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The first attempt to apply paint on film.

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Scratched and drew on 16mm today. Simple dots and lines already feel alive on film.

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This week I worked on the film by carving with scissors, tweezers, and hairpins. These tools made different marks and scratches on the surface. I could control the pressure and direction to get new patterns. It was interesting to see how everyday objects can change the film material in a creative way.

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This week I worked by punching holes on the film with a punch tool. It was a simple way to change the film and add new patterns.

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This week I learned how to use the Bolex H-16 camera. We were shown how to open the camera, load the film, and wind it by hand. It was my first time working with this kind of camera, and I could see how different it is from digital cameras. I felt excited to touch the real film equipment and understand how it works.

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The film has been completed and the video has been recorded. I worked directly on 16mm film by hand. I used colors, scratches, and textures to create the final images.

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We checked batteries, learned the controls, and tested different cameras on the table. It felt very old-school — slow, mechanical, and hands-on. Even though it's not as fast as digital, I like how film makes me think about every shot. There’s something magical about shooting without knowing the result right away.

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I love how the manual dials and switches make me slow down and think carefully about every shot.
Even changing the frame rate and exposure feels hands-on and creative.
Shooting on film gives a warm, nostalgic look that digital cameras can’t fully copy.
It also makes me appreciate each second I record, because every frame is precious.

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This frame shows sunlight passing through the brick columns and casting long shadows on the ground. I was attracted by the geometry of the light — it cuts across the floor in sharp triangles and guides the viewer’s eye forward. Even though nothing dramatic happens, the shapes of the shadows create a quiet rhythm. For me, this scene shows that waiting is not just standing still, but being surrounded by slowly changing light.

I filmed this part on Super 8 because I wanted the soft grain and warm colour to make the corridor feel nostalgic, like a memory of walking to class. The slight flicker of the film also adds a sense of time passing. When I look at this shot now, I feel that everyday architecture becomes more emotional when light moves across it. This image helped me understand that my project is really about how light turns ordinary spaces into poetic, “in-between” moments.

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This shot focuses on a tree glowing in the afternoon sunlight. The small flashes on the leaves look almost like tiny stars. When I filmed it, the wind was gentle, so the movement is subtle but constant. I wanted to connect this natural rhythm with the emotional rhythm of waiting. Even if we are standing still, the world around us keeps breathing and shifting.

Compared to the urban scenes, this frame feels softer and more dream-like. The bluish tone of the sky and the light haze around the branches create a calm mood. It almost looks like a memory rather than a documentary shot. I like how the reflections and highlights merge together and form a kind of visual music. This image reminds me that waiting does not always happen in crowded streets; it can also be a quiet moment of looking at a tree, thinking about nothing and everything at the same time. That gentle, reflective mood is something I tried to carry through the whole film.

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In this frame, students and pedestrians walk along the street near the university. I did not ask anyone to perform; I just filmed what was already happening. Their different walking speeds create an irregular but lively rhythm, almost like a heartbeat. Some people move fast, some slow down, some turn their heads. I wanted to capture this everyday energy and contrast it with the quieter, emptier spaces in other parts of my film.

The lighting here is bright and slightly overexposed, which matches the feeling of a busy midday. Cars, signs, plants, and backpacks fill the frame, so there is no clear centre. Instead, the viewer’s eye keeps moving through the image, just like we keep moving through the city. For me, this shot shows that waiting does not always mean standing in one spot. We might be walking, talking, or carrying bags, but we are still waiting for something — a bus, a message, a future plan. This idea of “moving while waiting” became an important concept for my project.

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This image comes from the hand-painted section near the end of my film. Instead of using any recorded footage, I created visuals directly on clear Super 8 film by scratching, painting, and dripping coloured ink onto the surface. The pigments spread and overlapped to form abstract layers of blue, yellow, and soft pink. When projected, these marks come alive — small dots shimmer and lines pulse like moving memories.

I wanted to use this process to express emotion in a more physical way. The act of touching the film and leaving traces felt intimate, almost like writing with light and colour instead of words. Each scratch became a sign of hesitation, curiosity, or quiet excitement. For me, this part represents the emotional core of Waiting in Light: the moment when waiting turns from something external into something internal. It is about feelings that cannot be clearly shown through real-world images, but can be felt through texture, rhythm, and light.

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Len Lye’s Rainbow Dance (1936) is one of the earliest experimental films that combines live-action footage with colours painted and printed directly onto film. I was fascinated by how Lye superimposed moving shapes and bright colour fields on top of a real performer without hiding the original image. The result feels energetic, playful, and rhythmic. It made me realise that film can be used not only to record reality, but also to paint emotions directly on the surface of the material.

Watching Rainbow Dance inspired me to explore hand-made film techniques in my own project. In the final section of Waiting in Light, I painted and scratched directly on 16mm film instead of using digital effects. I created dots, lines, and small bursts of colour to echo the flickering patterns of sunlight. This process helped me understand how physical marks can create rhythm and emotion. Lye’s work encouraged me to experiment more freely and to see colour and movement as a form of expression rather than decoration.

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Derek Jarman’s A Journey to Avebury (1971) is a quiet landscape film showing paths, fields, trees, and stones under warm sunlight. The camera moves slowly, almost as if it is walking alongside the viewer. What attracts me most is how natural light becomes the main storyteller — the film has no dialogue, yet every frame feels alive because of the shifting sunlight and shadow. Jarman used simple composition and steady pacing to let viewers feel time passing in real space.

This work deeply influenced the way I filmed Waiting in Light. It taught me that patience and attention can turn simple moments — like walking or standing — into something meaningful. The contrast between bright light and long shadow in A Journey to Avebury reminded me to focus on sunlight as an emotional element, not just a technical one. In my own film, I tried to capture similar natural contrasts, showing how light changes mood and transforms waiting into reflection.

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In the final phase of Waiting in Light, I began to understand that waiting is not the opposite of motion, but a quieter version of it. While editing my footage, I noticed that every small movement — a person turning, a leaf trembling, a light flickering — carries its own rhythm. These subtle rhythms became the emotional pulse of my work. I slowed down several walking shots and mixed them with ambient footsteps, wind, and distant car sounds to build a layered atmosphere. The combination of stillness and movement helped the film breathe naturally, like time expanding and contracting in silence.

Through this process, I learned that waiting itself contains energy. It is a state of observation, of paying attention to how light changes space and how time shapes emotion. Every frame, even the quiet ones, is full of invisible tension. Making this project taught me to notice the small transitions between moments, and to find beauty in the ordinary. In the end, Waiting in Light became more than a short film — it became a reflection on perception, patience, and the quiet poetry of everyday life.