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.

Poco se sabe de la misteriosa figura de Isabel Santaló, una artista hoy olvidada. Pero de tanto en cuanto algunas visitas aparecen en su casa. A través de ellas, y de la voz de Antonio López, el único pintor de su generación que la recuerda, se perfila una película poliédrica que sorpresivamente se transforma. Una película sobre la memoria y el olvido, sobre el arte y el proceso creativo, sobre qué significa ser mujer y una artista.

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.