Zoe Beloff

Zoe Beloff grew up in Edinburgh, Scotland, and moved to New York City in 1980 to study at Columbia University, where she received an MFA in Film. Beloff's work incorporates a wide palette of media, including film, projection performance, installation art, and illustration. She considers herself "a medium, an interface between the living and the dead, the real and the imaginary," drawing lines between past and present to "illuminate the future in new ways."

In this interview, we discuss Beloff's 2009 multimedia project, DREAMLAND: The Coney Island Amateur Psychoanalytic Society and Their Circle 1926-1972. The project, which debuted as an exhibition at the Coney Island Museum to mark the 100th anniversary of Sigmund Freud's visit to America, incorporated a model theme park, drawings, artifacts, and a series of captivating short films made by the Society's members based on their dreams. One small, important detail: the entire project was drawn from Beloff's imagination, inspired by Freud's (real) visit to Coney Island on his American tour, a possible history of what might have happened.

Beloff's work has been featured in international exhibitions and screenings; venues include the Whitney Museum of American Art, Site Santa Fe, the Museum of Contemporary Art in Antwerp, and the Pompidou Center in Paris. Her latest project, "Exile," is currently on display as part of the exhibit "Benjamin and Brecht: Thinking in Extremes" at the Akademie der Künste, Berlin. Beloff also teaches in the Departments of Media Studies and Art at Queens College CUNY. This interview took place on November 14, 2017.

Julia Boorinakis Harper: First of all — do you call yourself a feminist filmmaker? Is that a term that you use?

Zoe Beloff: No — I mean, I have no objection to it, or a problem with it or anything like that, but when I write about myself I just call myself a filmmaker and artist. I have no problem with it; it’s not the first word I use.

JBH: Your family background is really intriguing — your father was a parapsychologist…

ZB: Among other things, a philosopher, a psychologist, a parapsychologist, yes.

JBH: And your mother was a visual archivist and social psychologist.

ZB: She was a social psychologist, with an interest in photography.

JBH: What was your childhood like with them, and how was that an influence on on your work?

ZB: It was great in a way, because my parents were interested in culture. We were taken to museums, my mother watched films — much more than my father, actually — so I went to lots of films with my mother. I was kind of her companion, you know. We saw lots of European art cinema, we saw American movies, so I was very lucky in that way. I grew up being totally exposed to films.

It was a little overwhelming to have parents like that — because, how do you find yourself when you have very strong parents? I had this home life of culture, and then living in Scotland, I had a very conservative Scottish upbringing, a very, very conventional school that was all girls and a lot of rote learning. I hated it from the first day I went, when I was five, to the last day when I left, when I quit at 16. That was a very different culture. So I would always kind of flit between this sort of intellectual Jewish home life, and a Presbyterian, very strict, old-fashioned school life.

Stills from A Model Family In A Model Home (2015)

JBH: Was a career as an artist an option in that world? It sounds like it would have been a different thing in your family than in school.

ZB: I think I realized at kind of a young age that I wanted to be an artist. I mean, partly I was just good at drawing — drawing was something I enjoyed doing. I enjoyed being in the art rooms probably more than anywhere else, because people just kind of left you alone and didn’t boss you around. And my total inability to spell did not hold me back! To me, art was always an escape; it was a place where you could create your own world, and nobody could tell you different.

So I decided at a fairly early age, certainly from the age of 12, that I was going to be an artist. And I don’t think I really talked to anybody about it. In high school, your parents ask you what you want to do, and I think despite loving art, having art in the house and going to museums — of course they did not think it was a suitable thing for me to do, because how can you earn a living, right?

My mother really wanted me to be an art historian — somebody who worked in a museum, wore white gloves — and I thought, ugh, no! I want to be able to just roll my sleeves up and get covered in paint and make things, and make movies. I mean, the idea of being one of these wealthy young women who worked in museums and were very cultured — it was anathema to what I am. I think that was her fantasy. It was something she would have liked to do if she had had the opportunity. She was a German refugee and she had had a tough life, and those kinds of things were just not possible.

JBH: How did you how did you get into filmmaking? How did that become your art form?

