When my son was in the first grade, he asked if we could write a book together. Absolutely thrilled by the suggestion, as any writer-slash-mother would be, I immediately hopped to my feet, grabbed some pens, and tore a few pages from the massive box of connected dot matrix paper that we were still working our way through from the 1990s. Our family craft paper: a stowaway from another era.
“No, no, no,” C said, as I tore the edges with all those little holes off the yellowing dot matrix paper. “I want to do it for real. We have to go to your office and type on your computer.”
My “office” was the study of my in-law’s apartment a block away: a beautiful room with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, old leather books that smelled a little of mold, and a big stone fireplace where I went to write a few hours a week. There was nothing “real” about my office. Still, there we went with my computer and our copy of Rabbit Hill, which C insisted we bring.
C and I had just read Robert Lawson’s chapter book together, a book he had adored. That is, until the ending, which he detested. He thought the last chapter was an abomination.
It turned out C didn’t want us to write our own book. He wanted to rip the last chapter out of Lawson’s and replace it with a better one. Sitting at my in-laws’ desk, he dictated the ending he envisioned for Rabbit Hill, and I typed it. I may have made some suggestions along the way. It was three layers of artistic collaboration across three generations, though admittedly one of the collaborators was dead and perhaps, had he been alive, he might have been less than willing.
Last month, C graduated from Bard College.
Layers of artistic collaboration do not begin to describe the experience he had at this school as a film major.
The week before he graduated, we attended the screening of his senior thesis along with the films of four other graduating seniors. Picture: imaginations gone wild. Think: college students let loose to create whole new worlds with Bard film equipment. There were crabs, there were worms, there were cats. There were drugs that turned tongues black, starving animated characters eating crunchy pickles, a secret underground passageway to a warren of rooms in New York City. And there were trains. So many trains. Each of the films was ambitious, and each had its own special tone and vibe. Many made use of the bucolic scenery around Bard balanced against the gritty architectural style particular to Tivoli. One film was incredibly beautiful in its rendering of every single object, face, and landscape. Another was hilarious and bawdy. Another tender and aching. One was rendered in Russian and translated into English subtitles.
The final projects were rich and textured and smart and entertaining, but what fascinated me the most was the level of collaboration these films required. These were massive, year-long projects involving whole teams without the budgets, sets, or materials of professional filmmakers. For these films to be made, many people had to volunteer their time and talents. Some Bard students acted in multiple films. One audience favorite appeared in multiple scenes in two films. I asked C how the actor was able to contribute so much time.
“Well, he’s a poet, so he had more time, I guess,” C replied.
(As a poet myself, I am still digesting this idea. Do poets have more time? Maybe we do? Or maybe time is just different for us.)
The actors in some of these films didn’t just have to give of their time. They had to suffer. One actor had to put live worms in his mouth and eat them (or pretend to at least). C’s film was set in summertime; the heat was central to its mood. But his actors didn’t return to campus until September, and by the time filming was nearing completion, it was already quite cold. C shot some scenes at night along the banks of the Hudson River where it was even colder. But his actors had to dress in light summer clothes and try not to shiver on camera. His lead actress even had to walk into a body of frigid water after dark (not the Hudson, thank God) and completely submerge herself in the murky water! She told me her shoes and socks were ruined after that scene. The things Bard students are willing to sacrifice in the name of art!
My son’s roommate acted in C’s film, and C was the cinematographer for his film. Students helped cart equipment to sites. A first-year did the original score for C’s film, just as C had helped with sound and filming for senior thesis projects when he was a junior.
But it wasn’t just Bard students who got in on the action; the town of Tivoli was full of folks who were happy to lend a hand. Moving lights, a generator, and other equipment across wild land down to the banks of the Hudson at night was quite a task. A hotel close to the location agreed to store C’s heavy equipment between days of filming. The owners also allowed C and other Bard students to film inside their hotel—a marvelous location with interesting moldings and stairs and doors and even a piano that C made use of. One of the hotel’s residents agreed to act in C’s film. And a woman who works at the local wine store with C also took a role. She was genius in the film. Her monologue was one of my favorite moments in the whole thing. It was both hilarious and poignant.
