Malcom Carter on IA&T
BlogTalkRadio show Independent Artists & Thinkers is BACK! On November 23, 2016 we will host Director/Producer/Writer Malcom Carter.
Are all things in the Universe really connected? How can we learn to see things differently? Join us as director, writer, and producer Malcom Carter talks about his new film THE CONNECTED UNIVERSE.
THE CONNECTED UNIVERSE is a fascinating and visually poetic journey of exploration of the connection of all things in the Universe. The film is Narrated by the legendary Sir Patrick Stewart. It explores many intriguing ideas and features the science of Nassim Haramein and his search to understand the mechanism of connection of all things in the Universe.
The Connected Universe has a global message, and it’s the highest crowd funded documentary in Indiegogo history! In its first two weeks of release it has been purchased by people in 104 countries – over half of the countries in the world!
This film will INSPIRE YOU to CONNECT TO YOUR POTENTIAL… the potential of WHO YOU ARE and WHO YOU CAN BECOME.
Malcom Carter is an Award winning Filmmaker and director. Over the last 20 years his work has appeared on 544 television networks, in 155 countries, and reached a combined global audience of over 2 billion viewers. Malcom is passionate about using the power of film to make a difference in the world by communicating messages that matter. He has extensive expertise in creating compelling communications with global impact. He is also known for being able to work with visionary thought leaders and advanced thinkers to translate and synthesize their ideas in an understandable way to a wide audience.
This has lead to work with NASA think tanks, and with global humanitarian organizations.
Malcom is also known for creating cinematic, engaging, and emotionally compelling films. Films that touch the heart. Films that inspire and inform the mind. Focused on global messaging – Malcom is part of a global network of top film makers in over 40 countries that shares communication strategies, film techniques, and local contacts to truly enhance the ability to film affordably around the globe.
Malcom currently lives in Vancouver, Canada and was the Director of the Asian Winter Games for the International Olympic Committee of Asia (2011), he also is an advoccate for mental health and worked with Kaiser Foundation Films. Malcom is a member of the International Quorum of Motion Picture Producers, Billion Minds Foundation Board of Governors, and various think tanks (NASA AMES, Colorado School of Mines, Talberg Forum).
Selected Awards: 25 motion picture award nominations (Best Director, Best Documentary, Best Promotional Film, Best Public Service Film, Best Music Video, Best Educational Film, Best Program Reflecting Cultural Diversity, Walter Klein Award, FREDDIE).
A Youtube video of Sabin Howard presenting to the WW1 Memorial Committee.
I’m so proud of my husband and his partner, architect Joe Weishaar, for their proposal to the WW1 Memorial Committee. Sabin and Joe put together a beautiful proposal for a memorial to the Great War in Pershing Park in Washington DC. Joe Weishaar did the wonderful design and Sabin created the sculpture, the beautiful reliefs and sculpture in the round. Their proposal is called WEIGHT OF REMEMBRANCE.
Some enterprising member of the audience streamed about 8 minutes of Sabin’s speech on Periscope. I was able to get the video from Periscope and upload it into Youtube.
Sabin said, in part, “”Ambition in balance, coupled with humbleness is an open heart. This is where energy flows. This is where we create as human beings.”
Day 1: Letter to a friend
So, I am staying on a little street with multiple creperies, and managed to inhale a crepe with oeuf and fromage for lunch.
You’d be proud: I’m already integrating with the natives. I was lugging my suitcase up the stairs when a largish blond man offered to help. I demurred but he insisted so disarmingly that I felt obliged to please him by allowing him to hoist my bag over his broad shoulders. He introduced himself as Jean-Sven, and when I queried him about his name, he said his mother was French and his father was a Swede.
“Didn’t you scratch off the winning genetic lotto ticket,” I said. I’m not sure he got the idiom entirely, but it registered enough that he smiled all over himself. He’s my upstairs neighbor.
