desperate or hopeless like I do when I am editing most projects.

I hate my job but love my dad

P.T.'s

It's close to 9 o'clock in the evening: the voices behind me dwindle and carry out the door. I sit at the bar facing the grill: the heat radiates to warm the front of my body, the sound of the grill fan drones on. There is a simmer: the last burger patty sits in the hot plate. A loud hiss: water has been spilled over the grates of the grill. The thin, metal spatula taps the gristle-covered metal of the grill. Left to right. Someone walks in front of me: it's Zach, the friendly giant. His stride is expansive as he walks the length of the room in only a few short steps. Kyle, the lost puppy, follows behind him: his feet hardly lift the ground. His Sanuks are wearing away quickly at the sole. The general walla-walla from the tables behind me has moved to the front register. People mindlessly bid each other a great day, weekend, life, as they are already half way out the door. This place sounds insincere.

The Mornings at the Tabor House

The traffic of parents rushing to drop off their children at the Catholic school behind my house: I can hear the confusion in the distance-- no, it is not a four way stop. The door to my parents' bedroom opens. My dad shuffles down the hall. I can tell he just woke up: his gait is uneven and flat-footed. The skin of his heels is rough against the wood floors. He is tired but must go to work. He has been working so hard for so long. My dog Indy waits at the end of the hallway: her tail happily beating against the metal baby-gate, which reverberates in an almost comical way. The AC isn't on, but my ceiling fan slowly creaks at each revolution. My dad has turned on the sink somewhere in the house-- the water moves eerily through the pipes in the walls. My mother must have slept at my grandmother's house last night: I can't hear her singing the wrong words to any song ever as she comes inside from the screened-in porch. Indy's toenails click loudly against the stone tile of the foyer: she followed my dad half-way to the kitchen, paused, turned back to return to her position at the end of the bedroom hallway where she will wait for me to greet her. She wants her treat. She is bored and lonely after the death of my dog Tink: her tail wags a little more irradically.

Luna Lunar

Luna Cafe:

A low hum from the refrigerator is barely audible above the chatter of men discussing the potential of the college nationals. Thankfully the high drone of the coffee grinder interrupts their conversation. The barista speaks to a regular-- she has a baby. The baby has just turned two, but is very verbal. He and his mother play Rockem' Sockem' Robots-- the light clamour of the plastic men colliding with each other, the rigid bottom of the boxing ring scraping against the rough wooden table. Electronic music plays softly-- I can recognize the vocalist from Animal Collective, it must be Panda Bear featured on Daft Punk's "Doin' it Right"-- this song sends me back 5 years in time to when my friend, Emily, and I would lay upside-down on her couch listening to Animal Collective records instead of doing biology. We'd express our romantic dreams of boys and one day escaping the trivialities of the Lyceum program at New Hanover High.

The toddler to my left gently taps the plastic coins of a Connect Four game-- they rattle against the others inside the narrow, vertical slots. His mother nears the door and calls his name, "William. Say goodbye to everyone." I can hear his feet reluctantly part from the Connect Four game-- his gait is still slightly unsteady. The bottoms of his shoes must be fabric, the way they scrape against the concrete floor-- softly, just barely lifting off the ground.

A gaggle of hipster girls have entered the cafe-- I can tell because their deep voices discuss gardening and their trendy Instagram feeds. St. Vincent now plays over the speakers, winding its way through the conversations of two middle-aged women and the milk steamer. There is a clear sense of space within the soundscape here. The sound moves slowly, allowing it time to be absorbed into the old wooden tables and leather furniture before reaching my ears. There is something much more personal and intimate to this coffee shop than other large chains--an unspoken understanding of low volume, intellectual dialogues between close friends as opposed to yelling over the constant high-pitched scream of the milk steamer, grinders, blenders, and underlying drone of all the electronic appliances that create the caffeinated beverages too hot to taste how metallic and thoughtless the entire process was,


