Friends, Strangers, and the Night: The Filmmakers Lurking in the Dark of the Cinémathèque

In his account of the Melbourne University Film Society’s (MUFS) activities in the 1960s, Adrian Danks highlights the organisation’s facilitation of feature-film production. Through the help of the dedicated “Uni-Fed” fund and other sources, its members translated the paradigms of the nouvelle vague and auteurism – that they were promoting and developing through their critical writing and programming activity – into a local practice. The notable figures of this era who went onto to varied careers in the film industry include Peter Carmody, Lloyd Carrick, Alan Finney and Antony I. Ginnane.¹

Danks rightly argues that this activity pre-empts the so-called ’70s Australian film “revival,” and that in MUFS’ transformation into the Melbourne Cinémathèque, the society “represents one of the oldest continuous film organisations in Australia.”² Although he notes, in a later piece that, more recently, the Cinémathèque’s key figures will instead forge careers in academia and curation (“reflective of the broader compartmentalisation of screen culture”),³ noteworthy practitioners continue to emerge from the society’s membership. Those who have produced or directed at least one feature film in the last 15 or so years include (but are not limited to) Amiel Courtin-Wilson, Audrey Lam, Alena Lodkina, Chris Luscri, Lucie McMahon, Goran Stolevski and James Vaughan.

This article aims to explore the role the Cinémathèque has played in influencing film practice during the 21st century by investigating these practitioners’ output and speaking with a number of them through specially conducted interviews and correspondence. A particular focus is how this influence has been disseminated: whether through specific screenings, the approach of the program overall, the critical discourse generated by the society through its CTEQ: Annotations on Film publication and occasional speakers, or the experience of attending screenings on either a regular or occasional basis.

When comparing this loosely connected group of filmmakers to those that gathered around MUFS, some obvious differences emerge, reflecting changes in cinephilia over the past 60 years. The means of accessing films and critical discourse have changed substantially, so that while actor, producer and distributor Alan Finney reflects that in the 1960s “There was nothing else except MUFS and MOVIES… and there was no distinction between the two,” today’s cineastes engage in webs of discovery that situate the Cinémathèque alongside video stores, libraries, screenings by other societies and entities, streaming services and online piracy.⁴ Similarly, exposure today to internationally developing critical paradigms goes well beyond sea-mailed foreign journals and books, and despite maintaining an implicit focus on auteurism, the ideology of both the Cinémathèque’s programming and adjacent critical writing has similarly opened up and become more questioning and malleable, with director-focused seasons sitting alongside those devoted to actors, screenwriters and specific themes. This, alongside the relatively small scale of local production activity, makes it difficult to compare the modern-day Cinémathèque’s influence on local film practice to that of MUFS in the 1960s. It is also difficult to make apt comparisons to earlier key overseas projects like the quixotic La Cinémathèque française of the 1950s, or MoMA’s “crucial” retrospectives devoted to Orson Welles, Howard Hawks and Alfred Hitchcock in the early 1960s.⁵

The question of the potential relationship between the Cinémathèque’s operations and adjacent filmmaking activity is a difficult one to answer and assess. This article doesn’t aim to definitively resolve these questions or tensions. Rather, it lays some groundwork for further investigation of the Cinémathèque’s role, alongside that of other institutions, in Australia’s broader film culture. It also hopes to encourage other writers to further explore the relevant films and filmmakers, as well as investigate the Cinémathèque’s relationship to film production between 1970-2000.

In a brief survey of the identified contemporary member-filmmakers’ work, a few trends emerge. These filmmakers generally work outside of the mainstream of Australian screen production, which is dominated by both television programs and feature films heavily funded through state and federal subsidies. The exception (who proves the rule) is Stolevski, who directed episodes of the fourth season of teen drama/fantasy series Nowhere Boys. Both he and Lodkina have also received larger subsidies for their feature films, but still work on relatively small budgets. Overall, these member-filmmakers and their work are categorised by self- or more localised forms of funding (e.g. council-based), independently led “artisanal” practice, limited distribution and multi-disciplinary careers with narrative cinema forming only part of their output alongside experimental films (Lam, Courtin-Wilson), installation art (Luscri, Vaughan, Courtin-Wilson), film programming (Lam, Luscri, Vaughan), theatre making (Courtin-Wilson, Vaughan) and criticism and fiction writing (Lodkina).

