"Oh, yeah, you publish a quarterly zine by the same name."

The other night I stumbled accross a screening at the Northwest Film Forum, showcasing an anthology of Barbara Ireland films 1980-2007, including her six-year hiatus. She's a little redheaded thing, that doesn't look as old as she should. In her left arm she cradles a bouquet, smiling and hugging, reminding everyone about the wine and eats. At this point I've never heard of this woman, or her work, but for some reason don't mind paying the ten dollars to support this celebration of what I already assume is an accomplished, delightful person. Someone talks about her films, alludes towards a poster on the wall with an illustration of a couple in a boat sailing a calm sea, written in French. Apparently there's going to be a premiere of something new too.

When I head in the theatre, pushing passed the black velvet curtains and line for the Brie, I'm greeted by years of independent filmmakers, musicians, talent briefly associated with Barbara. A man and woman standing near the front say they worked in a lot of her early stuff. We talk about the few in the room that actually support themselves off the revenue earned from their art, or their craft. And everyone gets around mentioning the day job. Even when you directly address it.

As people take their seats, I finally give in and grab some warm cheese and gourmet crackers. But I bit into what I thought was poppy seed, and what was actually pepper, or peppercorn. Breathing the strong spice and my mouth now very dry, only see bubbly spritzers, champagne, white and red wines. I race around the building, no sight of a drinking fountain, a trashcan, a bathroom sink. The architecture of the building allows you to complete a full circle, finishing where I began, at the front of the theatre. I use the back of my hand to pat the small beads of sweat at my forehead. I steady myself on the catering table, and finally admit out loud that I need a drink. "I'm opening some Chardonnay," I look up to a medium sized man, looking very clean in an all black suit. He has his hair slicked back and looks sort of familiar.

"Sure." He replaced my empty cup with a full one. The lights are flickering and we're two of three left at the front. I rush off to take my seat. Eric asks me if I knew the man. I said no I was only thirsty, and began a really too long recollection of the events that led up to that moment.

"You just got served by El Vez."

I had a vague understanding of who he was talking about. "Oh, he's worked with Barbara?" The small host interrupted with a list of sponsors and a brief bio of Ireland. The projector fires on and an hour and a half of Dead Kennedy's, Gold diapered men, Super 8 film and a genuine apprehension for dialogue passes rather quickly. The Q&A was casual, the audience made up of old friends and collaborators. The whole thing felt like more of a reunion, than some formal recognition of works past. Overall it was very enjoyable. Other than the time they all started up with the conversation about that Doughnut Riot of '83, most of which I lost before it started.


fig 1. Taylor

The reception was a hit. Only the good people stayed. The rest had rudely, and loudly exited during the credit sequence. Only other self-righteous filmmakers will feel what I failed to italicize in that last sentence.

I envy their wrinkles, the many stories, their passion to stay committed to the work. In twenty years I want that. Except with a white sheet on the side of my house and a bowl of Doritos.