The Thickness Of A New Skin

A collage of temporal fragments, a visual poem, The Thickness Of A New Skin moves in cycles - of life, of gesture, of breath. Repetition and syncopation shape the film’s rhythm: navels, eyes, spinning bodies, turntables, circles that turn and return. A mother shifts the weight of her child higher on her hip in a looping gesture, again and again. A child jumps into a pool. Curtains hang with empty theatrical suspense. Fabrics flap in the wind. Grandmothers lament, sway, sing. Hellos and goodbyes, burials and laughter, all pass like weather across the screen. Partially a portrait - of a family, of a body, of time itself - the film resists narrative, instead creating a spatial and sensorial situation: an environment in which perception is stretched, unsettled, reoriented. Light, shadow, and minimal gesture invite attention to linger. What emerges is a choreography of looking, where the boundaries between beginning and end blur - quiet, embodied, open-ended.