Chad had an office on Chapel Street. There was a bicycle shop downstairs. The bicycle shop was filled with parts, and kids from the area would sit on the steps leading up to it and basically liter. Sometimes Chad would find kids to perform various tasks fro him if he asked them to perhaps run a sandwich to a friend, or even break into buildings as he had with Duncan for the painting.
His office was full of computer parts and cluttered beyond belief. It was proposed to be a computer repair shop, but he never answered a certain phone and if he had any walk-ins, he'd patiently ask what the problem was and then equally as patiently say that there was nothing he could do to help, and often referred them to Mr. Whitlock's son's office on York Street (who actually did fix computers the same way his father still fixed typewriters in the office across the hall.
Chad didn't take life very seriously. His father was the CEO of Rite Aid, which meant absolutely nothing to him. He despised the mentality of the people in his family, but could not get away from them because there would be no other way to afford his lifestyle. So he put up with their nonsense and offered a few pieces of advice on his own.
His antics in college led him into a certain circle of troublemakers known as Skull and Bones. This was not a surprise, considering the connections he had in his family, but the things he would suggest as a member were out of the ordinary and pretty much completely illegal. Here's an example.
There was a day when Duncan, probably the best and fastest track bike rider, was visiting LaChance at his bike shop. Chad was coming up the stairs into his office with a coffee from the Daily, when Duncan said something wise-ass to him, and Chad said something wise-ass back. From that point on, the two were good friends, and make lots of clever jokes right there on the steps. It came to be that Duncan would visit the bike shop as often for a part or more air in his tires as it was to catch up with Chad and talk trash.
Chad obviously could tell that Duncan was atheletic, and so when his friends at Skull and Bones wanted a painting in the Yale Art Gallery, Chad sent Duncan rather than doing it himself. He lured the kid into the project by offering him a free membership at a climbing gym for 3 months, and then finally went to see how he was doing. It was clear from the climb that Duncan would be more than able to perform the task of scaling Vanderbilt Hall to get into the open hatchway.
But first this took time. And a lot of effort. It started when Chad began socializing with the guards from the museum as they were sitting outside before and after work, as well as on their breaks. At this time, he would get into small talk, and read into whoever seemed the least into their jobs. At this point, he was able to find what Chad would call a "mark." And he also called targets "marks" so in a sense, a turned worker was also considered a "mark." Could also have been that the guy's name was Mark.
Mark agreed, for a very low cost of a free sandwich at the Doodle, to keep a hatch open on the roof. You have to remember it's 1997 and there are no motion sensors on the roof, or video surveillance equipment in the building, so it was perfectly feasible for this to occur. The only problem would be whether the maintenance persons would notice that the hatch had not been closed.
So they experimented. One day Mark left the hatch open. And the next day, somebody closed it. The time between it being opened and it being closed meant that somebody noticed that it was being open in the middle of the night. That person's name was Dodd. And he was the night watch at the museum. He was unbreakable in his will to do his job. Letting a hatch open at night would be completely unallowable, because it would mean that his whole purpose in life would be in jeopardy. He had to protect the paintings in the building, and the lazy if not forgetful maintenance crews who left open the hatch would need to be reprimanded.
Mark saw Chad a few days later outside of YUAG. "Hey, you want a sandwich today?" And Mark said, "Hey, not today. By the way, they closed the hatch."
"Already?"
"Yeah, it's closed already. Happened overnight."
"Crap. They have night staff."
"Yeah, they do. I knew this already and I should have told you. But the guy's name is Dodd, and he is a serious dude."
"Is he ever around during the day?"
"Nah, not really. Dodd shows up just as they're locking the door."
"But it's 15 hours before the museum opens again at 9am after 5 O'clock at night."
"An 8 hour shift would put him roughly at about 4am or so."
"Maybe he leaves or goes home."
"I don't know, I"m not there in the morning."
So Chad set up a camera across the street on the rooftop of the building above Kaye's Art Supplies, on top of the office of Pelli Clarke Pelli. That camera was pointed at the front doors of the museum, which due to an arbitrary policy set up by the head of security, were specified only to use. Chad got to see Dodd walk in at 5pm, but noticed also that at 4am, he left. And from the video footage, on Saturdays and Sundays he wasn't even there.
Walking around the museum one day, CONTINUE
This all took place on the steps of the bike shop. Chad said to Duncan, "Yeah, one of the guys, he really can't stand the Basquiat. He thinks it doesn't belong in the museum."
