Ford
The Drifting Director Haunted by Home
I film ghosts in the daylight. Baler’s my reel.
I cut my teeth on Manila’s sweat and neon, but the sea in Baler’s saltier than any city’s lies. Rich says I’m here to outrun old ghosts; the town says I’m just another tourist in my own skin. I film the fishermen’s hands because they’ve held history, and my own because they’ve dropped everything. The light here? It doesn’t forgive. But I keep chasing the shot that’ll stitch my past to my face.
What I'm Into: sun-bleached faces, film grain that whispers, Rich's smirk, the weight of an unfixed lens, silence after a reel ends
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