I noticed that film professor Brent Green was thanked in many of the film credits. He must have helped a lot of students this year. C took a screenwriting class with him early in his time at Bard. I remember one of his first assignments was to bring in a list of about a dozen film ideas. In class, Brent gave everyone feedback on every idea. His encouragement meant something to C. It helped him gain confidence in his wild ideas, a confidence that is so crucial to growing as an artist, especially when self-doubt is the biggest personality trait of most creators. C hadn’t taken a class with Brent in ages, but he contacted him over the summer before his senior year to ask if Brent could read his script—during his time off…for free…out of the goodness of his heart. And Brent gladly did it. He offered a bunch of helpful feedback, the most important of which was: cut down the dialogue. It’s too much. This is evergreen advice that C will use throughout the rest of his life as a filmmaker. Cut down the dialogue is a universal truth. After his film was made, C told me he should have cut the dialogue down even more!
Another professor whose classes C always wanted to take but never was able to wrote him a lengthy email after he saw C’s film. It was so long it had bullet points! This professor had really thought about the film and got what C was trying to do. Did this man have to do this? No! He just wanted to as a part of the Bard film community.
C chose to go to Bard because he wanted to work with independent filmmaker Professor Kelly Reichardt (whose films I highly recommend, especially her recent The Mastermind). As a sophomore in his first class with her, she ripped apart his first assignment. She thought it was terrible! She was demanding and precise and didn’t hold back. But this moment was probably the best thing that happened to C at Bard. It shook him into action and taught him to take this singular opportunity to work with someone so talented in her field—and in such a tiny class—seriously. When students in the class complained that they couldn’t get their assignments in on time because of troubles finding actors and aligning schedules, Kelly told them that was no excuse. A big part of making films is finding and organizing collaborators. This is key to the work.
As C’s thesis advisor, Kelly continued to give honest criticism, but she was also generous with her guidance and praise. She has been a true mentor to C and made him feel like he has a real voice and something worthwhile to say, which is the greatest gift you can give to someone just starting out in the arts.
The thesis screening was also a gift that I hope C remembers for the rest of his life. The theater was filled to the brim with every seat taken and students spilling up and down the aisles and onto the floor under the screen, craning necks to see. The warmth and enthusiasm of this crowd was electric. Laughter at every vaguely funny moment. Huge claps and uproarious shouts for every single name listed on every single credit for all five films. This audience did not tire even through two hours of watching.
And, of course, there were loads of congratulations afterwards. When I introduced myself to C’s lead actor, she asked if she could hug me! We felt a particular intimacy. This hug was perhaps one of the more moving moments of my life as a parent. Oh, to be hugged by the woman who had donated so much heart (and her shoes) to my son’s art.
Two of C’s close friends who graduated from Bard last year traveled from NYC for the show. I told them how great it was of them to make the effort, and one friend said, “Oh, I wouldn’t have missed it. I’ve been looking forward to this all year.”
Leading up to this night, C had been very unhappy with his film. He had envisioned it differently, as is the case I think for most artists and writers after completing a project. It’s never as good as you wanted. He was very nervous for the Bard community to see it. But the outpouring of love and support had him graduating with a huge sense of accomplishment. He learned so much from the process, not just from all the things that went wrong and right, but also from working with this eco-system of students and professors and community members.
Not every moment at Bard was perfect, but we are grateful our son got to have this beautiful, unique experience as an artist and student in a protected bubble along the Hudson River. Yet, after the lovely screening and exciting graduation events were over, I found myself a bit melancholy. I am sad that the bubble must pop. I know the difficult road that lies ahead in the world of the arts. I know all too intimately the rejection. The tiny pay. How hard it is to get your work seen. The big dreams and crushing failures (see: my desk drawer full of dead novels). Our capitalist system does not support or nurture its emerging writers and artists the way it should.
And generative AI is making the panorama for young artists even bleaker. People who want to jump over the hard work and real human emotion and thought and connection to produce the fast film, the fast buck, have lost the plot in my opinion. I believe AI for the arts is also a bubble that must pop. But in the meantime, the artists graduating today enter a changed landscape that no one yet knows how to navigate. I have no advice for C in this uncharted territory.
The dot matrix paper he started his life on as an artist, once so new, now feels quaint in today’s tech-exploded world. But I like that paper as a metaphor—how one page clung to the next, how you could pull the top layer and the other pages would follow after, a seemingly endless ribbon of possibility. Like paper dolls. Like clouds in the sky. Like C’s actors and friends and professors and even Robert Lawson. No need to tear them off. They will always be with him now.
Have a wonderful summer of creating, friends! I’ll be back with some book recs and upcoming publications soon.
