I met Aya this summer in a film festival. She was a balanced mix of japanese and european beauty, the result of a love story beginning two generations ago. Her grandmother, a belgian photographer, pointed her camera to a strange russian horseman doing strange acrobacies in his strange horse. Clic, clic, clic. They fell in love.
I secretly imagined a japanese camera that made people fall in love. After all, I was always told that the best cameras come from Japan.
Her mother travelled to Japan, following a mysterious call. She met a strange japanese man. Most probably, there was a japanese camera involved. They fell in love.
Aya was born in Japan and later moved to Portugal. She met a strange portuguese man. He was a film maker. Film makers have cameras. Japanese, I suppose. They fell in love.
This is a story about cameras that make strangeness vanish and love blossom.
I secretly imagined a japanese camera that made people fall in love. After all, I was always told that the best cameras come from Japan.
Her mother travelled to Japan, following a mysterious call. She met a strange japanese man. Most probably, there was a japanese camera involved. They fell in love.
Aya was born in Japan and later moved to Portugal. She met a strange portuguese man. He was a film maker. Film makers have cameras. Japanese, I suppose. They fell in love.
This is a story about cameras that make strangeness vanish and love blossom.
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