ZB: That's a good question. I grew up with my mother, we loved film, and as I said, we saw all kinds of films, from your typical Hollywood films to seeing Fassbinder films as a teenager. I was totally fascinated. When I was 16, I quit high school and decided to educate myself. Actually, I educated myself for a year and then I went to college. But in that year, I decided to educate myself — I was very serious! I took a film seminar, and that was really interesting, with a woman who came up at that time as a well-known director of the Edinburgh Film Festival. I was going to study film, I was going to read books about it. I was going to read Peter Wollen, and I was going to be educated! But I didn’t grow up around filmmaking — my parents could barely take a still photograph, let alone a home movie! — and I didn't know anybody who had made a film. Films were things that were made “out there,” by studios.

As as student, I got a summer job working at the Edinburgh Film Festival, and I discovered that films don’t have to be like studio films. So I decided I would take up filmmaking. I made mistakes; I’m a slow learner. At art college I studied painting, because that's what was there was. I ended up having to please my parents — I got a double major in art history and painting. That was how they allowed me to go to art school, if I also got a degree in art history, which was totally dull. There was no film, there was no film school; it wasn't something you could study.

I just felt like we were taught to paint the most dreary paintings — the curriculum had never changed since the late 19th century, so there was still life, and composition, and life drawing and, you know, really kind of watered-down classical art education. And I was like, no. This was the late 1970s — everybody, all the smart students, realized that this is completely antiquated. The idea of painting tasteful pictures for the Scottish bourgeoisie — it was just not on, as far as I was concerned; I was not going to do that. I was too much of a socialist; that's not what I wanted to do.

Above: Beloff's illustrations from The Coney Island Amateur Psychoanalytic Society and Its Circle

I was really taken by film as a more popular medium, film as a storytelling medium. I’ve always been interested in telling stories, and painting just didn’t seem a good medium to tell stories. So that's when I decided I was going to be a filmmaker. I was really young — 21 — I was like, “I’m going to go to New York and go to film school.” I’d never met anybody who did that. And I ended up actually doing that. It’s crazy when I think about it now. I applied to one film school, which was Columbia, and I got in — I mean, it's ridiculous! I was lucky then, because it was a different world, and a different time. Now, that's insanely expensive; you'd have to be really wealthy to do that. In 1980, it was really inexpensive. It's ridiculous how different it is now. But then, New York was super inexpensive — super dangerous, but super inexpensive.

So I moved to New York with one suitcase and a manual typewriter, and I decided to be a filmmaker. Of course, I had no concept of how hard that was. I floundered for a long time. At that time, Colombia — and it’s probably true now as well — was very mainstream. My classmates all wanted to go to Hollywood and be comedy writers and things like that. I was coming from this art background; I was already interested in other kinds of film. I spent a lot of time in New York just looking at different kinds of film, which was much harder then — you couldn't stream it, you know? You had to go to revival houses and film archives.

So it was difficult. I really wasn’t talented as a comedy writer, and it wasn’t really where my heart was. Columbia was very interesting; there were very interesting people there, and there were interesting professors. My favorite film teacher was kind of an anomaly — he’d worked with Eisenstein in the 1940s; he was amazing.

There were lots of interesting things going on, but I did not know what I wanted to do and it took me a long time to even start to figure it out. Because there were no models. And I still have this problem, at least in this country, which is that I don’t make the kinds of films that fit neatly into a category, and that makes it really difficult — very difficult when I was starting out, because I just didn't have models, examples. I was really kind of lost. Looking back on it now, giving up painting was also like throwing the baby out with the bathwater. I had really good reasons for doing it, but actually I loved to draw; it's part of what I do, and it took me decades to find a way to bring that out of the shadows from something I just do privately into the work that I do. I always envy friends who are very successful artists, and at age 22 they knew exactly what they wanted to do.

JBH: I'm returning to school after quite a few years of just needing to go out and and work and actually do things in the world, and it's really different coming back — being in an academic environment where you're sitting in classrooms and you're talking about ideas — it's such a different mindset. And I think now that you can you can get a very good digital DSLR video camera for very little money, maybe that's changing that paradigm, so that you you don't necessarily have to go through the traditional channels, go to film school to get access to the equipment, apprentice with someone… Do you think that that that system, that approach, was the best thing for you? If you were doing this now, would you be more likely to just pick up a camera and teach yourself, or did the academic background shape where you're coming from?

ZB: I would encourage anybody just to pick up a camera. And if I was young now, I would have done that. I kind of needed an excuse to go to New York, and going to grad school — that's one that the parents will buy. And I’m very glad they did, because I couldn’t work as a professor if I hadn't gone to graduate school.

