There is a moment when I realize I am still watching.
Nothing has been explained.
No decision has been made.

Time passes.
The scene holds longer than I expect.

I look for what matters.
Nothing marks itself.

I look again.
Nothing clarifies.

I move on.                                                                                                                                                                                               

I don’t stay long enough to know.

I take it as understanding.
It isn’t.

In Margarethe von Trotta’s films, it sharpens.

I look for someone to follow.
For a way in.
I don’t find a place to stand.

I find myself near them.
I don’t know where to stand.

They speak.
Stop.
Begin again.

Nothing resolves.

She hesitates.
Contradicts herself.
Continues.

I take it as inconsistency.
It isn’t.

I take it as weakness.
It isn’t.

I fix it.

In The Lost Honour of Katharina Blum,

Katharina sits under interrogation.
The frame does not move.
Authority crowds the edges.
Questions repeat.
Time passes.

Nothing advances.

I take the repetition as pressure.
I take it as enough.
It isn’t.

In Marianne & Juliane

Two sisters sit across from one another.
The frame holds them together.
They do not align.

Speech moves between them.
Pauses interrupt it.

Nothing resolves.

I take the distance as conflict.
I take it as the point.
Nothing confirms it.

At first, I look for a center.
Someone to follow.
Someone to resolve it.

I expect something to shift.
It doesn’t.
I take it as stalled.
It isn’t.

In Rosenstrasse,

Women stand in the street.
The frame holds.
Time repeats.

Nothing changes.

I take the waiting as resistance.
It doesn’t hold.

It feels inert.

In Vision – Aus dem Leben der Hildegard von Bingen,

A face fills the frame.
Sound recedes.

Nothing verifies what is seen.

I take the image as evidence.
Nothing confirms it.

It stays in the body.

In Hannah Arendt,

After the trial, she sits alone.
The frame does not move.
Silence holds.
Time stretches.

Thought continues.

 She does not correct herself.
 

I look for a turn.
For a sentence that will secure it.
For something that will make this safer to hold.

Nothing arrives.

The scene holds.

She does not soften it.
It will cost her.

I take the thinking as incomplete.
It doesn’t.

In Moovit, it shifts.

He disappears.

Nothing follows.
No confrontation.
No cost.
No one returns to claim it.

She has already crossed.

I look for the consequence.
It doesn’t come.

I take the absence as a mistake.
As something missing.

It isn’t.

While writing and directing Moovit, I begin to notice it.

I don’t like her.

I look for something to answer her action.

I make her easier to follow.
I make her make sense.
I fix her.

I take it as incomplete.
I decide too quickly.