Beach at Night

I can hear the friction of the sand as my head sinks deeper into the dunes. For a moment I forget to breath as I strain to hear anything but the waves crashing on the shore. Then, above the constant roar of the surf, a single cricket chirps-- it is behind me, sheltered from the wind by the dunes. It sings slowly, indicating the chill of the breeze. A chorus of crickets can be heard in the distance, but only between the intervals of the cricket nearby, I assume he stands watch at the periphery of the bird sanctuary. A brave soul. The breeze is coming off the land-- I can tell because it passes through the tall grass of the dunes behind me before passing over my face to reach the warm of the ocean, moving my hair over my ears to muffle the sound momentarily. His chest rises and falls with the breeze as though this steady air comes from his own lungs. His sighs are extended, burdened, pensive. I am torturing him. Or maybe he is just preoccupied. I want to hear his heart beat above all, but I remain paralyzed by the sound of the water swiftly moving over the sand, with an occasional heavy-handed slap, compacting the grains into a harder surface. The water recoils, retreating back over shells, stones, bits of debris, every impact a whisper as though it whispers "I'll be back soon, don't go anywhere." I can hear the steady, deep, ominous drum of the waves stirring from the belly of the ocean, then a lingering silence as they curve just before crashing, again, onto their own selves, then greeting the sand once more. An ongoing, joyous reunion of sand and water. The wind rustles the thin fabric of my pants, reminiscent of a steady breeze moving a flag-- the sound of the fabric tightening as the wind forces the fibers of the cloth to stretch, suddenly, to its limits. The land has cooled much quicker than the ocean, causing the air pressure to force the wind toward the water only to be warmed by the surface of the sea, rising again into the atmosphere, cooled by the upper regions of the troposphere, weighing it back down to carry the sand across my eyelashes. I can hear the intricacies of these natural processes, the movement of the planet's organs displacing the air molecules only slightly, to create a symphony of friction, impact, momentum, propulsion.

The Voice of the Planet

I want the walls of my home to be thicker. Shouldn't a home be a refuge from the outside world and all its unsolicited noise, noise, noise?! A few weeks ago, I was babysitting a little boy named Townes during the day. When it came time for his nap, I closed the blinds, turned off the lights, and yet there was still something so distracting, something so intrusive that I didn't think he would ever get to sleep. Cars from a relatively busy neighborhood street-- ceaseless. Luckily, he has a white-noise machine-- the oddest invention, I never had one as a child, I never needed one I suppose. I find them to be more distracting-- it just adds to the mix of already unnecessary sound until they all seem to blend together as one loud, distorted groan. As if the world is suffering from appendicitis, clutching its side, begging for morphine-- for the synthetic relief of a noise-maker.

My house is sandwiched between Eastwood Road and Mayfaire Town Center (formerly a horse grazing pasture). A highway and an open-air shopping mall. I wake up to cars speeding down my street to drop children off at school with enough time to swing by Starbucks before work. This sound is kind of like when I walk into Time Warner Cable, or some other electronic store, and I am immediately uncomfortable, almost in pain, because of the ever-present, high-pitched chorus of ringing from every television, cable box, speaker, all competing for our attention-- attempting to distract us while their bosses rob us blind.

This is what our lives have been reduced to: waiting impatiently to be entertained, and barely recognizing our own name being called over a loud speaker. Selective listening-- that implies that we have some kind of choice in the matter. Even if being aware of every intricate detail of a soundscape was easy and required little thought, would we choose to listen? I would. I would much rather have to think hard about not listening that to exert an inordinate amount of energy in order to recognize the sound of my own dog's bark. While I think it is a voluntary response to ignore the monotone drone of everyday, man-made sound, I do believe exercising our listening abilities is a process imperative to our development as the animals we are.

If you can hardly detect the small inflections of your lover's voice, the cadences that distinguish them from a sea of other suitors-- allowing their voice to identify their place in time and space, their mood, their own self-- if you struggle to determine the distinct differences between their voice and another's, how can you say you really know them?