Despite what one may expect, cinephilic self-reflection is notably absent from these filmmakers’ works, with the notable exception of the film student milieu explored in Lodkina’s Petrol (2022). Elsewhere, cinema appears either as a fleeting reference or influence, such as in the verbal and visual references to Chun gwong ja sit (Happy Together, Wong Kar-Wai, 1997) in Of an Age (Stolevski, 2022), or in more perverse or degraded modern forms such as the wedding videographer protagonist of Friends and Strangers (Vaughan, 2021). Additionally paradoxical is that most of these member-filmmakers weren’t initially raised in Melbourne. The majority hail from interstate or overseas: Adelaide (Luscri), Sydney (Vaughan), Hong Kong (Lam), Macedonia (Stolevski) and Russia (Lodkina). In many cases, their accounts of moving to Melbourne speak to the accessibility of the Cinémathèque’s affordable admittance model, as well as to the society’s strong gravitational pull. Luscri calls it a beacon, noting: “if you’re ever lost in Melbourne, you’ll know that at a certain time, at a certain place every week, there’s a screen with interesting cinema playing.”⁶

Both aspects appealed to Stolevski, who began attending screenings in the early 2000s after arriving in Australia from FYR Macedonia a few years prior at age 12. “I started going when it was at the Treasury Theatre, [with] the famously uncomfortable seats. But it felt very ‘for me,’ because it felt like Eastern Europe. It was the one venue that looked exactly like where I grew up.”⁷ Stolevski, who works across Australia and North Macedonia and has released his first three features as a writer/director in the past two years, notes that the “sense of place” created by the screening environment became a huge influence on his work. “Watching these films on a big screen with proper sound… that was impactful,” citing, in particular, his immersion in the New Mexico desert setting of Ace in the Hole (Billy Wilder, 1951): “I became addicted to chasing that feeling, and it really shapes what I make now.”

When Stolevski’s 19th-century Macedonia-set You Won’t Be Alone (2022) was released, “there were a lot of comparisons to Terrence Malick. Actually, I think both Malick and I watched a lot of European films from the ’60s,” with Stolevski citing the importance of his discovery through the Cinémathèque of narratively radical films from 1960s and ’70s Eastern and Central European movements “that don’t turn up at a video store”. These included the Czech New Wave films Žert (The Joke, Jaromil Jireš, 1969) and Spalovač mrtvol (The Cremator, Juraj Herz, 1969), and the early films of Polish director Jerzy Skolimowski. He states that their “slightly messy way of putting things together” was evocative of “another time and place.”

The Joke

You Won’t Be Alone

Additionally “foundational” to his film education was an exposure to film noir and the works of Josef von Sternberg. “Most of the world, since digital took over, has forgotten that contrast exists… so everything [now] is very pastel. Even when I was making my short films, I was always insisting [to colourists] on very rich blacks and very high contrast.” Despite being artistically inspired, Stolevski didn’t build a community or find collaborators through the society. “It was just beyond me, that concept that I would be allowed to talk to anyone there, I always felt like an inadequate random peasant boy from Reservoir, or Macedonia.”

Coming from a low-income background, the financial accessibility of the Cinémathèque’s membership-based attendance model played a huge role for Stolevski. “I would look at the calendar obsessively every year to see if… the films I was trying to chase down would pop up. When I was young, it was about convincing my parents that something was worth a certain amount of money. When I would say to them I can go to four sessions in a row for $16… that was a huge factor.” He added: “I’m not sure if I ever had an annual membership… I’m not sure I ever had that much money at my disposal… I think I’ve inherited the migrant mindset: How many kilos of meat am I going to get? Can I do it in instalments?”