"That's garbage. I mean, it's like the only thing that belongs in the museum."
"Well they dared me to see if I could steal it. What they don't know is that I form teams."
"What happens if I get caught?"
"You get in big trouble. But don't worry, you're not going to get caught."
"What makes you say that?"
"If you follow my instructions, you won't get caught."
"What kind of assurance is that, Chad? This is nonsense. Why don't you do it? You can climb, you got rope."
"I"m going. But I need help."
"What are you going to do with it once you get it?"
"Well at that point I've proven my point,
"What's your point, Chad? That you're a thief? That you want to be a criminal?"
"Nah, not really," said Chad as he leaned back and sipped from his coffee.
Ultimately, Duncan wouldn't do it. Chad ended up doing it himself. So it was funny when it made the news, in fact Duncan's stomach nearly came out of his mouth because he knew exactly who was responsible, and felt almost a little responsible himself. Here's what happened next.
He found his tire flat when he got out of his apartment one day. He thought it just was flat. So he walked it the three blocks over to the LaChance bike shop around the corner. There, he found out that it was actually slashed, and that it needed a new inner tube. The kid behind the counter working that day, randomly, was me- because Joel had went to lunch that day with Chad because of some inside scoop he thought he was going to get on the whereabouts of the Basquiat. I handed him a specific inner tube particular to his bicycle model.
Inside the box for the inner tube there was a note. It said "Check your backyard." It was typewritten on a dot matrix Apple IIe printer, spelled out as ASCII art. Duncan quickly replaced his tire and hustled back home, to find the
"You can't tell the police I took it."
"I sure as hell can! You took it."
"Yeah but it's in your backyard and they'll ask where's your proof."
"I'll show them this note."
"And they'll probably say you made it up."
"Why would they say I made up the note?"
"What, you found it in the box with your inner tube? Weird story, sure. But what would seem more likely to them is that you took it. And they're just cops. They're only in search of the easiest explanation because to them that seems the most logical."
"Well what are my options here?"
"You can sneak it back to the museum somehow, or you can keep it."
There came a moment where Duncan thought about what it would be like to have a Basquiat in his living room, but that the authorities would come chasing him if he had one wrong house guest who would alert the authorities. So he opted not to do this. Instead...
Vignette (Paraphrased with Imagery)
And, there in my dreams, at the top of a slightly rounded staircase, she stood high like a heavenly angel, welcoming me in. With her posture and her hands, she gestured me to come closer. So cautiously i walked closer. She brought me close enough to kiss, but instead she whispered in my ear the words I always wanted to hear.
"I'm sorry, and I forgive you," she says.
"Don't feel sorry," i reply with my eyes; we're both speaking, but there are no movements of our mouths, so we must be just thinking as one mind.
And that's just about when I knew that life was just about to begin.
Until the moment I began to first contemplate the idea I might have died.
When she and I first met, we were young and naive; full of hope and happiness. We ran around the streets of New York, kissing and holding hands, feeling the midsummer late night cool air draft between the buildings around the Financial districts. We walked her sister's dogs for her whenever she was out of town. Her sister was a big-time movie star, who converted to doing TV shows a while back ("it's much easier on my schedule," I recall her saying, "and to be honest, some of the plots are equally as good, if not better" which I happen to agree with; we were meeting for the first time at 60 Pine and we were always so careful about bringing the dogs on the elevator; there was always the chance that Chauncey, the big old Pitbull on the 18th floor, would mess with Sancho, her sister's black lab. And so that could get messy; we were careful of that.
Those nights, spent socializing with amazing people, like the Rolling Stone reporter we talked to at Welcome to the Johnson's. That night was right out of a movie. And I'd like to share that movie with you. It's a story about two kids who fell in love, and the world that tore them apart. You can take sides if you want, but I now know the reason why I died: I just didn't belong in that world.
"I'm sorry, and I forgive you," she says.
"Don't feel sorry," i reply with my eyes; we're both speaking, but there are no movements of our mouths, so we must be just thinking as one mind.
And that's just about when I knew that life was just about to begin.
Until the moment I began to first contemplate the idea I might have died.
