The Manggarai Water Gate is a silent witness, absorbing the traces of time that flow with it. It reflects the two eras of colonialism and independence, like a wound that never fully heals, like a current that never stands still. On its banks, two teenagers read the city from what is left behind: drifting trash, fragments of memories, and whispers of change.
The film reflects on both individual and collective perceptions of images embedded in public spaces in southern Canton Ticino (Switzerland), in relation to the surrounding landscape. Physical traces of local legends, anecdotes, and journalistic accounts intertwine with Rorschach-like marble patterns and contemporary debates on public sculpture. Together, they reveal how imagination shapes and sculpts the territory, exposing underlying socio-political dynamics and addressing the extractivist human activity of local marble quarries. Moving between legitimation, acceptance, and censorship, the film invites viewers to reflect on the creation and interpretation of form.
In the universe. In the world. In the Philippines. In the north. In the island of Luzon. In the Cordillera region. In the province of Benguet. In the city of Baguio. There were cinemas.
Rambu Merti (22), the youngest daughter in a family of traditional weavers in the village of Kaliuda, East Sumba, stands at a crossroads. On one hand, she feels a deep responsibility to carry on the legacy of Inggi Kaliuda, a woven tradition passed down through generations. On the other hand, she harbors a strong desire to pursue higher education and carve out a different path for herself. Accompanied by her mother, Yustina (64), Merti goes from house to house, seeking handwoven cloths to sell. Through each conversation—about motifs, life stories, and cultural values—emerge questions of identity, sacrifice, and hope. Amid uncertainty, Merti chooses to stay with her mother, while quietly searching for new ways to find meaning in the place she calls home.
The three-year history of past violence that changed the fate of thousands of Indonesian women forever through the ianfu system seems to have never been fully resolved. Instead, the gap in knowledge of history to the current generation seems to be widening.
Since I was little, I often heard stories from my grandfather that had a profound impact on my memory because when I was a teenager, my grandfather suffered a stroke that left him unable to speak. Because I was studying abroad, my grandfather and I were separated by miles. The stories my grandfather told me left a lasting impression on me, and I always remember them because I miss him and want to fulfil my promise to him, which makes me long to return home.
A farmer chances upon a book, and within its pages he perceives that the devotion of his life, since his first breath, draws near its close. Once touched by knowledge, he feels estranged from cows, no longer bound to their world.
“Before Dying I Prefer Death” is a documentary road movie about the bond between Malena and her father, El Poly (73), a musician exiled under the dictatorship. Marked by the disappearance of his brothers, El Poly carries grief that affects his daughters. Seeking to heal their relationship, they embark on one last trip in a yellow Chevy to fulfill El Poly’s wish: to find a home to live in.
Dr. Sjarif, a researcher, is reconstructing a lost city, Kejora, using found objects. In the imaging laboratory where he works, two ghosts are watching him, waiting for an opportunity to sneak back into the city he is rebuilding.
A visual essay obsessed with lines in space—as form, boundaries, and language—that tells a story about a part of the history of solidarity through cinema. Will they have a second chance?
Fragments of light and language once circulated under a military regime’s gaze. Drawing from newspaper archives and the incident site, the work asks what printed words conceal, preserve, or reveal. In revisiting the 1984 Tanjung Priok tragedy, it examines both the violence itself and the contested role of media in shaping memory and truth. Two narratives emerge: official accounts and marginal voices. By confronting archival dissonance, the film exposes how media operates—exhuming suppressed histories and counter-narratives, and suggesting that history is shaped not only by authorities, but also by what remains unwritten.
Some people draw fragments of lines on paper as an idea of possible disasters that could happen to them. These lines turn abstract ideas into something that is visually identifiable. The collection of images of objects and lines then becomes a depiction of an event. From this process emerges a collective visual narrative in which personal experiences are represented as part of a shared pattern, emphasizing the connection between individual perceptions and broader visual constructions.
This audiovisual essay dives into the complexity of the border space from three European enclaves located in African territory: Ceuta, Melilla and the Canary Islands. The film plunges into the gap that unites and separates Africa and Europe, in search of the ruins and ghosts from the wreckage of the utopias that have grown on both sides: Europe as a promised land for the dispossessed South and Africa as a paradise for the exotic-hungry North.
Afloat follows Owen, a young man burdened by shame, fear, and trauma, who returns home and takes an experimental pill meant to erase emotional pain. What he hopes will heal him only makes things worse.
A drift between two cities: Berlin and Quito. A sensitive voice challenges the boundaries of reason through questions born from the everyday: Have you ever thought about how many calculations you make in a day? Prices, distances, inflation, schedules. Do you see your breasts beneath the blue robe? Why did they leave me the necklace but take my underwear? The audiovisual narrative seeks to reach the point where the meaning of hegemonic logic fractures, blending the documentary code with rhetorical elements characteristic of science fiction.
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