The low cost of attendance was also important for James Vaughan during his early film education, after he relocated from Sydney to Melbourne between late 2012 and late 2014: “I was mostly on the dole and really scraping by… So I got by on the odd three-week pass when there was something I really wanted to see.”⁸ On the cinephilic influences upon Friends and Strangers, Vaughan cites his patronage of the Cinémathèque – considering it “at the heart of film culture in Australia” – equally important to him alongside his study at the University of Technology Sydney and his work with Courtin-Wilson.⁹

In particular, Vaughan’s experience of seasons devoted to Aleksei German, Pier Paolo Pasolini and Luis Buñuel emboldened the political and aesthetic ideas in his multidisciplinary work, eventually leading to Friends and Strangers. “Buñuel’s satires hit me like more potent versions of the kind of films I thought I wanted to make… I found myself confusingly attracted and repelled by the bald surrealism – the question of how far is ‘too far’ when it comes to having films guided by a dream logic.”

Other “big discoveries” for Vaughan were Pasolini’s Il Decameron (The Decameron, 1971) and I racconti di Canterbury (The Canterbury Tales, 1972), which resonated with German’s Trudno byt bogom (Hard to Be a God, 2013), seen twice at the 2014 Melbourne International Film Festival (MIFF) after learning about the Russian director through a 2013 Cinémathèque spotlight. Vaughan found that the three films’ “bold abstraction of history – embracing the fact that we can only see the past through a distorting mirror… elicit sobering reflections on the present,” and that, in addition to speaking to their represented time period, their generalisations of mediaeval Europe’s “comic-book barbarism… say more about our cultural desire to regard ourselves as morally superior.”. The characters “seem desensitised… slaves to instinct, but are we the same or worse, and just not able to see? The rancid Orientalism under the West’s normalisation of apartheid and genocide in Palestine is the perfect example of this kind of self-deception today.”

When Vaughan returned to Sydney, the cultural critiques presented by the three directors “were all rattling around as inspiration” for a “loose, anachronistic” adaptation of Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales that he staged at Newtown’s New Theatre with Constantine and Michael Costi. A key idea explored was “the way our culture of distraction helps keep uncomfortable truths about ourselves safely out of view.” The writing of Friends and Strangers followed shortly afterwards, with this concept of “well-practised strategies of avoidance” applied in the film’s critique of mainstream Australia’s attitude towards its own history of colonisation and the genocide of the land’s Indigenous population.

The Canterbury Tales

Friends and Strangers

Vaughan’s account of his time in Melbourne includes a not-uncommon practice of the society’s members: expanding the Cinémathèque’s programming through self-sourced private viewing. He recalls seeing Raúl Ruiz’s L’Hypothèse du tableau volé (The Hypothesis of the Stolen Painting, 1978) and Trois vies et une seule mort (Three Lives and Only One Death, 1996) in 2012’s season devoted to the director, alongside films not in the program: La ville des pirates (City of Pirates, 1983) and Klimt (2006). His appreciation was further enhanced by the society’s expanded activities, and he was “blown away by a one-hour lecture by Adrian Martin on his beloved Ruiz that accompanied the season. It was my first encounter with Adrian, and I just loved how he spoke – the depth and breadth of engagement, all just flowing out of him beautifully and without notes.”

Martin wrote an appreciation of Vaughan upon the premiere of Friends and Strangers at International Film Festival Rotterdam, noting that “the style Vaughan has adopted for this project is… all his own: eschewing the sometimes listless, rough-sketch look of fast-worker Hong [Sang-Soo] or late-lazy Rohmer.”¹⁰ Also, during the festival, and in an illustration of the web connecting various Cinémathèque alumni, the film was championed by Rotterdam programmer and former Cinémathèque co-curator Michelle Carey.