I think learning traditional filmmaking, with a crew, with lighting, with sound, with all those kinds of things, working with actors — with really directing — it shaped me enormously, and it's actually incredibly useful, it's really what I do. I'm not somebody who just runs around with a camera. I mean, that's much more part of the tradition of the American avant-garde, where you go out with your camera and it's your vision, and you do it alone. That's not the kind of filmmaking I do. I'm not, obviously, part of real budget filmmaking, but I work with crew; I work with a cinematographer. It's not a solo experience. I work with actors, I storyboard things, I write a script. In a lot of ways, all those tools are very useful to me; I have no problem with them. In a certain way, it’s like having learned life drawing — it’s actually helpful to my job. They’re just tools.

JBH: I think sometimes I need to hear that! That's a really good point; you're building a toolbox, and it just expands what you can do.

“Media archaeology” is one term that comes up in discussion of your work — understanding and and viewing the present through the past. What does that mean to you, and how does it figure into your work?

ZB: When I started working that way, in the mid ‘90s — which is when I consider my real work began, my thing — I'd never heard of [media archaeology]. I was doing it, but I had no idea anybody else was doing it. Really, it was a somewhat private investigation. To a certain extent it was inspired by two books that I’d read at that time, that really focused my mind. One was Jonathan Crary’s book, Techniques of the Observer, which is a history of visual apparatus and how people have thought through it. The other was Wireless Imagination, which is in a way the same thing, but about sound. It’s about the history of recorded sound and experimental audio work. I mean, I think sound is as important as the image; I teach a course just in sound. Sound is really important, and how we think through the recording apparatus is really interesting. So that kind of set me thinking.

Beyond (1995) was made with a webcam, in part out of necessity, because I really couldn't afford anything else, and a little webcam was $99, it seemed wonderful — and that was the most strangely solo work, that I made by myself, in my apartment, with nobody else. For a long time, every week I would post another movie; I would go back into the past, and I would talk to people. It was a sketchbook. And at that time, I was [asking], “how do we philosophically, psychologically, think through media — what’s our relationship with it?”

I mean, at this point my work is much more political, in part because of the time in which we live, so I'm thinking a lot more right now politically, and that informs my work. But in the mid ‘90s, I had the luxury of just thinking about media archaeology! Then I met people who were theorists, and salons were interested in showing my work, and I discovered this wider world called “media archaeology.” I think we can’t escape the past, so we we have to to think through it. It’s still here; it doesn’t go away. It's with us, in bad ways and good.

Stills from the Beyond web serial

JBH: You do a lot of work with found footage and home movies. How do you go about taking something that somebody else has made — maybe as a completely amateur, hobby kind of thing — and transforming it into a different work that is your own?

ZB: That’s a really good question. I guess I've been collecting home movies on and off from the early 1990s, before I even knew quite what to do with them. I would go to the flea market and find these things. To me, they’re another — well, they’re lots of things, so many things; it's such a rich territory. But when you say, “make it my own” — I can never really make other people's movies my own, nor should I. There's always part of them that remains, that I must be in dialog with, I must have a conversation with. As a filmmaker, one is always in conversation with things. It’ not a solitary art like painting, where you shape everything yourself in the studio. When I'm working with actors, I’m having a conversation with those people, with my cinematographer, always in dialog. And I do think that's a very rich thing. So there are different kinds of dialog, like sometimes having a dialogue with people who lived in the past, with Walter Benjamin or Baudelaire. When you read somebody’s work, you’re in conversation with them.

When you find an anonymous life in a home movie, and it is somebody’s life — it’s speaking to you, and you speak back to it. When I work with found footage, I don't ever want to totally subsume it. It's not just material. It always fights back with its life, in a good way. You have to listen to it.