Films 1 & 2

This assignment tested my ability to remain balanced, in that I didn't. Not even a bit. The instability is what keeps me going. I had an incredibly busy weekend with work, hosting a baby shower, having family in town, and celebrating my mother's birthday all on top of homework. I believe this chaos is translated directly into my interpretations of the elements. I discovered that under pressure I am much more keen on trying new things. I relinquish pragmatic control over the medium to the unpredictability of chemical reactions. I found that if I sprayed footage with bleach, forming a base of destruction upon which I can create, an image forms easily from the random patterns of eroding emulsion than from meticulously scraping each frame. I guess I don't become as attached, so I am less likely to feel defeated in my hand is to slip, or something reacts incorrectly. This method was much more conducive to my creative flow as I was able to conjure up a memory from the patterns, much like one would recognize familiar objects in the monochromatic images of ink blots. Once I find these memories, forgotten feelings, desires, longings, etc.-- I can further manipulate the medium to emulate these sensations more accurately (to me, at least). I suppose I discovered that I am a visceral artist-- I am not attached to the end product, as it is a result of the feelings and thoughts provoked by the process of creation (creation through destruction?).

Magazine Transfers

These processes are teaching me patience. I decided yesterday that I would convert all of my frustration into excitement to see the finished product. I am not seeking perfection, what would be the fun in that? What exactly would dictate perfection in this process? As I sit in the anticipation phase of the magazine transfer, eagerly awaiting to see the projection of our experiments, I realize now that art is never about the end result. Well, I mean, it kind of is. But that's not what I take pleasure in. No matter if it is throwing pottery, painting, editing, writing, or rubbing wet magazine strips off of masking tape, it is the tactility of this kind of creation that makes the end result, whatever it is, so much more gratifying. In a way, this deep level of involvement-- my eyes dry because I haven't remembered to blink in at least 20 minutes, my hands covered in paper fibers, my thoughts racing over which article will produce the best patterns on screen-- is kinesthetic in that I am fully aware of my body movements as they relate to the film-making process; the leader becomes an extension of my fingers that gently wipe away paper residue from its surface. Like cleaning the hair of your small child in a large kitchen sink-- they look up at your with such wonderment in their eyes, and you smile at the thought of how beautiful both of your lives will be because you have each other. No one else.

Man am I hormonal lately. But art is my child. And I am a child of art. The suspense is killing me-- I am most interested to see how the words turned out, they seemed to transfer onto the tape very well. I long to feel that rush of adrenaline right before the reel passes in front of the open shutter.

Film Create/Film Destroy

Frustrated. How is it that a 22 year old woman-- someone who once believed herself to be an artist-- can not seem to master the manipulation of film stock? I guess I'm not cutting myself enough slack. Yesterday was literally the first time I have ever touched film; we still haven't spliced ours to the class reel so I'm not even sure how it will turn out. I suppose if I were to set my ego aside, I would say that yesterday's class presented me with an entirely new perspective on animation film-making. While it may have looked like a simple arts-and-crafts "I made the duck blue because I have never seen a blue duck before" class segment, I felt more like a scientist. Every scratch of the emulsion was to be minuscule, meticulous but not necessarily precise; drops of bleach eroded the emulsion, maybe a bit too much if I wasn't careful-- then again, I don't know what I am trying to create in this destruction, so why not let the chemicals act on their own? They know what they are doing better than I do. Maybe I was frustrated not with my performance but instead my reaction to the immense possibilities of film create/film destroy-- I was creatively paralyzed at the sight of so many instruments, bottles of ink, by so many familiar objects, yet in this context they seemed completely foreign to me. Film, film stock, that is, is intimidating, especially when you are unable to see the footage projected during the editing process. 

I suppose I discovered that I am easily frightened by all of the artistic opportunities this assignment presented. However, I am still holding on to that sense of gratification of having worked on 6 segments of 24 teeny weeny frames for 3 hours and finally seeing what the six seconds of all my frustration, confusion, and film illiteracy will look like when spliced and projected for the entire class to see. Now that I think about it, that scene in Billy Madison could be applied directly to this assignment. HA!

