A Les Blank Summer
- Oliver K. Johnson
- 1 day ago
- 10 min read
Normally in my published writing I prefer to be analytical. There’s a feeling of vanity I get when writing about my own life with the intention of putting it out there. But the trifecta of watching Girls, reading one of my good friends travel diaries, and being told I should be less “to the wall” has me thinking it’s time to do something bold and exploratory.
I came into summer 2026 with a fire in my soul. During the school year I found it hard to juggle so many things I was passionate about: film projects, sociological research, music exploration, a burgeoning website yet to see the light of day, and a 10-page paper on college students’ kink practices that anyone who ran into me for the past few months is sure to have heard about. The looming nothingness of the season excited me.
Finally, I wasn’t depressed, I was ablaze with creativity and no longer bound to attend a wedding in Greece I had the ultimate blank slate. In my mind, I’d have a week off, then project after project would pile up, until I had the oeuvre of a “true writer.” To match this freewheeling creative tear, I decided it was time for my big one: a retrospective on the late American documentarian Les Blank.
Blank broke onto the scene with his biographical short, The Blues Accordin’ to Lightnin’ Hopkins (1968), which followed the titular musician through his day, capturing his ramblings on life and his performances. According to Blank, he befriended Hopkins after betting the totality of his film budget against him and losing. An absolute maverick in his field, he and co-conspirator Maureen Gosling continued making cinéma vérité portraits in a similar vein to the Maysles Brothers of musicians, food, and culture in the rural American South.
Famous examples include the hymn to seasoning Garlic is as Good as Ten Mothers (1980), the languid Leon Russell portrait A Poem is a Naked Person (1974), and most famously, a chronicle of the fiasco behind Werner Herzog’s Fitzcarraldo, Burden of Dreams (1982). Admittedly, the latter doesn’t really embody what makes Blank to me, even if the subject matter is fascinating.
His films about the daily lives of people in the rural American South have always been cinematic comfort food for me and my biggest draw to his work. They’re artefacts of more communal days, or at least a glimpse into a kind of a highly interconnected world far beyond my own. That world may still be buried somewhere under our current hustle-bustle apocalypse. The films make me feel alive, and I always keep their loose energy and eccentric personalities in the back of my mind when starting a creative endeavour.
Fate had different plans for me. This Les Blank summer wasn’t one of deep historical analysis on him, but one of good food, romance, struggle, growth, and a realization that the community I so craved when I watched his films has been around me my whole life.
Beyond writing, I knew there were three big things on my mind as I touched down in Washington, the lights and smell of SeaTac as enveloping as ever. This would be my first summer at home without my brother living there. I’d have to make my own entertainment, especially at family functions, where shit can get geezer-esque real fast. He’d take a three week break from his cult-like Catholic film school in Escondido, but that time felt scant for someone who, for most of my life, has been my constant companion.
The second thing was that I had bought a ticket to see experimental hip-hop legend Danny Brown. I made a whole day of it, taking the train down from my little border town to muck about Seattle, slowly trekking my way down from Pike Place to SODO. It was a truly absurd journey on foot, and quite shocking to anyone I crossed paths with on my quest.
During my travels, I saw the aquarium’s new tropical exhibit and felt deeply spiritual about it, my childhood dreams of marine biology research flooding my soul with nostalgia. I hit up the library, and a Mediterranean café, where I watched a stream of uptight businessmen go by and a homeless man pushing a flaming shopping cart past a strip club. The latter image really stuck with me and I’m not quite sure why.
In line for the concert, I eyed the bag check, worrying my fanny pack would be flagged. I noticed another couple eyeing it too: an alt girl with micro-bangs and a tall blonde, moustached man with the slowest burning joint of all time. A classic Washingtonian pairing.
We got to shooting the shit about hip-hop and movies and the rinky-dink towns from which we travelled to the big city. Before I knew it, so much shit had been shot that we were Letterboxd mutuals, standing together at the barricade throughout the whole concert. The guy texted me the next day asking for more music recs.