As to other notes, I notice that most of the denizens of this city of lights worship the Lung Cancer Fairy, who protects them from illness as they puff insistently on chains of cigarettes. I went for dinner at an Italian trattoria, where they almost kissed me when I answered them in Italian. Then they brought pasta with my mousse aux chocolate and tried to pretend that the rigatoni accompanied the dessert. We all laughed uproariously.
Til tomorrow, with my warmest thoughts!
Day 9: Letter to a friend
There were a host of reasons to sally forth in the direction of Shakespeare & Company after 12:00–so I went. I walked, because even an hour of yoga every day can not make up for the delicious food I encounter at every turn: chocolate, creme brûlée, chocolate, ripe apricots, cherries, sumptuous breads of all kinds, and have I mentioned the chocolate? It should be named “The city of chocolate” rather than “the city of lights.”
So I walk everywhere, which suits me anyway. No better way to let the city absorb me–like a corpuscle flowing into the river of life animating the body of this great, sultry, capricious, intense, evocative city–Paris is a grande lady, for sure. (I hope that circulatory metaphor appeals to your sensibility!) And did you know that Dickens was a great walker? Wonderful storyteller, creative genius, lousy husband–walked all through London at night. I always felt badly for his wife.
I googlemapped the way and arrived at 12:50, spent ten minutes browsing the Paris history section, to no avail. Nothing useful to my purposes. Worse yet, when I rose from my squat, I found a piece of paper in my hands.
“You’ve been followed. Be more careful.”
I walked out in front of store to see who could possibly have followed me. I trotted around on the street, saw no one suspicious, finally laid eyes on a slim man in a jean jacket disappearing into the crowds around Notre Dame.
Was that the follower? Or Francois? Was there even a follower? Or were Francois and Mme Durand playing with me? I was nettled–and still didn’t know about the Cezanne.
Since I was close to the Seine anyways, I wandered toward Pont D’Alma and the Museum of the Sewers. The sewers beneath the city are extensive and impressive. Victor Hugo wrote about them, and he’s liberally referred to on placards down there, in the depths of the earth. There’s probably a play on “bowels” but I’m too tired to make it. And it was the stinkiest tour I’ve ever taken!
Back at home, Jean-Sven and Angelique stopped by so I could congratulate Angelique on her brilliant performance at the Sunside Jazz Club. She does have a glorious alto! Which she used to great effect to comment on what she’d heard were my “delicious shoulders.” Asked me to uncover one so she could taste for herself. I laughed and took it all as a big joke. My sense of humor has gotten me out of more than one tight corner–especially when I can laugh at myself. I remember your sense of humor as quite fun–engaging–before you battened down the hatches and threw it away.
If I were married to a surgeon, I would hear about cuts and scalpels; if I were married to a movie producer, I would be regaled with stories about talent and above- and below-the-line costs; I am married to a classical figurative sculptor, so I have spent considerable time in Possagno, at Canova’s Gypsoteca and the nearby breath-taking Tempio.
Tonight I wanted to try a new place for dinner. Sabin googled a restaurant and, en route, we passed an Agriturismo.
“Oh, let’s stop there, I love Agriturismos!” I enthused.
Sabin was skeptical, but he was in the mood to please me. I had, after all, endured several hours of waiting for him to emerge from the Canova museum. He raised an eyebrow but drove up the gravel road to the restaurant.
We were greeted by the honks and shuffles of a small pen of ducks and hens. “Dinner,” Sabin observed. But he was happy to note that the immaculate walkway to the Agriturismo was lined with half-life-size sculptures. It was all very neat and manicured.
Once inside, we saw several locals and a few tourists. Nice-looking young Demitri waved us to a table in welcoming fashion and then informed us of the day’s offerings.
The antipasti consisted of two plates of the most delicious salumi. One plate was heaped with prosciutto, pancetta, and salami. The other plate sported paper-thin slices of roast breast of turkey. As a rule, I don’t eat pork. But the salami was mouth-wateringly scrumptious, and I couldn’t resist. I ate every bite that Sabin allowed me—he finished most of it, and he wasn’t sharing, despite the kilo of beef he’d eaten for lunch.
