Nicolás Tsabertidis

“I am not the remains. I exist.” Three Jordanian women barely survived the violence inflicted on them by men. Çelik films them from as up close as possible in their flats, which they barely leave, listening to them speak with the opaque logic of trauma.

“I am not the remains. I exist.” Three Jordanian women barely survived the violence inflicted on them by men. Çelik films them from as up close as possible in their flats, which they barely leave, listening to them speak with the opaque logic of trauma.

Little is known about the figure of Isabel Santaló, an old artist, today fallen into oblivion. But occasionally some visitors come to her flat. Through them and the voice of Antonio López (Dream of Light, Víctor Erice), the only painter who remembers her, we shape a multifaceted film. This is a cinematic portrait, which well into the film takes a surprising turn. A film that reflects on memory and oblivion, art and the creative process; posing the question of what it means to be an artist and a woman.

Alicia and Vero are room watchmen in an art gallery and only see each other during shift change. A work of art will test their feelings.

Tolya, his brother and the captain live on a fishing ship, stranded in a port of Chimbote. The company is bankrupted, the ship hasn’t fished in eight weeks and the rest of the crew has returned to their countries. With no money and with practically no possibility of change in sight, Tolya tries to adapt to a new way of life on solid ground.

Susana Barriga’s documentary, the illusion, begins with violence. A long shot reveals a man standing on a street corner, his features indiscernible in the night. He moves out of the camera’s line of vision, but the filmmaker, persistent, moves with him as the jostling of the camera marks her steps. As we learn moments later, the man in the distance is Susana’s father – and this is the clearest image of him we will have. Suddenly, an angry British man demands that Susana cease filming. Susana protests in heavily accented English, “He is my father!” Glimpses of a man’s torso are followed by blurred images as the camera spins rapidly over surfaces. The image cuts to black. A new male voice asks in carefully spaced out words if Susana would like him to call the police. When she doesn’t respond immediately, he speaks louder, as though volume would compensate for the language difference. She gives her name; she refuses the offer of an ambulance.