When she and I first met, we were young and naive; full of hope and happiness. We ran around the streets of New York, kissing and holding hands, feeling the midsummer late night cool air draft between the buildings around the Financial districts. We walked her sister's dogs for her whenever she was out of town. Her sister was a big-time movie star, who converted to doing TV shows a while back ("it's much easier on my schedule," I recall her saying, "and to be honest, some of the plots are equally as good, if not better" which I happen to agree with; we were meeting for the first time at 60 Pine and we were always so careful about bringing the dogs on the elevator; there was always the chance that Chauncey, the big old Pitbull on the 18th floor, would mess with Sancho, her sister's black lab. And so that could get messy; we were careful of that.
Those nights, spent socializing with amazing people, like the Rolling Stone reporter we talked to at Welcome to the Johnson's. That night was right out of a movie. And I'd like to share that movie with you. It's a story about two kids who fell in love, and the world that tore them apart. You can take sides if you want, but I now know the reason why I died: I just didn't belong in that world.
Social Work.
There was once a woman named Darla who grew up in a very bizarre household. She was an only child, and yet her mother kept saying “I wish you could be as well-behaved as your sister.” She finds out later that her twin sister died in infancy and her mother never forgave herself for the partial miscarriage.
Darla is a very good artist. She paints, but she only finds time for it at night. She says to a friend, at a coffeeshop, “You know, I wait all day and I wait all day. And I only want to paint at night.” When it starts to become dusk, she gets up from her chair, and takes her coffeecup with her. She walks back home, and sits by the window, painting in the late afternoon light.
She went to school at Yale and studied graphic design, history, philosophy, and art. And yet she always was fascinated with this idea that she could help people, just by talking to them. Her friends all said she did a good job of it; well, the ones that took her advice; and when random occurrence caused conversations to grow between herself and complete strangers, she found that she had an immense urge to help them understand.
“You know, it’s like we all got words on our foreheads. All of us.” She says, at a coffeeshop one day. “They’re written right on top of our faces, and when we look at them in the mirror, they all read backwards.”
“What’s mine say?” says a wealthy man of medium build and medium age, an average looking man except for his way about direct eye contact. Most men look the other way or stare off into space when talking to women. This one looked right at you when he talked, and while you were talking, his eyes were locked.
“It says you’re sick of people kissing your butt.” (Now get lost, she thought). And he did walk away, around the corner, up to his office, thinking the whole time, (Is that true?)
When he got to sit down, the first thing that happened was his secretary came in and told him how much she admired his new watch. She then said “My poor son can’t even tell time. I tell him to go to bed at 7, he’s still awake at 10.”
“Sounds more like he doesn’t listen, not that he doesn’t grasp ‘time’,” says the man.
“No, it’s worse than that. He can’t even get to school on time.”
The secretary looks out through the closed blinds. “You never let any light in here.”
“If I want light, I’ll go outside. All I need is to be able to see my screen.”
And she pauses.
And she leaves.
Five minutes later he receives a phone call. His brother has just died in a boating accident off the southern coast of Canada, in the Great Lakes region. They say he was on his jet ski, trying to record it all on his iPhone, and that he crashed into a boat. And that the boat sank, but the phone survived and they still have the video. Mr. Bagel didn’t care. It was still another member of the Bagel family, gone for no good reason. His family was so large and so careless, this happened all the time. This one particular incident happened to hit extremely close to home, because this was the brother that was closest to him in age. This saddened him the most. It was a reminder of his own life's fragility, as well as the loss of someone close.
That feeling of loss stayed with him throughout the duration of the funeral. There was a vote, about whether to play the video, and everyone voted “no.” Time stood still as he watched out the window and saw nothing but beautiful white clouds, over a field, like a pasture, where all these souls lay to rest. He thought, why couldn’t the weather cooperate, and be a bit more sinister, with a tremendous storm that forces us all indoors. Instead, a calm breeze and chirping birds made him think that his life was nothing better than a commercial for soap. Clean, harmless, not very tasty and utterly boring.
Ted went back to work shortly the next day. Everyone around him didn’t know how to react. Many people tried to look very sad for him. That didn’t help, because he knew none of them had ever met his brother. The guy hadn’t come to work in over 16 years. The family owned the Bagel Company, which licensed the use of the word “Bagel” so that anyone who wanted to use the word to describe their product had to pay the family a small fee. This was a wise investment by his grandfather, who won several litigations in his favor, mainly on account of the coincidence of his name. “It’s Yiddish,” he said. “Clearly my family invented it. Why else would it be called that?” he told the judge, and the court awarded him settlement with bagel companies again and again. Ted’s job was just to manage the firm, and keep the checks coming in. Albert, his brother, didn’t see this as necessary and just had the money sent directly to his account. That way it didn’t interfere with his hang-gliding, laboratory touring, and other adventures.
