Wind bends the grass. Is the grass happy to be pushed by an external force? Is one boy of the three happy to be pushed by the others? The three are bound together in this moment of co-presence. A reality that becomes ever more porous as the film evolves, inviting conceptual exit options.

City traffic is always a dance. Yes, it’s about getting from A to B. And yes, people show themselves to one another, planning their paths with and around each other so that no one is in the way, but everyone keeps moving together — with or without vehicles — a dance, indeed. With a smile on their face.

Men suspended in limbo. Trampoline artists, captured in high speed, hover at the peak of their jumps, bodies folding, stretching, and finding balance in midair. The film’s composition shows all three of them in a fight-dance, physical interaction, making the point that repositioning, control, and correction are always possible, even in free fall.

Men suspended in midair. Trampoline artists, captured in high speed, hover at the peak of their jumps, bodies folding, stretching, and finding balance in midair. The film’s composition shows all three of them in a fight-dance, physical interaction, making the point that repositioning, control, and correction are always possible, even in free fall.

Sleeping collectively implies consent Everyone agrees: here and now, sinking into sleep is safe, for without a basic sense of security no one s eyes will close Or has some higher force turned the group into a tableau like in a fairy tale? Here, a diver slips from the bench, yet does not fall into the water The tipping moment remains frozen In the middle of the day, in the middle of the river A picture of the future? A portrait of a society too ignorant to acknowledge environmental change? Or an image of such deep connectedness with the world that everyone relaxes without fear or worry? Where are we when we sleep? Who are we then? Is sleep the great blind spot in our lives?

Easter marches are approaching. May Day is not far off, and loose cobblestones lie around here. The tram shelter becomes a shooting gallery. The traffic barriers, with their round yellow lamp heads, turn into shooting gallery figures, sometimes hit, sometimes not. Are shooting galleries at fairs places that train throwing stones and similar objects?

… A stop-motion film for and with the lost, the forgotten, the fugitive, the torn, the stuffed, the right, the unsupervised, the alarmist, the arrived, the rejected, the returnees, the excluded and the chosen. "Don't leave your luggage unattended!" demand the announcements that make you afraid of the contents of the travel bags. We say: "Leave your luggage there..." Back, left, behind him. Travel light!

There is a certain magic here. From the top of three screens, visual content apparently spills over into the one below, reaching the bottom screen. The film offers insight into a newspaper printing factory, where the paper is also trimmed along the edges, producing a stream of shreds. These sink and tumble elegantly from the top across the screens to the floor, forming a semi-transparent curtain of debris. Behind this curtain of excess, work on new editions of printed news continues.

Plumeting smoke. Dirty machinery. Uncountable numbers of young people - happy to traverse that world of large scale technology in search for the grander view - the bigger picture of more smoke, more dirt, more machinery extracting matter from earth. A dark lullaby.

Wind bends the grass. Is the grass happy to be pushed by an external force? Is one boy of the three happy to be pushed by the others? The three are bound together in this moment of co-presence. A reality that becomes ever more porous as the film evolves, inviting conceptual exit options.

Midday heat in the bus shelter. How long has it been since a bus arrived? A whole choir sleeps standing, leaning against each other out in the open by the country road. Perhaps the bus drove on quietly, so as not to wake the choir.

A shopping mall is the dance floor for all members of society. Any character may pass by, wiggle their trolley in any manner. Some demand more space than others. Some show extended courtesy. And then there are the oblivious gnats.

After Christmas. After the feast. After New Year, the trees are done. Put outside. Left to be taken away. Meanwhile, they gather in a tram stop shelter, shuffled in by the stop-motion technique. Their movement sounds like fire. And why not? It’s just one of the many crops we plant in order to consume. Why not year-end twigs and greens too?

Summer The grass stands tall. It has overgrown the rows of benches in an open-air theatre. Two boys fell asleep, tipped forward. How much patience did they bring, how much hope for an event that might keep them awake? Here they lie peacefully side by side, sunk into sleep, in the tall grass, between empty wooden benches, in the sultry weight of summer.

The history of techniques for predicting the future is as old as the idea of the future itself. There is something melancholic in listening into the rails. What may come feels unstoppable. My own strength is nowhere near enough to halt the momentum that is only now announcing itself in a faint whisper. To pull away seems prudent And yet, should I lift my ear from the rail, the connection will break The warning would fall silent.

A fragmented perspective in perpetual motion – it exudes calm and evokes fascination with the complex interior of mechanical technology. Nine panels show the conveyor belts along which freshly printed newspapers rush by. Seemingly from one panel to the next, forming an intricate chain of infinity. A rollercoaster of printed news. With no beginning or end, the movement seems endless, as if the production of paper, headlines, and advertisements continues forever.

An industrial indoor landscape made of paper drums and a maze of rollercoaster conveyor belts, transporting what will end up on a breakfast table or at a fishmonger to wrap the fresh catch of the day. Newness contained in pulp. Ink gushing onto endless streams of paper. High-speed, high-tech machinery routinely geared to provide continuity—the continuity of isolated incidents.

Taking time out from this world, outside in the th plain open very close to heavy traffic.

Shopping thin air — many bags bulging. All gathered to wait for the tram. What an impressive congregation of emptiness. What a celebration of color and difference — the everyday objects of a consumer society, so skeptical of variance when it comes to the carriers of these colorful bags.

Filtered vision with crosshairs at the center—a trigger point that people, animals, and objects only just manage to avoid. Unaware of the looming threat. How often do we escape catastrophe by millimetres? Is risk the common thread in the fabric of life? Has the danger of becoming a target object become new, or simply more consciously perceived?

A lifeguard sneaks around the pool. Skeptical. Hesitantly. He is lonely and bored. He plays with his pool tools. Tired of the water. What is it about the element that usually looks inviting? A strong jump greets. Where are the guests of the outdoor pool? What caused the lack of floats? Is the water still okay. The lifeguard jumps at the end – but we don't see the plunge.

Men suspended in limbo. Trampoline artists, captured in high speed, hover at the peak of their jumps, bodies folding, stretching, and finding balance in midair. The film’s composition shows all three of them in a fight-dance, physical interaction, making the point that repositioning, control, and correction are always possible, even in free fall.

The winner of 60secondsdance is an unpretentious, funny and thought provoking dance film. Man and machine meet in a comic and self-ironic way. This interplay makes us reflect on how humans can get pacified and apathetic in the interaction with new technology. The film offers many analytical interpretations, and succeeds in showing a choreographic expression in a documentary context that combines movements and dance between humans and objects within the same frame.

High noon. A Harley bikers’ chapter has halted at the edge of a field. Their machines are lined up, the handlebars all set at the very same angle. Still sitting in the saddle, they are all fast asleep. Like in a fairy tale.