Back in Melbourne, another web forms around Amiel Courtin-Wilson, encompassing Lodkina and Vaughan who interned for him, Luscri who has worked as a producer at Courtin-Wilson’s Flood Projects, and McMahon, who has found some of her creative friendships through him. Though Stolevski couldn’t access the “cool kids club” around Courtin-Wilson during his early artistic development, he admits “he’s maybe the one person who, in the Melbourne scene, has done the most to nurture new talent… and had a vision to bring people together.” For Courtin-Wilson, going to the Cinémathèque formed part of his artistic coming of age, alongside other activities: “I had [also] joined a Super-8 film group when I was fourteen, I was a member of Ska-TV [which produced leftist-focused shows for community television], shooting punk shows.”¹¹

Courtin-Wilson was himself the focus of a two-week Cinémathèque season in 2018, the program notes for which call his work “multi-hyphenate filmmaking in extremis.”¹² Indeed, the fragmentary nature of his films, as well as their boundlessly fluid movements between fiction and non-fiction, feel like they can only have been spurred by a cocktail of different influences. For example, his portrait of actor and activist Jack Charles, Bastardy (2008), channels the drifting experience of early Wim Wenders in its night-shot 16mm footage of Charles wandering through Melbourne, evokes the punkish law-breaking of skate and trespassing videos, and depicts, on handheld digital video, Charles revisiting the houses in affluent suburbs he had burgled, showing everything but the act itself.

Interestingly, despite a shared bond to the Cinémathèque, the member-filmmakers who have worked with Courtin-Wilson have connected with him through other means. As Alena Lodkina recalls, “I came across his film Hail [2011] … He was working in this kind of space that was exactly what I was interested in. And then I just reached out to him, and he said, ‘Oh, we have this big warehouse in Melbourne, and you can intern.’”¹³

In some ways, Lodkina’s second feature film Petrol is the ultimate Cinémathèque member-filmmaker creation. It is directly comparable to the ’60s MUFS films in its interaction with the critical discourses of the day, its interest in creating an unglamorous portrait of Melbourne, and in its “combination of the intensely local and the internationally distant.” In the case of the MUFS films, this involved the clash between a nascent local culture (such as the 1969 Festival of University Arts depicted in Nothing Like Experience [Peter Carmody, 1970]) and the filmmaking models of the nouvelle vague.¹⁴ In Petrol, iconic sights like the State Library of Victoria and Carlton Gardens brush against verbal references to Dostoevsky and an internationally topical investigation of female friendship and obsession. Helping the comparison, Lodkina’s film takes place in the city’s central business district and inner-northern suburbs, where MUFS and the Cinémathèque have consistently operated and from which a significant proportion of its audience hails.

The 2020 Melbourne Cinémathèque calendar (right) seen in Petrol

Additionally, Petrol’s cast of wide-eyed film students, multidisciplinary artists, burnt-out university lecturers and Eastern European immigrants seems to represent – however accidentally – large portions of the society’s membership. Not to mention that the film also features the printed 2020 Cinémathèque screening program. Curiously, Lodkina and/or her art department chose a program that was largely postponed due to the COVID-19 pandemic, perfectly fitting into the narrative’s larger patterns of ghosts and absences. While Lodkina cites literature as the film’s main inspiration,¹⁵ there are also clear cinematic references to Jacques Rivette’s Céline et Julie en bateau (Celine and Julie Go Boating, 1974) and Duelle (1976), as well as the diaristic nature and hybridity of the films of Chantal Akerman; the subject of both a 2013 Cinémathèque season and Lodkina’s own iconic 2016 essay, “Chantal Akerman and the Possibility of Intimacy in Film.”¹⁶ Reflecting her protagonist’s creative uncertainty, the shape of Petrol is a fragmented mosaic of formal systems and metaphors, some nakedly didactic like in a modernist novel, and others left open-ended like in a Rivette film. It’s a unique experience that simultaneously is and is not what one would expect from a cinephile writer/director.

Also adjacent to Courtin-Wilson’s orbit is current Cinémathèque committee member Lucie McMahon, who has worked with Lodkina frequently and has herself recently completed her first feature film, the documentary Things Will Be Different (2024). Like others, she made these contacts outside of the Cinémathèque: “I did my final year VCA (Victorian College of the Arts) placement with Black Lung Theatre. They were making a theatre work in East Timor. Amiel Courtin-Wilson was there as the videographer for the work… and then he introduced us to Alena.”¹⁷ Despite this, McMahon, who has worked in either the art or production departments on all of Lodkina’s films, from her short There is No Such Thing as a Jellyfish (2014) onwards, calls the Cinémathèque “a very formative part of our friendship, in the sense that we’ve seen each other there consistently over the years.” The community aspect of the society has also “sustained and enriched” McMahon’s other creative relationships. “Without having a plan, it’s a way of us catching up every week.”