People looked sad and everyone was afraid to talk. Nobody could relate to the experience, he thought. All of these people, who he called his workers, behaved like animals, afraid. A human would console with words, he thought, it would get all this tension out of the air. And I’m not going to be the one to break it.
It wasn’t until several weeks later that Darla crossed paths with Ted Bagel once again. She was sitting at the coffeeshop and saw him and hid her face behind the newspaper. “What the duck did I say to that guy last time?” She tried to remember. All she knew, it was bad, because she knew there was a reason she felt she needed to hide her face.
As the man walked by, he said, “Hello again. You were right, by the way. I am sick and tired of having my butt kissed. What do you do?”
“I’m an artist, but I like helping people. I thought that by saying that before, I was helping you in some way.”
“And you did. That did help me out, immensely. It’s the first time that anybody could tell me something that I believed, straight to my face.
He thought about the pastor, and the message of God, and all the stories he couldn’t visualize. The bible was like a desert with a lake in the middle. It felt like everyone was always fighting over who had the rights to that lake. At least that’s what he thought when he read all the stories, about tribes and their feelings of righteousness. About the words, and who had control of them. All he could think was that he had spent enough time listening to miraculous stories about babies and loaves of fishes and stuff. He wanted to know, Where the hell did my brother go, and when do i get to see him again.
It was then that he realized something about this girl that he often saw at the coffeeshop. There was something about her that was not like his wife. His wife was all business just like everyone else, and never talked to a stranger in the entire time he was alive. But here was this woman, who was not in business at all, but clearly was smart enough to read his mind.
That’s when his mind started working overtime, trying to devise a situation that would cause the conversation to extend in the direction of a better understanding.
Every day, at 10 AM, Darla sat outside with a copy of the New York Times, which she would never read. She would sometimes sketch drawings of things. She’d bring an old book and copy the images. Or an Audubon field guide, with pictures of leaves, which she’d meticulously copy, while she sipped her tea.
It was at that time when her conversations with Mr. Bagel began to form into one long conversation, broken into smaller parts over each and every day of the week. At first, it was just one sentence, passed along to another. Then there were three volleys. There was even a five minute conversation.
1. “What kind of art do you do?” asked Bagel.
Darla said, “I paint.”
2. “And how do you help people?”
“I tell em what it is, to their face.”
“And they like that?”
“Well, people usually give it right back to me.”
…
“But I can take it.”
3. “Have you thought about applying for school? Maybe in a psychiactric department?”
“Maybe but I’d be fired in a day for the stuff that comes out of my mouth. No, I’ll never make it as a social worker or a professional psychiatrist, or anything like that. But if you could hear the things I say to people...” she laughs to herself about her social ineptitude. “I’d be the one they thought needed the treatment.”
“You were right on point with me. I didn’t exactly know how to respond, but I can see how you catch people off guard.”
“You have no idea. You have noooo idea.”
On a walk home one day, she ran into a man who was homeless. At least that’s what he said, because more recently she noticed him emerge from a nearby public housing building. Can you spare me a dollar or something?
“What on earth are you going to do with a dollar?”
“I’m going to buy something to eat.”
“That’s nonsense because more than enough at the soup kitchen.”
“I need to get me a little something something.”
There, right down to the heart of it, was a man caught in a lie, who gave an excuse. A typical behaviour pattern for a man. Only this was especially an issue, because it was along her normal route between her studio apartment and the coffee shop; this would become a never-ending battle over time if it wasn’t dealt with right away.
“I don’t have any money for you. In fact, I’m never going to have any money unless you can come up with a very good reason. Presently I think you’re giving me a load of garbage, and I got my own trash to take out, so if you’ll excuse me.”
And she walked away.
Two weeks later, the man came up to her. “My sister just died. She’s in Jersey.”
Oh great, she thought. That’s a tough one.
“How did she die?”
“Of a heart attack.”
“That’s so sudden.”
“Yeah, I know, that’s why I need you to help me so quick.”
“Well, guess what- your sister isn’t in Jersey. She’s dead, and you can never see her again!”