My initial instinct was to act like a hermit – was this not just a one-time, fun concert memory? I had to look at myself in the mirror and go “Oliver! This is exactly what you want: a true music nerd friend who wants to endlessly exchange album recommendations and delve deep into the odd, esoteric parts of life with you.”
I got over myself pretty quickly and a beautiful friendship between us and his fiancé blossomed. We went to a show together where I learned of his storied past as a professional magician, they invited me to my first true adult dinner party (at which they introduced me to the wonder that is strawberry basil lemonade spiked with gin), and they were the last friends I saw before leaving.
All year, I’ve been trying to let people into my life more, to be free from worry, neurosis, or clinginess on both sides. Becoming friends with them, out of the blue, after meeting the old-fashioned way set the tone for the rest of the summer. I hope we’ll be friends for a long time.
The third thing on my mind was this ambiguous, emotionally deep potential tryst. Part of me was really smitten with this girl I met on New Years. We instantly hit it off talking about Catholic school and my forever man River Phoenix; the first time we hung out, we ended up watching Pacific Northwest classic My Own Private Idaho (1991). All semester long, we spoke deep into the night over the phone, reflecting on our lives, our feelings, and deep philosophical inquiries into the state of the world. I was back and forth on whether we were friends, or if I was in love with her – a dubious place to be, especially for someone who sees relationships and dating as possessing a mythic power.
The very first day of summer, she came over for dinner – I cooked up an excellent meatball soup – wherein I learned the guy she was casually seeing was in fact a serious boyfriend. Maybe we’re both so aloof that I missed that, but I knew whatever affection held for her had to be platonic. It hurt for that weekend, but pretty quickly I realized how freeing it was to be confronted with certainty.
I was certain that we cared for each other, certain we could be great friends, and certain that I needed to be more up-front about my romantic feelings in the future. There could be no more self-inflicted ambiguity from whose wreckage I had to drag my heart through. This hurt opened the door for clear-cut, beautiful friendship. We only saw each other a couple of times this summer – including a slow-moving voyage on the water – but each time I could tell there was a deep understanding between us, even if it only made sense in our minds.
I thought I was in for the most single summer of all time, spent exclusively on writing and listening to music. My bachelor lifestyle was reaching unprecedented levels: for the rest of May, my nights were spent watching Leftist YouTube and old Westerns with my dad, and calling a different friend – let’s call her Maria – whom I’d recently allowed to peer into my life.
I always need a caller friend. No one ever really leaves the rolodex, but there’s always someone who has just poor enough of a sleep schedule that they will be up, well into the night theorizing about what love is, how to be less cynical, and what to do when you hook up with a guy with the dumbest name of all time.
Maria was my role model through the summer, uninhibited by the need to live a normal life and fearlessly vulnerable despite the occasional toll on her sanity. When her summer job fell through, she decided to trek across the country, eventually stopping at my house. As she’s also a writer, I’ll let her tackle that chronicle. Our check-ins during her journey were always something I’d look forward to.
While I was on the up and up, it wasn’t that way for my family. My mom, especially, was struggling to feel seen and supported while caring for our grandpa with dementia. We’ve always been closer than most people, so any chance I could be there, I was right there beside her, even if I got a little stressed seeing her take on endless projects amidst this emotional era (namely, hosting a wedding at our house, which of course turned out lovely). She’s been the topic of a lot of my academic writing the last couple years.
The older I get, the more we can see each other as people, as confidants, and each other’s rocks. We’re both pretty emotional people, which means some of our conversations can get tiring, but it’s always worth it. More and more, I realize most people don’t have that kind of bond with their family. As I started to veer off on my less “productive” escapades, I really felt this pull, as if I was letting them down for not being there constantly. I just had to remember: some families are always present, but never there for each other. We are.
On June 11, the summer took a turn. I decided to really put myself out there and go on a Hinge date. All I knew was that she did close-up magic, met a spy abroad, and loved the anime Nana. It was the best first date I’ve ever been on: a silly, meandering wander through town driven by great banter that – I thought – screenwriters would kill to have written. I was certain this was something special, even if I didn’t know what it was yet.