Days

Things Will Be Different

As a member-filmmaker McMahon finds that the influence of these screenings on her own work is more “indirect.” “You get to spend more time with a filmmaker’s work, and you focus on what they’re doing in more detail.” “I also learned to watch anything and appreciate anything,” particularly films that are “slower and more meandering.” While Things Will Be Different doesn’t contain any direct inspiration from the films McMahon experienced at the Cinémathèque, moments like the medium-wide long take of Will, one of the film’s subject, making a drink in his kitchen, were informed by this newfound interest in “slowing down moments in the film, and making the film less didactic.” However consciously or unconsciously, the film channels the meditative depictions of everyday life characteristic of Tsai Ming-Liang, whose films were profiled in a 2023 season.

The direct influence of the Cinémathèque’s programming on McMahon’s practice is also limited by the society’s overall focus on narrative cinema, despite occasional spotlights on the documentary work of figures like Merata Mita (in 2023) and Tom Zubrycki (forthcoming in December 2024). Non-fiction films also infrequently appear within auteur-centred programs, as evidenced by the recent screening of Jean Eustache’s Le cochon (The Pig, 1970). Though she admits that “the truth is if we did program more documentaries, our audience numbers would probably go down, and I don’t think [we] can afford to do that at the moment.” In relation to the broader landscape of public screenings for documentaries in Melbourne, McMahon wishes “there was some space for the Cinémathèque equivalent for documentaries,” feeling as though larger, more heavily subsidised organisations like ACMI and MIFF do not really fill this void. “Seeing Direct Action (Guillaume Cailleau and Ben Russell, 2024) at MIFF was so exciting because, watching a really formative and thematically innovative documentary on a big screen, I just don’t get to do that very often. I’m mostly watching stuff on Kanopy, Criterion Channel… or I’m begging RMIT to buy an educational licence. Because otherwise you can’t see these films.”

Chris Luscri, who produced Courtin-Wilson’s Man on Earth (2022), and whose own feature documentary Time on Our Side is currently in post-production,¹⁸ similarly found his process and practice influenced in indirect ways, citing the “energetic, muscular filmmaking” of a 2013 Anthony Mann season as just one example. Drawn to Melbourne from his hometown of Adelaide in 2010, partly with the intention of making a documentary about photographer and pioneer filmmaker Giorgio Mangiamele, Luscri started attending the Cinémathèque in 2012, joining its committee immediately during the Annual General Meeting that preceded his first screening: a double bill of Robert Bresson’s Un condamné à mort s’est échappé ou le vent souffle où il veut (A Man Escaped, 1956) and Au hasard Balthazar (1966).

Though engaged in film culture in Adelaide in the late 2000s through the Mercury’s Cinémathèque, Luscri calls its audiences during this time the “brown coat brigade,” often finding himself the youngest attendee amidst a handful of older men. Going to the Melbourne Cinémathèque he was struck by the “size and breadth of the audience,” with hundreds of attendees from their early-20s to 80s, as well as the size of the cinema screen and polish of the presentation, thinking “this is what a functioning cinémathèque should feel like.” A formative part of Luscri’s experience involved his conversations after screenings with co-curator and treasurer Michael Koller, co-curator and then-editor of CTEQ: Annotations on Film Adrian Danks, and fellow committee member Lorenzo Rosa. Through this he also gained a deeper familiarity with key figures of Australian film culture. Among them were Brian McKenzie, Margot Nash and John Hughes, some of whom Luscri had also learnt about through filmmaker Bill Mousoulis’ Melbourne Independent Filmmakers website or early issues of Senses of Cinema. Like Vaughan, Luscri would fill in gaps in the society’s programming, almost to the point of “obsession,” but has since moved away from this mentality. He reflects that “we all come to cinephilia for different reasons, not all of them necessarily noble.” Luscri now admits that, for him, an all-encompassing immersion in cinema was a form of “avoidance,” but this voyeurism was ended by his movement into film practice, “like stepping in to kiss someone after admiring them from afar for a long time.”