Darla started tearing up at about “guess what” and ended the sentence entirely unintelligibly. The man vanished for a few days, and re-emerged weeks later but would no longer ask her for money.
On another occasion, a shop keeper at a local jewelry store watched her look around for jewelry. “Are you looking for something for yourself or for someone else?” And she just wouldn’t answer him. “Is she a man or a woman? Are you gay? Is she famous?” and he would not shut up. And she said:
“Look, the stupid ring is for me. I looked at my finger the other day and I felt like it was missing something. I don’t have time for your stupid questions just like I don’t have time for a relationship. Thank you very much.”
She found one she liked and put it on the counter. He asked, timidly, “Are you like this with everybody?” And she said, “Yeah,” with a sigh, as she stared out the door, as the folks with the dogs and the pets and the kids in the strollers rode by. “Maybe you need to try a chill pill.” And she replied, “That’s why I can’t stand shopping in these hippie places. Drugs aren’t the answer to everything!” and she storms out.
She thought about putting the ring on her “married” finger. What will people think? She wonders. How will people act? She tries to imagine the wonderful man her husband is, and how he must have spent his last dollar at the store to have bought such an unornamental gift. That he proposed in the place where they met, which was nearby, while he was panhandling perhaps, playing a guitar on the side of the street.
Occasionally, panhandling youngsters did serenade the people passing by. They were better than the rest of the homeless class, because they were sharing the sound of music with the rest of the world, and Darla considered that a role the world needed. But no matter what group or guitarist was out there playing, it was never quite good enough. She thought, I wouldn’t ever listen to this at home,” but then again, she could always count on hearing the acoustic guitar being played on the street. Especially in the summer, on warm evenings when the world seemed more focused at night.
One night there was a bunch of kids playing music. One of them had a trumpet. As she walked by, they began to play “Pretty Woman.” She stopped, but didn’t give them any money. She just stared at all their faces until they stopped. Once they put down their instruments, she said, “Do you know how offensive it is that you play that? Do you even know what that movie’s about?”
And the kids all just kind of looked at eachother, dumbfounded, and one of them said, “We just thought it was about a pretty woman.”
“How many times do you play that per day? Is it every time someone about between 5’7” and 5’11” younger than the age of 45 strolls past? Don’t you ever get sick of it?”
She drops all the money left in her wallet and throws it into one of their stupid cowboy hats. “Here. I’m giving you this, in exchange for that you never play that song again, when either I nor any other female, like the ones that I described, walks by. Have you got it?”
She walks away.
“Maybe she’s a hooker.”
“Maybe she retired.”
Everyone thought Darla was such a bitch, that it became assumed that anything she created would be equally as bitter, cold and nasty as her personality sometimes was. But in fact her paintings were amazing. And the most amazing part of it was that nobody was allowed to see them.
In a New York Gallery she visited once per month, an old classmate stood by the window in the loft space, staring out at the cityscape surrounding them.
“The world is just way more than my paintings.”
“Darla, what’s that mean? They’re so good! People could really use these kinds of paintings in their life. Don’t you agree? I don’t know why you won’t let anybody see them.”
She thought about it on the train ride down to Manhattan that the conversation would head in this direction. “I do think that they’ll sell. But I’m not sure others will appreciate them they way I do. Those paintings are my memories. How would you feel if your memories were left stranded, at some stranger’s house?”
“Darla, those are paintings, and you’re running out of room in your studio. I think you should take the ones that you like the least, and put them out here. Like a garage sale. Except don’t have a real garage sale with your paintings,” she laughs nervously.
“I’m never going to be famous, Julia.” she said. “People really hate me. My personality will ruin it, and I can’t even allow myself to want it.”
“You won’t be famous. You’ll just have a little more money in the bank, and more room. Maybe you’ll explore a different medium. Maybe you’ll find a different muse. Maybe you’ll...”
And the voice drowned out in the distance to the sound of the honks of the horns in the cars, trucks and busses that drove by. All full of people whom Darla wasn’t sure ever really felt their true emotions, as her own seemed to be so mispercieived and stifled by the world.
where do you want to go with this?
in a dream-filter on the camera
a guy stands there
a girl walks up really carefree
smiling at a glance and in no rush
she gets to him and holds his hands
at about waist height to the side
as he sheds single tear she
kisses him on his cheek, lovingly
then she looks him in the eye
and says, "run."
break music. break scene. new.
a guy stands there
a girl walks up really carefree
smiling at a glance and in no rush
she gets to him and holds his hands
at about waist height to the side
as he sheds single tear she
kisses him on his cheek, lovingly
then she looks him in the eye
and says, "run."
break music. break scene. new.