The most clear way that I can talk about my interest in home movies is the only work when it was just home movies, the films of The Coney Island Amateur Psychoanalytic Society (2009)— where the home movies told me the story. Even though it was a fictitious world — there never really was a Coney Island Amateur Psychoanalytic Society — in a certain way it wasn’t fictitious, and that was what I wanted to express, that to me, home movies are a rich field of analysis. In the way that Freud talks about dreams or jokes or slips of the tongue, they reveal more than they say. And if we really look at home movies, revelations will appear. Social revelations, personal revelations. I wanted, in those films, to coax them out. The history of everyday people, which is so important — I want to share their stories, and in a way, as an analyst, I can cut and shape that to make it visible to other people. If you just throw all their footage, kind of rambling on forever — it wouldn't have that kind of clarity. But I'm greatly respectful of it, and I think that people often underestimate home movies. “Oh, it's just going to be a foreign vacation on the beach” — well, there's that too, but they’re often just fascinating lives, and revelations, and you learn about class, and about sexuality, and life is in there. How people live. As a social historian, it's fascinating.

Above: Stills from The Coney Island Amateur Psychoanalytic Society: Dream Films 1926-1972 .

JBH: I loved that, the Coney Island project — I picked up a copy of the book, and it's just it's such a complete world. So with those films, you didn't start out with a script for each dream film?

ZB: What I did was this. My first thing was to read Freud’s work on dreams, and take notes in a very visceral way, like any amateur, you know — Freud’s Interpretation of Dreams, which is a big book; I read that, and I took notes. And then the second part of it was that I gathered all my home movies together.

I had never really catalogued anything — I would buy things, I’d watch them — but then, on the cans I’d write things like, “Quite interesting.” But to work with three hundred cans of film or so, I realized, I would have to make a database. So I literally watched all the films in my room, and I would sit there and I would write notes, descriptive notes. When it was, did it belong to other home movies, any information about the people that I could surmise from the little can of film — a real database, with a simple description of each film.

And as I would do that, then the stories started to come to me. And then I would take notes, in this kind of embryonic form of story that would emerge. And out of that, I narrowed it down to a much smaller group of films that I transferred to video so I could start editing it, informed by Freud’s thinking on the interpretation of dreams. I was looking on eBay at that time for anything New York related, in the time period that I was looking at — and the time period really was the great era of home movies, from the mid 1920s to the early ‘70s; that was the great period in which home movies flourished. They exist now, but we will never find them as historical artifacts. They're made on people’s phones, and they will never wash up as a flea market. They'll just be both deleted and unwatchable. So there will be no more home movies as historical artifacts, except there might be the great YouTube in the sky — another source of, well, anything and everything. Maybe one day Google, or whatever, will just delete them all; who knows! But it's totally different, a different world.

JBH: There’s a little less specialness when we're all making them every day, and like you say, they don't really exist in physical form for somebody else to find at a flea market. But do you think, years from now, will we be — as media archaeologists — looking at the things that people shot on their phones? Or is that just an ephemeral medium?

ZB: If we can access them, yes, of course, because they are very interesting historical articles. I love doing stuff on my phone, actually! Since I [got] a phone — I never used to take snapshots; now I love to take pictures and record things. I have fun with my phone, and I'm actually not against the phone. I’m not one of these people who are stuck in the past in that way.

JBH: You have said that you are interested in “the relationship between desire, the unconscious and the moving image.” That really struck me — the idea, especially in the context of home movies, that there's another layer there of deeper psychology. I haven't heard of too many people taking that approach.

ZB: No, I haven't either, actually. That doesn't come out of reading anything, or hearing about other people's scholarship; that was just kind of my thing. In the film that I’m finishing right now, there are some home movie sequences, and I was very explicitly referencing Walter Benjamin and his thesis on history. He talks about this kind of marvelous idea, writing in 1940, about how history is constantly in flux, and always changing, but perhaps one day — in a kind of imaginary last judgement — all will become clear, all of life will suddenly reveal itself, the way a photograph that's being developed will reveal an image. So, today, we don't have developers strong enough to reveal these moments of the past and everyday people that lived there, because they are the important people that we must care about. Not the world’s historical events, but the everyday people. And to me, that is embodied in home movies. It's like that's what he's talking about — the respect [for] the everyday, the ordinary people, their lives, their courage, the small things that are just as important. I love this idea, that the developer will be clear enough. He also says that every day is the day of judgement. So, there are two ways to look at that idea of the day of judgment.

