Some memories.
-All of 137 in one room for my birthday.
-Publishing my second book, Death and Other Things, on September 9th, 2011.
-Was fortunate enough to work with Spike Lee, Steven Spielberg (again), Christopher Nolan, Curtis Hanson, Marc Webb this year.
-Getting to work on a Spider-man film with my brother, my main man Michael Hall, was pretty awesome.
-The Daily Photo Blog-> http://www.flickr.com/photos/skinnyboybalki/sets/72157624575779273/
-Watching the Throne, twice, once with Mike, Bob, Jeff & Amanda and once with the artist formerly known as Mergen Freeman.
-Designing t-shirts for Neeha.
-Starting Mixtape Magazine with Veronique, the artist formerly know as Bergen Freeman, Phillip & TCD. This is the mountain to climb this year.
-Heading up to Canada with John Boyega.
-Concerts: Final LCD Soundsystem show at MSG, Childish Gambino twice, Frank Ocean at Bowery Ballroom.
-A drunken summer at the Belmar beach house with Mike, Bobby, Shalhoub, Merson and Ricky.
-Chris D'Ascoli (because he would give me shit if wasn't mentioned somewhere)
-Being able to buy my Mom a car, a proud feeling I'll chase forever.
-Most of all I didn't lose anyone this year. Everyone was healthy and prospering. Above all, after 2010, the most important.
-My best year.
-Let's make good art, make good memories, make good love and not take no for an answer. No limits. Keep pushing.
Peace love and there's more to come
ch
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Friday, November 11, 2011
Back, Then Gone Again
Almost done with Spikize, then back on the grind making cool shit for 2012. I can't wait for all you guys to see it.
Peace love and coulda saved myself 6 hours
ch
Tuesday, October 04, 2011
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Goodnight
Death and Other Things is out, so is Neeha. Party on Saturday night. I'm going back to work Monday morning. See you when I see you.
Peace love and spike
ch
Friday, September 09, 2011
How Writing Death and Other Things Saved My Life
In January 2010 I was in trouble.
I had just finished work on a movie that had broken my spirit, was laying in the wake of a disappointing first book, felt the heartbreak of a broken relationship and had a sick father who's better days were far behind him.
I was burnt out. Exhausted.
So I packed up and retreated. Heading up north, I locked myself in my uncle's house, taking my typewriter and my battered soul for colder temperatures. I was going to start something new, create something, purge all this shit into something else.
I started to write what would become Death and Other Things.
During those January days, snow covered the streets, my phone's battery died and was never recharged, J.D. Salinger passed away. The first words of John Kenney's wedding to Jenna Stevenson became wet ink on white loose leaf paper. The world John Pepper inhabited soon followed, the frame work of something, a story that wouldn't be completed until some 18 months later.
I headed home soon, to see my father, who's yo-yo-ing health was starting to have more valleys then peaks. He was tired too. His body beaten by persistent illness, his once athletic frame now confined to a wheelchair.
Offers to work on things came in, a polite 'no thanks' followed. I think I knew that this was the end. That I didn't have much time left with him. The man who raised me, fighting his last rounds. Over those final three months, I sat next to my father's bed and we watched movies. AMC showed Goodfellas on Sundays. USA had some trashy comedy on that we could laugh at. Each good or bad movie, maybe the last, maybe the second to last. I would kiss him on the head and tell him I'd see him tomorrow, deep down hoping that I wasn't wrong. I would wake up each morning and check my phone, relieved when I wouldn't see a missed call. I would have a knot in my stomach as I would head to hospice to see him, the nerves somewhat subsiding when I would spot him in the corner of the lunch room, putting his hand up to wave me over.
Then as the season turned to spring he began to fade, a week in bed, a fever popping up, a confused look in his eyes. My father was leaving me slowly.
He took a turn for the worse at the start of May, finally succumbing early morning, on the fourth.
The wake and funeral followed, an outpouring of support for a man loved by many. A thousand people telling you if you need anything, they'd do it, a thousand mass cards, a thousand phone calls. I saw how much my father was loved, the sheer number of lives that he had touched.
Then the phone stopped ringing and the cards stopped showing up in the mailbox. People went back to their business and I was left in a crater, wondering what was next. He was gone. No more listening to old albums or watching Goodfellas on Sundays. What was next? Working on some bullshit movie felt pointless.
I withdrew. Disappeared. Was short on the fuse, easy to fly off the handle, nasty to friends and family. Began to self medicate. Drink a little bit too much. Stayed in bed all day. I was making his death my own. I would head to Pennisi and Bob's beach house and do nothing but drink and sit on the porch, typing nonsense on my typewriter. This went on for weeks, wallowing, until July 4th.
It was late. I was sitting on the beach house stoop. The sky was big, not a cloud to be seen, a bright moon above my head. I took a walk down to the beach and sat down in the sand. I looked out into that big dark sky, that large black curtain, the spotlight of the moon reflecting off the waves. Then I heard him. I heard my father's voice, he told me to stop wasting away, to get back up, to make him proud. Then I saw him, ever so briefly, his face out in that sky. I'm not much religious, but for those few moments I felt him.