Night Out
Dim dusk light into dark, we spoke quietly at Firehouse 12 of our plans. Natasha was a girl raised by a family that I would describe as gypsies. She told me stories of her loving parents who lived a life of scarcity, on the move. It was in stark contrast to my uncaring parents who had an overabundance, where I stayed always in the same place.
"You're the type of guy I would want to have a child with," she said, "but not right now, because I don't want children," matter-of-factly, as if this were something we were actually both considering.
"Kids aren't on the menu for me either, Natasha."
"We're at a bar. There's nothing even remotely child-related on the menu period."
"You know in Japan the birth-rate is so low that the population is declining."
"I find that hard to believe. They're so cute! the Japanese. They should be proliferating all over the place."
"35 years of consistent annual decline in population of young people."
"Why is that?"
"No one can really figure it out. Some believe they're on the path to extinction."
"Wow, an extinctifying modern ethnicity. Isn't their economy huge though?" says Natasha.
"Third largest," I say.
Jay (in thought, alone on fire escape): I believe Natasha preys on females under her premise that all women are bi- and the difference between a woman and a girl is that women have accepted, come to terms with and enjoy this aspect of themselves which she believes defines females no longer as girls but as women. What's interesting is we're always interested in the same ones; we have the same taste. Her passion are the first-time experiences of others. She's actually a much better pick-up artist than I am. We are an unlikely pair.
"You're right, I am better at it," she says this to me, with confidence under her breath as she sips her martini.
(Cut to scene where Natasha is ordering drinks), which turns into flirting with a single girl standing next to her (Rudy's), which turns into standing outside, which turns into kissing in an alleyway between two buildings in a dim light... return to shot a few scenes earlier where Jay is directly across and standing by himself, watching...
"You're the type of guy I would want to have a child with," she said, "but not right now, because I don't want children," matter-of-factly, as if this were something we were actually both considering.
"Kids aren't on the menu for me either, Natasha."
"We're at a bar. There's nothing even remotely child-related on the menu period."
"You know in Japan the birth-rate is so low that the population is declining."
"I find that hard to believe. They're so cute! the Japanese. They should be proliferating all over the place."
"35 years of consistent annual decline in population of young people."
"Why is that?"
"No one can really figure it out. Some believe they're on the path to extinction."
"Wow, an extinctifying modern ethnicity. Isn't their economy huge though?" says Natasha.
"Third largest," I say.
Jay (in thought, alone on fire escape): I believe Natasha preys on females under her premise that all women are bi- and the difference between a woman and a girl is that women have accepted, come to terms with and enjoy this aspect of themselves which she believes defines females no longer as girls but as women. What's interesting is we're always interested in the same ones; we have the same taste. Her passion are the first-time experiences of others. She's actually a much better pick-up artist than I am. We are an unlikely pair.
"You're right, I am better at it," she says this to me, with confidence under her breath as she sips her martini.
(Cut to scene where Natasha is ordering drinks), which turns into flirting with a single girl standing next to her (Rudy's), which turns into standing outside, which turns into kissing in an alleyway between two buildings in a dim light... return to shot a few scenes earlier where Jay is directly across and standing by himself, watching...
Jay: People think we're out on dates. I'd like to think we're just members of our own society. It was discovered at one point that she was a member of Scroll and Key. I'm a member of Skull and Bones. We met at a party one night when I was walking alone, after an afternoon of working on formulas turned into an all-night session of research and testing. Late into the evening, I wandered about, still in deep thought but in a peculiar dream-like state, actually looking for people to hang out with perhaps, or to have a conversation. That's when I heard the noises of an indescribable house party going on in the backyard somewhere on High Street.
BookEnds
All shorts begin with a slight variation on the same 15-30 seconds. This, referred to the "Intro Sequence" or the "Outro Sequence" is part of a set of time structures known as book-ends.
Book-Ends are re-useable video files that are re-written each time in a slightly different way to contain important information about the production itself. In the ones that I design, here is how I like the information to flow.
Both Intro and Outro sequences contain only music, a series of footages, and text. It's advised to not use the same song for both the intro and the outro sequences.
Here is a look at each.