It's really a hard essay, but it's really interesting, and on some deeper level, home movies stand in to me for that allegory. I think they're kind of marvelous; they’re a certain kind of magic. And not always good, but sometimes when things are developed, they are not good — like in this film, I have home movies that were shot in the New York area in the mid-1930s that are home movies of a Nazi. Photographs of a big Nazi rally in the New York area. It’s very shocking material, because we’re not told about these kinds of things; they were kind of hush-hush. With America and the War, all those things were shut down. I mean, this is not just a few guys; this is like a stadium rally. So sometimes when we look into the past, it’s scarily relevant. I use this because they are still there, because my film is about how these people are still there; these are the areas that are the Trump supporters. It hasn’t really changed.

JBH: I watched a couple of your films, The Influencing Machine of Miss Natalija A. (2001) and Charming Augustine (2005), both of which take place before home movies were; before that kind of access to recording existed. But they are telling the stories, and really re-creating and re-piecing together the stories of ordinary people who existed in strange and unusual circumstances. [Both women were institutionalized psychiatric patients, and were observed, studied, and documented. Augustine was a "hysteric" held in a Paris asylum in the 1870s, while Natalija A. believed that she was being manipulated telepathically by an “influencing machine," as described in a 1919 article by her psychoanalyst, Viktor Tausk.]

How did that theme enter your work — telling and re-synthesizing stories of people who had been almost forgotten? And how do you come across those stories?

ZB: They're not that obscure, if you look for them, particularly now. Both of them are to do with the relationship between the unconscious, psychology, and the origins of media. I was interested in how media isn't simply a technological invention; it grows out of desire, and psychology. And in what shapes media — it wasn't necessarily just technologists, but also a desire to make certain kinds of images. Augustine is really about the origins of narrative cinema. And to my mind, the desire to film these women like Augustine — in order to film these extraordinary historical acts, you have to develop the technology to make these things visible. She was invited to perform, so she performs for the camera. So these two things start to go hand in hand, and they have a very complicated relationship: The desire to act out your unconscious thoughts happens because there is a camera in front of you, to a certain extent. I mean, that's why Freud refused to look at his patients, so they wouldn't act out. They would talk, with [just] the voice. Before that, it was all about making visual images.

All these women, who are never recognized as part of the history of cinema, to me, are just as important as Thomas Edison, or Muybridge, because they had a very interesting, complicated and painful, but symbiotic relationship with the people who created [cinema].

Above: Images from Charming Augustine (left) and The Influencing Machine of Miss Natalija A. (right).

JBH: But also that element of sort of putting them on display, almost as scientific curiosities…

ZB: Yes — they were scientists; they [the women] were put on display, and it was a kind of scientific curiosity. But let's imagine that Augustine is also kind of an amazing performer. And what is unconscious, and what is consciously acted out, is very complicated. We can never really know. And then I just found all this case history of her, tons and tons of notes and photographs and drawings. So it's actually a rich material, but I wasn't interested in telling her story as a victim, particularly, and I know some people have faulted me for that. I’m more interested in her as a performer and co-creator of cinema. Maybe that could be an interesting way to think about the origins of cinema.

And this was just a moment when cinema was beginning — I actually don't make any projects before the movie camera! Cinema is just being born; maybe it could have been born differently. I mean, that's why I decided to shoot it as a 3D film. That’s how you should see it; it's it's a 16mm 3D film, so you wear glasses and all that kind of stuff. It's a very fragile kind of 3D, and it’s a vertical format. So I think cinema doesn't have to start the way it did; it could have started in other ways.

3D photography was used to document these people, so maybe it could have been 3D moving images. Technology doesn't have to be the way it is — it could always be something else. The nineteenth century was a stereoscopic century. Almost as soon as photography was invented, 3D photography was invented; it was enormously popular, for entertainment, for science, and so on.

Natalija A. — again, you can't really see the project online. She was living in the late nineteen-teens, early 1920s, so cinema did exist. I was interested in thinking about her psychosis, in which he believed that machines were influencing her, in parallel with the history of radio and television, and machines that do influence us. I mean, they do! — but maybe not quite the way that she thought of it. This was on the cusp of the whole way that the Fascists, and Nazis in Germany, used media — as a propaganda machine. It was being honed at that time. So those two things informed how I thought about the story.

JBH: And I wonder if Natalija had had an iPhone, and had been able to make her own movies — how would that have been different?

ZB: Oh yes, indeed! If these people could have had tools to express themselves — perhaps it would be quite different. And so now people can make their own films.

JBH: What are you working on now, or next?