I headed back to the beach house and drove home the next morning, determined to do just what my father told me on the beach that night. I went back to work, trying to work on and make things he would have liked. He was an avid photographer, so I started a daily photo blog, taking a picture each and every day for a year. I took a job on "Too Big to Fail," a movie on my CV that would actually be good, a movie he really would have dug. Finally, I picked up Death and Other Things again, allowing it to be the channel to talk about all the things I had experienced, all of the feelings that were kicked up. Each and every word allowing me to make peace with my last two years. Allowing me to confront death, my fears, my thoughts.
Death and Other Things in a nutshell is about change. It's about keeping your head above water, it's about making it through the fire to the other side. It's about death of soul, of youth, of time. It's about losing and hopefully making things whole again. It's about making peace. Writing Death and Other Things has allowed me to make peace with my father's death, my pain and my last two years. It's not a breezy read, it is at times very dark, but hopefully by the end you can feel some sort of salvation, a sense of closure, an air of peace.
Above all else, I wrote it for my Dad.
I hope you enjoy it, it took me ten years to live and two years to write.
Peace love and thanks to everyone who helped me make it through
Christopher Hall
I had just finished work on a movie that had broken my spirit, was laying in the wake of a disappointing first book, felt the heartbreak of a broken relationship and had a sick father who's better days were far behind him.
I was burnt out. Exhausted.
So I packed up and retreated. Heading up north, I locked myself in my uncle's house, taking my typewriter and my battered soul for colder temperatures. I was going to start something new, create something, purge all this shit into something else.
I started to write what would become Death and Other Things.
During those January days, snow covered the streets, my phone's battery died and was never recharged, J.D. Salinger passed away. The first words of John Kenney's wedding to Jenna Stevenson became wet ink on white loose leaf paper. The world John Pepper inhabited soon followed, the frame work of something, a story that wouldn't be completed until some 18 months later.
I headed home soon, to see my father, who's yo-yo-ing health was starting to have more valleys then peaks. He was tired too. His body beaten by persistent illness, his once athletic frame now confined to a wheelchair.
Offers to work on things came in, a polite 'no thanks' followed. I think I knew that this was the end. That I didn't have much time left with him. The man who raised me, fighting his last rounds. Over those final three months, I sat next to my father's bed and we watched movies. AMC showed Goodfellas on Sundays. USA had some trashy comedy on that we could laugh at. Each good or bad movie, maybe the last, maybe the second to last. I would kiss him on the head and tell him I'd see him tomorrow, deep down hoping that I wasn't wrong. I would wake up each morning and check my phone, relieved when I wouldn't see a missed call. I would have a knot in my stomach as I would head to hospice to see him, the nerves somewhat subsiding when I would spot him in the corner of the lunch room, putting his hand up to wave me over.
Then as the season turned to spring he began to fade, a week in bed, a fever popping up, a confused look in his eyes. My father was leaving me slowly.
He took a turn for the worse at the start of May, finally succumbing early morning, on the fourth.
The wake and funeral followed, an outpouring of support for a man loved by many. A thousand people telling you if you need anything, they'd do it, a thousand mass cards, a thousand phone calls. I saw how much my father was loved, the sheer number of lives that he had touched.
Then the phone stopped ringing and the cards stopped showing up in the mailbox. People went back to their business and I was left in a crater, wondering what was next. He was gone. No more listening to old albums or watching Goodfellas on Sundays. What was next? Working on some bullshit movie felt pointless.
I withdrew. Disappeared. Was short on the fuse, easy to fly off the handle, nasty to friends and family. Began to self medicate. Drink a little bit too much. Stayed in bed all day. I was making his death my own. I would head to Pennisi and Bob's beach house and do nothing but drink and sit on the porch, typing nonsense on my typewriter. This went on for weeks, wallowing, until July 4th.
It was late. I was sitting on the beach house stoop. The sky was big, not a cloud to be seen, a bright moon above my head. I took a walk down to the beach and sat down in the sand. I looked out into that big dark sky, that large black curtain, the spotlight of the moon reflecting off the waves. Then I heard him. I heard my father's voice, he told me to stop wasting away, to get back up, to make him proud. Then I saw him, ever so briefly, his face out in that sky. I'm not much religious, but for those few moments I felt him.
I headed back to the beach house and drove home the next morning, determined to do just what my father told me on the beach that night. I went back to work, trying to work on and make things he would have liked. He was an avid photographer, so I started a daily photo blog, taking a picture each and every day for a year. I took a job on "Too Big to Fail," a movie on my CV that would actually be good, a movie he really would have dug. Finally, I picked up Death and Other Things again, allowing it to be the channel to talk about all the things I had experienced, all of the feelings that were kicked up. Each and every word allowing me to make peace with my last two years. Allowing me to confront death, my fears, my thoughts.
Death and Other Things in a nutshell is about change. It's about keeping your head above water, it's about making it through the fire to the other side. It's about death of soul, of youth, of time. It's about losing and hopefully making things whole again. It's about making peace. Writing Death and Other Things has allowed me to make peace with my father's death, my pain and my last two years. It's not a breezy read, it is at times very dark, but hopefully by the end you can feel some sort of salvation, a sense of closure, an air of peace.
Above all else, I wrote it for my Dad.
I hope you enjoy it, it took me ten years to live and two years to write.
Peace love and thanks to everyone who helped me make it through
Christopher Hall
Wednesday, September 07, 2011
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