When I got home, we received the call that my grandpa had passed away. At this point, my brother was in town, so we sat with our mom most of that night, the odd clash of hope and despair that’s been on my mind forever now laid bare. Even in the face of this great loss of someone who shaped my childhood, I felt grateful for all the trips to see him with my mom, the presence of my brother, and that I could experience these two emotional extremes of the very same day.
The summer became a real whirlwind after that. Funeral and wedding prep consumed the household. My brother returned to school, and I had my canonical life changing summer romance. I’ll spare the gory details, for her privacy’s sake, and because listing all the great moments we spent together would take a lot of pages. There’s enough for a billion private poems. I remember a moment of certainty, when she was playing guitar and humming Elliott Smith as I laid daydreaming, where I truly realised what it was like to let go and allow someone’s care to wash over me. It made me cry.
Fate brought us together at the perfect time. We cooked a lot of great meals together
(pesto pasta being the highlight), watched movies of varying quality, and really just entrenched ourselves in each other’s lives. It’s the kind of intimacy I figured I’d always be too neurotic, too “to the wall”, to fully embrace. Now I feel more connected to my body, surer of how to care for others and how I like to be cared for, and what open communication can really look like. Even if our diverging life paths and some extenuating circumstances meant it couldn’t last longer than the summer, I’m glad I got to experience something of that calibre.
Perhaps the ultimate culmination of this Les Blank summer was my birthday. We went all out on a massive southern style seafood boil. My mom and I studied Blank’s film Yum! Yum! Yum! A Taste of Cajun Cooking (1990) to make sure our étouffée was on par. Our new favourite movie quote to throw around in the kitchen is the paraphrased anecdote from that: “the only spice you need is pepper and more pepper.”
Just about every character from the summer came together, converging in a beautiful blur of food. Their care and celebration meant the world, but what struck me even more was the family friends who came. Here was this giant community of people I’d been taking for granted my whole life. I thought: “this is just like a Les Blank movie.” I do have all of these weird, eccentric characters, who love to cook, love to party, and love me. I cried again that night just thinking about it, even if no one saw it.
I made a point to take a lot of photos this summer, spurred on by a spring obsession with famed NYC art photographer Nan Goldin. Her work, similar to Blank’s, is raw and incisive about the subculture it comes from. Her book “I’ll Be Your Mirror” spent all semester in my dorm, its bruised, wrinkled faces kissing, making a mess of themselves, and fighting for life all becoming ahistorical companions of mine.
On paper, my friends in Whatcom County, Washington may not be as compelling as punk provocateurs and AIDS activists of ‘80s downtown NYC, but I was determined to immortalize them in the same way. Her approach, after all, wasn’t necessarily one of a traditional photographer. She didn’t peer into these subcultures, she was just a part of them, snapping pictures to commemorate those she cared for. It totally runs counter to my one photo class from freshmen year, which educational as it was, totally alienated me from the art form. Not everyone appreciated my documentary approach to our outings, but some gems emerged.
Oliver and friends sitting on a curb at night. A friend under a sunset sky. Two friends hold hands under rainbow lights at a club.
To prepare for the funeral, I spent a lot of time poring over old photos. My mom’s pre-family days, especially, made me so emotional. Here I was, face to face with someone who serves as my ultimate role model, now young and totally unknown to me. I hope if I ever have kids, or those around me do that our silly photos can have the same sense of profound connection through time.
I’m hoping, that all my photos and eventual writing will produce something of a Les Blank film- a testament to good music, good people, and a community coming together amidst a whole lot of strife that I can’t get into here. My life is fuller than it’s ever been.
So that’s my summer. All the beauty and bloodshed, as Nan Goldin’s sister would write.
Maybe I’ll do more autobiographical writing down the line, but that’s for fate, God, or whatever you call it to decide. All I can do now is carry this growth and gratitude forward with me, to continue fostering this beautiful little world I’ve carved for myself.
– Oliver K. Johnson
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