Saltwater - Retrospective
For my 26th Birthday, my short film Saltwater has been made public online for the first time. Here, I share some thoughts and reflections almost 5 years after the initial release of the film.
“As a relationship reaches a turning point, one person’s fragile understanding of control begins to haunt their dreams.”
I made Saltwater as my thesis animation project at the Maryland Institute College of Art in 2021. I had only really created two films before: bEACH, a visual poem animated on human skin, and Crooked, a planetarium film about my frequent nosebleeds. I had never really made a full, fleshed out story before. So initially, I explored traditional narrative ideas, something to encapsulate my time in university. People with quirky dialog and shenanigans, or maybe mixed media animations in one digital world, or creative character designs from all walks of life… and I just couldn’t do it. We all have what we are good at, and I really can’t make up stories like that. At the time, I still hadn’t accepted that the stories that inspired me, that I felt I could work with, were ones that pulled from the moments in my own life.
In the midst of the Pandemic, thinking about my last year of University, I was confronted with fears of loss, and the excitement of love. I was in my first “real” relationship, at 20 years old, falling in love with a boy I met in Baltimore. My mind was flooding with the emotional chaos of growing with someone, seeing how our lives, minds, and bodies intertwined as we grew closer. There is a certain linking and dependency that comes from love, the honeymoon imagining of spending your lives together but also the reliance that grows from communicating every day. To imagine it ending is not only incomprehensible, it seems impossible. But even the incomprehensible slips into mind at night.
It was an unstable time in my life when I began creating Saltwater. The emotional turbulence of love aside, it was the freaking Pandemic. In the span of one week in March, I couldn’t go back to school, I lost my job, got broken up with by a vegan guy who was afraid of commitment, and was subsequently trapped in my window-less bedroom. A cheap and awesome place to live when I was out of the house from 9 am to 2 am every day, and a cheap and miserable place to live when my only access to the outside world was a fire escape I had to climb over a radiator to access. I spent that summer applying for Medicaid and Food Stamps, and informed my university I would be returning next year, because who in their right mind would pay art school tuition to attend zoom class.
I tried to fill my days with purpose, working on short animated gifs, activist posters and screen prints, and volunteering for a city council campaign. But most of my days were, essentially, dedicated to exploring my newfound relationship. I found a sense of social and economic security in my boyfriend. Dating as someone with a consistently unstable financial situation (hey - at least I’m cute), having a partner helps me envision paths to stability. I find my ways to provide and care for my partners, but it does intrinsically affect how I feel secure in my self and future, and specifically how much control I have over the situation. My whole life had been consumed by changing houses, scraping change together, and ‘figuring it out’ when it came to next steps. My partner and I were both close to finishing college, beginning to explore what the next steps of our lives would be - exciting, and scary. Throw in the fact that relationships, by nature, are bound to the unsecurable passage of time, and you can imagine that in the back of my mind, the fear of change, failure, and loss of stability gnawed at me.
Saltwater came to me first with the image of the concrete boat harbors in California. We had two dogs - Bear, and Lucky, and Lucky loved to swim more than anything. In a moment of economic prosperity, we lived in a house on a canal north of San Francisco, and each day we would walk Lucky down to the boat harbor to chase tennis balls.
These walkways are often built out of reclaimed concrete, rescued from commercial building sites or demolitions, but sometimes from houses, community structures, and god-knows-where. So, as one walked along these paths, peeking out of boulders would be the edge of bricks, laid in a row, or a molded rectangle that felt human created. Sometimes, broken wood - window frames? Panels of metal, with rusted rivets - something from a boat? I could never be sure if they swept ashore from the waves or were left there intentionally, but I often wondered about how these objects functioned in their previous spaces. Mainly, it was curiously cool, and I thought I could create a film from this.
Water was always a source of inspiration in my life - I have never lived far from a coast or harbor. The slow sensitivity of the waves, the natural ambience of children playing and birds squawking, and the flow of water on the body are all such unique and sensational experiences. In my Emotions of Anthropology class, I read a poem by Maxine Hong Kingston that encapsulated the romantic temporality shared between the ocean and our lives.
