Prior to making films, you worked in photography. How did the transition to cinema occur? 

 

At the close of the ‘90s, I went to the Cité Internationale des Arts in Paris on a grant. Come the 2000s, I already had bought a Super8 film camera. I wouldn’t have been able to transition to cinema if I had stayed in Chile. The increasingly high cost of film, compared to the cost of living, along with the gradual disappearance of Kodak laboratories, would have made it impossible. For this reason, I believe that my transition to film-making is closely connected to my relocation to Europe. Until then, I had thought I could create intermediate images, within a series, through photography; images that were not physically present, but which we could autonomously construct to complete a scene. In practical terms, I was already working out the notion of a ‘missing’ image to complete movement or action. Therefore, I had already unwittingly come close to cinema. 

 

How would you describe your relationship with the Bolex camera and the shot? 

 

The Bolex camera has long held iconic status for me, as an unattainable object. I couldn’t help longing to use it in my films already when I was living in Switzerland, where the factory – or the remains of it – was located. There were many reasons why I wanted to use it: I saw it as a form of expression in which the film camera could also be a protagonist, using its technical potential to create motion without losing the magic of photography. Then there is the issue of independence. As an artist and film-maker, I can continue working without having to seek or invest large sums of money. Lastly, the movie camera does have a history linked to capture and scientific domination. 16mm film stock and cameras have been used for ethnographic and anthropological research since the early 20th century in the framework of colonial domination and expansion, disseminating the imperial and colonial outlook ‘directly.’ It’s worth wondering, how can the film camera contribute to the discourse on cinema, beyond a self-referential deconstruction? I believe the answer lies in reflection, establishing dialogue, and building communities instead of many individual artists’ islands.

 

Some of your films, such as Villatalla, and also the Envíos series on a more metaphorical level, deal with the notion of distance and remote places and people. How is time connected to this spatial dimension? What kind of time do you imagine for your films?

 

Villatalla is a remote place only for those who don’t live there. When I settled in this small Ligurian village for a month, I got rid of the clichés. Rain and fog contribute to the supposed remoteness of Villatalla. The people in the street are, on average, older. I believe their gait has affected the pace at which I shoot. In fact, no one seems to be in a hurry, but this is not true. As a consequence, the second part of the film is dedicated to Giuseppe, a man who looks after his olive trees and plantation. On the contrary, the Envíos project develops over time. I started it in 2005 and it is still ongoing. It is dedicated to the people I love. Envíos is closely linked with my leaving Santiago del Chile to emigrate to France and then to Switzerland. The underlying question is, ‘Who am I filming for? What am I filming?’ As I cannot isolate my work from whatever happens in my personal life, my intention was to forge a bond with those who have played a significant role in my life in both Chile and Europe. At the same time, other issues came to the fore, like the public-private sphere connection, the ephemeral nature of the moments I spent with my family, friends, or peers in film and art.