The Los Angeles Review of Books has been an absolute cornucopia of good essay writing as of late: so much so I can’t keep up. But still they outdid themselves last week with a gorgeous portriat of a young artist who likes to paint the desert at night, named Eric Merrell. Great stuff. Picture quality is superb, extraordinary. Can’t recommend it enough, and I don’t much like web videos.
Yet and somehow this is a film, not a video, and it’s cinematically gorgeous. Note: the words and voice come first:
“When night falls in the desert, it becomes almost an entirely new world. A lot of the shapes lose their definition, and the edges become blurred together. It becomes a lot more abstract. Sound becomes much more prevalent, and you can hear little things stirred around in the sand. It’s hard to tell where the fact ends and the fiction begins.”