When I thought about lives, and the preservation of their histories, I jumped to the far end - death. Something I started worrying about much too early. How would my legacy be preserved? How will people remember my thoughts, and my work, and my self? Maybe I should have focused on establishing a legacy worth of preservation first, but I swear these worries started when I was, like, 12.
But I also wondered about my family. My mother is the one who preserves our family records, but after raising two children and working full time, there isn’t much daylight left to categorize centuries of change. Irish immigrants from 200 years ago, siblings spread across the country by a donor father, a legacy of psychedelic mushroom researchers. We have this information, kind of, now, but would we forever? And if my mother wasn’t working to preserve these records, much less make sense of them, who would? Would someone be extending this privilege to my story, or is it nonsensical, or even selfish, to hope someone would?
I may have toyed with the idea of moving to Europe, but I never guessed it was something someone like me could actually do. But my boyfriend at the time was set on it. He dreamt of Germany, and spoke often of his travels, and how he couldn’t wait to return. I would listen, fascinated of these places and their lifestyles, but I also felt like I was already getting left behind. Due to my economics, due to our relationship, due to this that and the other, would he bring me with him? And if not, how would he remember our time together?
And thus began Saltwater. Two boys, scared of change, intimate and tender in their touches, and manic in their thoughts. I wanted to visualize growth and connection, but also the fragility of these connections - how on the brink of these neural linkings was the threat of destruction, of slicing, or crumbling and moving on and trying all that you can to forget. An avid After Effects lover, I turned my eye to techniques of digital distortion and destruction to visualize these very raw emotions, finding an abstract beauty in the way these programs could tear apart footage. Not to mention the potential metaphoric significance that comes from the introduction of a machine.
Now, let’s address the machine generated image of an elephant in the room. Saltwater uses a very early form of AI image generation, created using the now obsolete Playform.io generator. At the time, early 2021, this was the only way to generate images from a database. I know that may be hard to believe, but the huge popularity of image generation really is that recent. Artists such as Arca and Anthr0morph had pioneered the usage of this technology as a metaphor for transness/transition. I found the ability of a machine to mend and morph images fascinating, but solely because of their integration with context, such as Arca’s live action videos and Anthr0’s costuming and performance art. To generate an image from thin air is, in my opinion, no fun, and the ethical construction of current AI databases is questionable at best and criminal in truth. I do not believe in using AI to replace artists or their work, and I especially do not stand by the collection of stolen artwork to train these databases. In 2021, I don’t think many people foresaw the transition of AI that occurred so rapidly.
The beauty of Playform at the time was that it was designed to assist a user in the construction of their own image database, and specifically use only this database to train and create images. In fact, you yourself controlled the training hours of the database, and more hours of training on your assets led to different results. For the construction of the visuals in Saltwater, all the content is created from a database that I myself created. I used animation frames, such as a rotoscoped video of waves I took in Seattle, or the two main characters of the film in an embrace, combined with a series of archival photographs of wooden furniture I collaged together. I feel confident in saying that the work used in Saltwater is based on my own creations.
But it’s tricky - would I make this work today? Probably not, or at least I would pursue alternate forms of image degradation and distortion. Content aware scaling was a very fun one (thanks to Neil Cicierega for helping streamline this technology), and was implemented in Saltwater. But, do I stand by the symbolism of machine learning within the metaphorical context of Saltwater and the contemporary context of when it was created? Absolutely.
I viewed the machine as a metaphor for a brain. Playform was fascinating to use as you could watch images turn from static to blobs, to shapes, to forms, in real time as you trained the database. You could watch the brain of the computer be told information about your database, and see the imperfect struggle of the machine to create it. There was no way to reward successful iterations. To me, it was like watching a brain dream and form a memory. In fact, modern databases would be no fun for this type of work, as they would recreate images too accurately. The imperfection of these computer memories was what made them beautiful, highlighting the failure of machines and ourselves to accurately preserve and transform history. A bit of side exploration on the thematic quest of “How will the ones I love remember me?” and the creative task of “Who has the control to answer that question?”