I also indulged in the wine. It was a riot of purple goodness on my tongue, fresh and drinkable and absolutely superb. At night I have one glass of wine at dinner. But tonight a few glasses vanished before I belatedly realized that I really should pace myself. It was just so clean and yummy that I wanted more, and more. Oh, and have I mentioned that the wine is home-made?
Then came the pasta: home-made tagliatelle with duck ragu. Ohmigod. As a professional writer, I really should have a better way to say it than Ohmigod. But that luscious primi deserved devout praise, an exclamation of the purest pleasure. Again, as a rule, I don’t eat pasta. But this was a divine exception.
Sabin devoured his pasta without saying a word or even breathing.
Then I had the steak, and it was fantastic, clean and lean and perfectly cooked and exquisite. Sabin and I shared the secondi because he had, after all, eaten a kilo of beef at lunch.
We passed on dessert. I couldn’t have wedged another bite of anything down my gullet. So Demetri brought me home-made limoncello, and it was another mouthful of bliss and paradise. We fell to talking to him, or rather, Sabin spoke Italian and I understand a lot more than I can say, so I followed the conversation. Then Demetri introduced us to his wife Jessica, a lovely and talented young woman who keeps a sparkling kitchen and cooks like an angel. We begged her to allow us to take a few pictures, because it was overwhelmingly impressive.
And then Demitri brought me a glass of an herbal liquor that he claimed was a digestive, something they make themselves. Have I already used the words delicious, divine, scrumptious, and bliss? Because they all apply to this liquor, which must be tasted to be believed.
So next time you are in the area of Asolo or Possagno, or anywhere in the Veneto, stop by Agriturismo Al Vecchio Borgo. They’re located at Via Fusere 7 – Fietta di Paderno del Grappa, tel 0423 190 14 57. Restaurant open Friday and Saturday dinner and Sunday lunch and dinner.
I am so excited about this forthcoming book review by FOREWORD REVIEWS.
FOREWORD REVIEWS is the Library Journal of Independent Publishing. It’s an excellent periodical that’s available in both print and digital format; it was founded by three women writers and magazine professionals who got together to found a trade review journal for the burgeoning independent publishing industry. They have a great story about it here.
FOREWORD REVIEWS chose to review BROKEN in the forthcoming Sci Fi/Fantasy issue, which will ship at the end of February to B&N newsstands. The review is absolutely beautiful and I’ve been given permission to quote from it. They’ve also chosen to feature Robert Ferri’s gorgeous LIBERACI DAL MALE, the painting from which the cover of BROKEN is taken. I’ve seen the spread and it’s gorgeous.
Here is the review:
Traci L. Slatton
Softcover $16.99 (225pp)
Slatton has created a beautiful, heart wrenching tale of humanity during the Second World War. When her beloved Ariel is lost, the angel Alia chooses to fall, taking on a human body in Paris on the eve of war. She befriends the city’s artists, from Pablo Picasso and Salvador Dalí to Edith Piaf and Sacha Guitry, and experiences all of Paris’s human pleasures: drinking, partying, and having sex with wild abandon. Two men, in particular, catch her affection: bullfighter Pedro and openly Jewish musician Josef. As the war takes over, Alia also finds herself drawn protectively to Josef’s widowed sister, Suzanne, and her young daughter, Cécile. But as the Nazi’s march in, Alia begins to fear she cannot save them all.
Slatton writes poignantly, with lyrical prose: “I have been shattered, the shattering is still with me. I am only shards now. There is no core.” This is a gorgeous philosophical treaty on right and wrong, the “why” behind impossible decisions, and what remains when everything is gone. Slatton guides the reader gently through to the end, all the more heartbreaking for its inevitability, imparting powerful, resonant themes as she goes. Among them, “neutrality is an excuse to give free rein to a bully.”
I love this review! MANY THANKS to Foreword Reviews!