Carpark Mage

A self portrait of a not-so-young artist who together with his brother behind the camera, invents his own set of rituals as a means to exorcise the post-industrial landscape he inhabits.
Sitting in the driver's seat of a white van the not so young man films himself with his mobile phone warming up his voice. He holds a microphone and burns a bunch of sage inside the driver’s door. He is parked on a quiet, cosmically dull industrial estate. He sings to the van placing the microphone in various cavities inside the vehicle exploring its resonance. We go with him now and see what he does.
Without warning we are transported inside a sunny forest where the unnamed man sits clumsily whittling wood. Perhaps he whittles a handle for a tool or even a wand. Is this the same site where the industrial estate now stands? Perhaps a sacred site?
Our temporality remains unclear, we drive aimlessly together with the van man as he mimics the groans and cries of feedback created by the microphone that swings around in the back. Is he stimming or channeling voices? An incantation-like poem appears on screen as we sit with him in the darkness and keep watch while he fills a hole in the ground with an alchemical concoction outside a Tesco.
Together we watch the wind and listen to the solitary drone of the van man's ocarina. Pensively we wait for the moment when we can return to collect the transmutation from the dirt, then rinse and baptise it with cans of fizzy pop.

The final scene sees the van man parked underneath a damp stone train bridge where we witness him charge uncanny objects on the dashboard with ritual drone music. The film reaches a Folk Horror-esque climax as we flip back and forth between this enchanting ceremony and a scene of tree necromancy.