Because while Saltwater is my creation, the way it is viewed is not. That’s yours. How you remember this film, and remember my themes, and my words, is nothing I can control or assure. I can take steps to guide you, I can archive my images, but one day I won’t be there to make sure this film is saved. Or our relationship is saved. Our even some form of myself is everlasting. But if I’m not there, should I be concerned? And Saltwater was my first foray into relinquishing some of my control to outside factors.
Machine learning was one way I gave up control, and the beautiful abstraction of the printer dots was another. I could guide the visuals on the digital end, but the sporadic and inconsistent transformation these animation frames took on the paper was up to the whims of the printer in MICA’s post office. But boy, do I really love how they look. My first experiment with this technique was a short 10 frame animation in my 2D Techniques Class taught by Ismael Sanz-Pena, for the prompt ‘mark making’. Then I created a short animation called Bread Time, using Björk’s Big Time Sensuality. I began returning to this technique again in Albert Birney’s animated music video class, until the pandemic struck and I had no computer to finish my project.
I found this technique really intriguing, because it was a way of bringing digital animation into the physical realm. A way of physicalizing the nonphysical… blah blah blah. There are so many metaphorical connections the techniques behind Saltwater bring to the thematic exploration of the film, that I can get carried away about these linkages, but it’s quite fun to explore. But as well, I felt the way the dots would make the coloring noise-y and flickery reminded me of impressionist painting, which I studied before university. The transformation of this pink background is one of my favorite examples.
The final print count of pages for Saltwater was over 300 pages, which I gave to my ex-boyfriend as a book. I was going to throw them away, but he wanted to keep them. Where they are now, I don’t know, but I think I’ve learned to accept things like that - just like the acceptance of the themes that wracked me enough to create Saltwater.
I was so interested in sensations of physicality, that when I saw the opportunity to create an exhibition of the content of Saltwater, I pushed myself to see how I could translate these animation materials into physical sites of engagement. Digital animations were turned into “framed paintings”, and the waves of the harbor were projected onto concrete, relating the texture of the print dots to the pocked rocky texture of the concrete.
As a crafty person, it was a fun task to accumulate assets for the show. Many objects were found - a variety of bricks and wood gathered from train tracks behind MICA, concrete blocks and rocks from the Ceramics studios, and a window that was hanging on the wall of my friend Elaine’s bedroom.
But I also molded some blocks of concrete using simple cardboard molds. I was lucky enough to receive a studio space in the Stop-Motion studio at MICA, and I quickly filled it with chips of wood, concrete dust, and paint.
The solo show was one of the highlights of creating Saltwater, and when the show debuted in November 2021, I hadn’t even finished the film. I worked with Maya Halko, an amazing animator, illustrator, tattoo artist, and musician, to create the soundtrack to film. Or, more so I provided Maya some static-y abstract Fennez tracks I was recommended and said “make something like this?”. And Maya delivered and beyond. The synthy melancholic tracks provide the perfect current of instability, meditation, and flickering to the romantic and chaotic scenes. Murmurings of waves and demolition sites flow underneath their tracks, and while I didn’t do the best mixing, I was really happy with how the score came together.
While I was finishing the film, my life changed somewhat dramatically. I had submitted an application to LAIKA Studios on a whim, hoping to find an internship during the pandemic, however never heard back. But in October, two months before I was due to graduate, I received a phone call, and then an interview, and then another interview, and then an offer letter. LAIKA was not only interested in relocating me to Portland to help produce 3D Printed Faces for their upcoming movie, but they were willing to wait until I graduated.
This was amazing, and I began to see a way towards security. Not only that, accomplishing the dream I had of being a Face Librarian, something I had thought about since I read the ParaNorman art book at 12. But this meant leaving Baltimore, my friends, and my relationship. Suddenly, I wasn’t listening to my partner’s theoretical dreams of moving abroad, I was the one saying that I had a definitive offer to leave, and it would be starting almost immediately. I felt selfish, guilty, and torn in two. But it was ironic how much it related to Saltwater. The story was now quite muddied - which of these characters, very obviously inserts of myself and my partner at the time, was the one actually leaving? I guess the audience can’t tell for sure, and maybe it doesn’t matter, but being on both sides of the story while making the film was quite interesting.
