V.0.01.23 is mostly a showcase of various shots and pacing I've been experimenting with. The sound design is only a first step in constructing a feeling which fits the visual. There are some interesting moments but it needs a full overhaul to really lift off and support the images.
As for the voice-over I've written, the shots need more air, slower pacing and better timing to allow space for text/voice. I've waited to implement the voice for exactly this reason, it would have slowed down the process of (finally!) producing moving images and rendering out the camera sequences.
An extract of the voice-over:
I have to walk through the kitchen to get to the shower. My bare feet gathering dirt and onion peels. Sticking to my toes. I should do the dishes when I'm done. My feet are met with a toothpaste stained darkbrown bath mat. I know a bad day is a bad day when the light passing through the tiny bathroom window, bounces off the stained door. Its rays blinding my eyes.
I like showering in the dark. At night I turn off the bathroomlights, the only lightsource being my iPhone's display, playing the same spotify playlist. But during the day I jam a towel in the window frame, hoping to give my eyes some rest.
Instantly softer skin, I read. But instead my skin slits open, bursting with fire, like the pulsating blanket of 38 degree water over my restless body. I don't remember if i've shampooed my hair or smeared it across my arms. I don't remember getting in the shower. I don't remember undressing. I don't remember how long I have been staring at the plastic graveyard in the corner.
Sometimes I perform in the shower. Sometimes I'm winning arguments I've lost months ago. Sometimes I'm quiet. Sometimes I'm lipsyncing. But most of the time I don't remember how long I have been drawing circles with my foot. Or rubbing orange residue from the tiles' grout.
I feel bad for taking long showers. Especially when I don't do much. I go through a bottle of showercream per week. I usually remember I've already cleaned myself after squeezing the bottle for the third time. Looking at the white substance in my hand I have to decide if I should put it in my hair or between my legs. But I don't remember which bottle I squeezed.
The rumbling of the exhaust fan, the sudden dissapearing of the noise, reminds me that I have been in the shower for 20 minutes. To prevent growing black moldy spots, I turn it back on. The buzzing of my electric razor is once again met with the rumbling noise of the fan. It takes some time to get back up to speed, my vision troubled by the increasing amount of steam. I don't know whether my eyes itch because of this or if it is the shampoo dripping from my scalp.
As I make a puddle of water with my arms against my stomache, the clumps of hair contained in the protective cover of my razorblade glide downwards to my feet. They've turned red and I can see blue, pulsating veins. The sharp tiny hairs sticking between my toes.
I can hear my iPhone's speaker degrade over time. Although water-resistant, the steam has oxidated most of the components within. I should have known better; but showering in silence is worse.