Reflections of the Afternoon Baby Moving

In his book A Moving Picture Giving and Taking Book, Brakhage outlines the deep intricacies of the film production and exhibition processes. While I found myself becoming lost in the tangle of his descriptions of sprockets and claws, I couldn't help but appreciate Brakhage's attention to minute detail when explaining each aspect of experimental film-making. The vastness of all the subtleties involved in the production and exhibition of a reel of film is comparable to an action as simple as standing up, and walking around the room: we are never, and probably will never be, fully aware of how many tiny muscles must contract and in how precise of an order than when we attempt to write out a comprehensive instruction manual on how to perform such a basic task. Moving picture projectors call to mind the voluntary organ systems of the human body, while the sensitivity of film stock operates on an exactness similar to the DNA replication process: the levels of intensity of the light to which the fledgling stock is exposed are the thin dividing lines between an individual with normal blood cells, and one with sickle cell anemia. I am both intimidated and humbled by the amount of information presented by Brakhage, it reminds me to not take advantage of the modern film-making technologies so readily available to me. The great ferocity with which one must approach film-making, as well as the extensive level of involvement the film-maker must have with the medium, strengthens the bond between the film-maker and their art. This bond-- the cement between layers of spliced film stock, the meticulous scraping of emulsion-- this knowledge of the interplay of light and shadow is impressed upon the film stock itself until it becomes an extension of the film-maker's body and soul. The multiple processes of decision making outlined by Brakhage-- whether to use Tungsten or Daylight film stock, the particular type of leader to manipulate, shutter speed, exposure, etc.-- are what draw the (experimental) film-maker away from the business of film. As Deren argues in her article Amateur Versus Professional, it is the lack of resources, of a budget, of strict studio regulations, that allow the film-maker artistic freedom to reflect upon an array of concepts without the limitation of a capitalistic cinema. By simply making film for the love of film and not to appease a deadline, the film-maker can immerse themselves into their art entirely. The film-maker is thus liberated from the policies of a profit-driven operation, and left to their own devices, left to create beauty from necessity in order to communicate, on a much more immediate and intimate level, with their audience through both the production and exhibition of their film.

Auto-Bio

How do you do, fellow kids?
My full name, and alter ego, is Corinne Elizabeth Tabor-- three sequential names that flow smoothly together to create a regal cadence when spoken aloud; I find it more befitting to go by Cori instead. I was born into an incredibly musical family, with an incredibly large extended Irish-Catholic family, resulting in incredibly loud, yet inviting family gatherings full of biting sarcasm and late-night drunken singing. My passion for film begins with my family, my desire to capture these passing moments where my grandmother's living room is so boisterous, so full of love that it probably violates the city's noise ordinances. As a musician, I have always struggled to emulate through song-- through my own words and melodies-- the beauty I see in these basic human interactions and affections. Film, however, allows me the ability to articulate such sentiments in a way that permits viewers to inhabit the mind of the camera, to interpret the image closer to how I intended, and potentially communicate information in an emotionally resonant way.

While I have lived in Wilmington for the majority of my life, I transferred to UNCW from UNC-Chapel Hill, where I was on-track to double major in Journalism (with a focus in multi-media) and Islamic Studies, with a minor in the Arabic Language. After a series of quite unfortunate events, I decided to take a leave of absence to regain some kind of balance in my life, which brought me back home. Presently, I work at a popular burger-joint called P.T.'s Olde Fashioned Grille-- I have convinced myself that I am already dead, and am just serving out my purgatory before I can reach paradise-- in addition to babysitting/dog-sitting/house-sitting around town. It is my intention to graduate by December of 2017, as I will have exceeded the maximum credits at that point, with a double major in Film Studies and International Studies with a focus in the Middle East (and/or environmental science). My ultimate dream is to write for sketch-comedy segments at NBC or to direct politically charged documentary films, however I would settle for any low-level position as long as it gets me on a set.