In an almost prophetic ending, my partner and I broke up when I moved to Portland. It felt like Saltwater had predicted part of this.
I finished up the film, and began submitting to festivals. It debuted in Colombia at Equinoxio, and I saw a clip from my animation featured in a trailer for the festival, set to music, with exciting connections drawn between the different student works. Wow! It was starting to feel real.
Saltwater showed at the amazing Sweaty Eyeballs Animation Festival in Baltimore - the first animation festival I had ever attended, while studying at MICA. I had even volunteered and created an animation for the festival before. But this was legit, people would be watching my film on that humungous historic screen from two levels. So in October of 2022, I flew back, hung out with my friends, got way too drunk at The Crown, and watched my film. Some people even cried - a friend came up to me and said “Declan, I didn’t know you made sad work”. Which was funny - I felt like an undercurrent of sadness flowed through the majority of my art. But maybe I’m just so ridiculous in my day to day that this kind of romantic sensibility came as a surprise. It started to feel like an achievement to hear someone had cried while watching the film. Is that evil?
The film continued to travel, and sometimes I got to go with it. Visiting Canada for the first time to attend Images Festival in Toronto, or getting no less than 12 of my friends in Portland to watch it screen at the historic Hollywood theater. Every time, I would meet some truly wonderful people, have some drinks and laugh and giggle in the streets of a new city, and I felt like I was becoming a part of this world.
Saltwater was accepted into Annecy, a treasure I never would have imagined happening, but also didn’t understand the weight of. Would you believe I missed the initial deadline to submit my materials? I mean, knowing myself I can totally believe it, but missing your deadline for Annecy is a NO-NO to anyone with common sense!! Thankfully, a gentle reminder email solved that, and I planned my trip to France. Thank God for my steady paycheck and generous PTO. I miss those days.
Annecy was overwhelming in the best ways, and Europe gripped me in a way I didn’t expect. I had no idea there were so many people and opportunities and films in the world, and being around over 17,000 attendees of the festival was mind blowing. I saw Guillermo del Toro speak, saw a world premiere, and saw basically every contemporary gay animator at the PRIDE screenings. I met so many creatives from around the world, some of which I have been lucky enough to keep in touch with on social media or even see again at the festival when I attended this year. After my 11pm screening, Mica, a student from MICA, came up to me and we got to reconnect, not in Baltimore but on the other side of the world. Life is quite funny in that way.
A few more festivals, a trip to Denver for the majorly fun Denver International Film Festival (lets just say when the festival volunteers book you a trip from the closing screening to Meow Wolf on a consumption bus… you are in for a great time), and Saltwater wrapped up its distribution with a screening in London. It felt like a natural time to end, and while I wish I could have pushed Saltwater even further around the world, I’m really satisfied. Hey, one festival and I would’ve been happy. This was more than I could’ve asked for.
But something more was calling. The potential of Europe, the festivals and residencies and fundings that I witnessed at Annecy, glimmered with opportunity. And so last year I made the move to Barcelona. As the infrastructure of the United States continues to crumble, and visa opportunities in Europe have been subjected to new legislative regulations, I am back again in a precarious spot. I don’t really know what the future will hold. But this time, it’s different. I’ve gained some tools, some perspective. I’ll make the best of the life I have, where it takes me and how it grows and crumbles, and that’s all I can control.
I learned so much from Saltwater. I found ways to communicate some very abstract sensations I have, and learned that there will be people out in the world who will understand it. I saw that having your film cut to black halfway through will sometimes make people think it’s over. I discovered that making art about love is scary and exciting.
Next, I have my group’s final project from BAU, the university I studied stop-motion at in Barcelona coming out soon, and it will be interesting to see the journey that we go on.
Thank you to everyone who helped me create Saltwater, spent time with me, watched the film, organized or attended the festivals, or read this post.