ZB: I have a film that is almost, almost ready for the world — it is in the world, actually, although I don’t yet have it online, and I probably won't have it for a while, because it's about to go to festivals. This work is actually out, although it's not really finished, in an exhibition in Berlin right now. The film grew out of an invitation from this exhibition — the head of the Brecht Archive in Berlin was organizing an exhibition about the friendship between Bertolt Brecht and Walter Benjamin, and most of it is archival objects — things that they wrote, or audio recordings, very interesting different things. They invited a few contemporary artists to make work kind of inspired on this theme, and… I got carried away, is the answer! I mean, how could I say no?

I got the invitation, like, the day after Trump was elected. I was in Montreal at a festival, in the hotel, and — how could I even hold my head up as an American in public? So I was like, okay, everything I do will have to be relevant to what's going on right now. Otherwise, what’s the point? And of course, Benjamin and Brecht are my heroes; I have to do this. So it became completely apparent at that moment what I would do — it was so obvious to me. I would bring them to New York today, so we could talk with them, because I felt like they were having these [same] conversations — their friendship really existed when they were in exile from Germany in the early 1930s. So they were talking a lot about Fascism, and what was going on, this kind of stuff — super relevant. I thought it'd be really good if they were still in exile, today. They’re these kind of people who are always in exile; they never really find a home. So they’re still in exile, 80 years later, and they're in New York. And I pictured them — they're like vagabonds, you know, somewhere between — they’re slightly ridiculous, because they're philosophers; they’re a little like Laurel and Hardy.

But of course, times have changed, and to be a German in America today doesn't mean anything. How can we think about the idea of the refugee intellectual? How can we think about somebody who's dealing with institutional racism; who are they in our world? So I decided that Benjamin is actually African-American, and Brecht is Iranian. Then I had to write the script, and then I had to find my Iranian Brecht; it just consumed me. And I had to do it all really quickly, because this show [in Berlin] was opening in October. At first, I thought, I’ll just make it kind of a dialogue, a ten minute sketch based on some of their writings. Well, of course once I got started — it's a huge project; it's a 50-minute film! So that's basically what I’ve been doing; that’s the project, called Exile.

JBH: In your teaching work — what is your focus in your teaching, and what do you hope to convey and pass on to a new generation of people who are making media?

ZB: Well, I try not to bring too much myself. I feel, when I’m teaching and I’m in a classroom, I’m there for the students. It's not about me, it’s not about my aesthetic; I don’t want to impose [that] upon my students. I hate the idea of a teacher having followers. I never show my work to my students. I mean, technically, if they were interested, I suppose they could look at it online, but as far as I know, I’ve never heard of any students doing that.

I really want [my students] to think about how they can express their ideas and think about their world, so I teach an intro class where people make documentaries. Pretty straightforward documentaries — it's a first documentary, so they learn about interviewing people, and then filming people doing things. They make films primarily about their families, people they know, what kind of work they do, the immigrant experience; things that they have access to, close to them. And I love it, because I learn all about their lives — their friend who is a funeral director, or cleans an office at night, or their dad who works at a pizza parlor — that’s great! They are a kind of home movie, but I want them to be able to make things with clarity, to give people a voice. I really enjoy that.

I teach a sound class, about the history of recorded sound and then some experimental radio dramas. They do some documentary field recordings, and short radio drama. And so they become attuned to sound, and what sound can do, and what the voice tells us. Occasionally I do a class in the arts department, when they let me — that's probably closest to my own personal interest — called Experimental Media and Storytelling. It deals with how to tell stories in different ways, with graphic novels, or shooting a film with your phone, but you’ve built the scenery yourself out of cardboard. It's really fun and playful. People make their own magic lanterns; we learn about the archaeology, and they make magic lanterns out of boxes and lightbulbs. Then they have to make media for the lanterns, so they learn about how an image is projected. We go on field trips to galleries and archives and different things. So people are aware, also, what they can do themselves — you don’t have to be a professional to make a movie; I’m all for people making movies on their phones, especially my art students, but [with] a sharpened feel for how to convey an idea.

If they’re seeing some interesting things that they never would have seen before, if I’ve introduced them to artists they've never seen before, then I’ve succeeded. I take students to an art gallery, when they've never been to one. That's what I'm looking to do — open people's eyes to things, to make things that they’re proud of, that they can share.

More information about Zoe Beloff and her work can be found at www.zoebeloff.com.