Intro Sequences
These should contain some of the same basic footage. These can be seasonal depending on the time of the year. Intro sequences should contain one or two varied sequences of clip from the plot in the upcoming narrative. There are several clips in particular Intro sequences which recur with a certain degree of consistency.
The names of all included actors should be mentioned in the Intro Sequence, combined with the on-screen presence of the actor. These cannot be done in FCP. These graphics need to be custom-produced in After-Effects with the correct corresponding template, which is another re-useable file which can be modified, re-exported to look similar but contain different information. While some sequences can be identical from one intro sequence to another, there should be enough variation so that one Vignette is distinguishable fro others based on the content of the intro sequence. It should become immediately evident which episode a person is watching from the first 15 seconds, particularly for people who have seen a bunch and are going back to find particular episodes but can't remember the name.
Time Breakdown of Intro Sequences
Outro Sequences
The Outro sequences contain some clips pertaining to the outcome of the particular scene. Sometimes Outro sequences will imply two separate outcomes. The outro sequence also contains the names of the Production Staff. The way to ensure that there is footage of following scenes in the Outro Sequences is to follow the rule of "3Delay Release" - meaning that exporting a video should be held upon the filming of the piece following the sequel, or upon filming the scenes for following segments. This can be diagrammed.
Book-Ends are re-useable video files that are re-written each time in a slightly different way to contain important information about the production itself. In the ones that I design, here is how I like the information to flow.
Both Intro and Outro sequences contain only music, a series of footages, and text. It's advised to not use the same song for both the intro and the outro sequences.
Here is a look at each.
Intro Sequences
These should contain some of the same basic footage. These can be seasonal depending on the time of the year. Intro sequences should contain one or two varied sequences of clip from the plot in the upcoming narrative. There are several clips in particular Intro sequences which recur with a certain degree of consistency.
The names of all included actors should be mentioned in the Intro Sequence, combined with the on-screen presence of the actor. These cannot be done in FCP. These graphics need to be custom-produced in After-Effects with the correct corresponding template, which is another re-useable file which can be modified, re-exported to look similar but contain different information. While some sequences can be identical from one intro sequence to another, there should be enough variation so that one Vignette is distinguishable fro others based on the content of the intro sequence. It should become immediately evident which episode a person is watching from the first 15 seconds, particularly for people who have seen a bunch and are going back to find particular episodes but can't remember the name.
Time Breakdown of Intro Sequences
Outro Sequences
The Outro sequences contain some clips pertaining to the outcome of the particular scene. Sometimes Outro sequences will imply two separate outcomes. The outro sequence also contains the names of the Production Staff. The way to ensure that there is footage of following scenes in the Outro Sequences is to follow the rule of "3Delay Release" - meaning that exporting a video should be held upon the filming of the piece following the sequel, or upon filming the scenes for following segments. This can be diagrammed.
 |
| Release A at point X, after B is filmed |
Intro and Concept
The whole concept behind this partiular blog is to take ideas for stories, specific to the area of New haven, anc dome up with actable plots that we can perform during the summer when things are quiet. These are from my imagination and I also think it would be impossible to re-enact them perfectly. Some of the stories are based in real life. Often I pick specific people from my life as the subject of these characters.
I'm also writing half asleep. I figuredout a way to do this. I write these just before bed, and I'm laying in bed as I type them with my eyes closed. As time progresses, I really start to visualize the things that I'm writing about. I wake up at 4 in the morning often and begin to develop these.
Many of these stories are take-away/throw-aways and hold no value or meaning. The Dreamworld of New Haven is full of espionage, class issues, and many of the other daily struggles people face in ther lives. I have to admit that some of these stories are real. I like writing about them because it's interesting to me. New Haven is a magical place where I've spent nearly my whole life. I like writing about it and I often also have dreams about New York.
Let it begin.
I'm also writing half asleep. I figuredout a way to do this. I write these just before bed, and I'm laying in bed as I type them with my eyes closed. As time progresses, I really start to visualize the things that I'm writing about. I wake up at 4 in the morning often and begin to develop these.
Many of these stories are take-away/throw-aways and hold no value or meaning. The Dreamworld of New Haven is full of espionage, class issues, and many of the other daily struggles people face in ther lives. I have to admit that some of these stories are real. I like writing about them because it's interesting to me. New Haven is a magical place where I've spent nearly my whole life. I like writing about it and I often also have dreams about New York.
Let it begin.