Still, Luscri finds his years as a Cinémathèque audience member continue to influence his work. In particular, the madeleine scene from Proust’s novel Swann’s Way in Ruiz’s film Le temps retrouvé (Time Regained, 1999) “introduced me to a particular way of… thinking through material objects and how they’re placed in a space, and how they move between a space through time.” Currently, Luscri is aiming to structure Time on Our Side through the placement of objects in the St Kilda apartment of the film’s subject, Nora. This will reference how these objects were placed in footage Luscri had shot earlier, when Nora lived in the Dandenong Ranges with her now-deceased lover John.

Since Luscri left the Cinémathèque committee, a penetrating questioning of cinema’s and cinephilia’s current paradigms has run through his activities, from his work with the vertical cinema project, 9:16 Film Festival, to his current role as Festival Director of the shorts-focused ReelGood Film Festival. To him, there are questions the Cinémathèque – due to its focus on retrospective programming and adherence to 20th-century conceptions of what cinema is – has not answered or cannot answer. “The techno-plutocracy of image-based forms has completely changed in the past few years…. I’m not sure cinephilia has kept up with it,” highlighting, particularly, the possibilities of online video. “It’s not about the Cinémathèque playing TikTok series, it’s a broader social and political conversation,” particularly around which works from which socioeconomic and cultural backgrounds are being given primacy on the cinema screen. “Excluding these types of work is actually excluding particular kinds of voices that would not find a footing in feature-film based theatrical distribution,” noting that he feels cinémathèques generally should be finding space for this in the interest of “pushing and pulling at the borders of what constitutes cinematic form.”

Luscri comments though that the “fixed, unshakable, monolithic” nature of the society has caused or enabled other groups to form as a reaction, including filmmaker/screening clubs and collectives like the Artist Film Workshop (AFW) and Dogmilk. His own Unknown Pleasures program, co-curated with Mousoulis, is also an example, focusing on under-seen Australian works that he felt the Cinémathèque was either uninterested in, or could not feasibly financially sustain itself by, screening.

Complicating the situation is the unusual position that the Cinémathèque occupies. Despite a reputation and centrality built across its 75-year history (longer than any other significant film organisation in Australia), its membership-based governance and volunteer-run operations leave its viability reliant on membership sales and community participation. Writer/director Audrey Lam, who recently premiered her debut feature Us and the Night (2024) and is herself a key figure of the AFW, feels that the Cinémathèque shouldn’t have any obligation towards filmmakers or the broader screen culture, and that “criticisms should be directed at other institutions.”¹⁹

Though Us and the Night was shot in Lam’s then hometown of Brisbane, its use of hand-processed 16mm film feels intrinsically tied to her time in Melbourne, and the artisan-based practice of the experimental-focused AFW, which offers celluloid film processing and editing facilities to its members. With a background in photography and animation, as well as experience as a projectionist at Queensland’s Gallery of Modern Art (and later ACMI and the British Film Institute), Lam joined both the AFW and the Cinémathèque shortly after moving to Melbourne, drawn to their screening programs. “They’re very different kinds of programs, there’s not such an overlap… and it’s a totally different environment, screen, audience,” referring to AFW’s use of makeshift spaces with the 16mm projector running in the room itself.

Us and the Night

Meanwhile, the highly “professional” presentation standard of the Cinémathèque provides a counterbalance. “There’s something about seeing those really lush films in a full cinema, and people come, week in, week out. There’s a ritual… It’s always nice going and wondering what the other attendees are like.” In a way, Lam’s description evokes Us and the Night, as its two leads wander the library in close proximity without always interacting: an image reflecting the connections between the Cinémathèque’s member-filmmakers.

Luscri was also an AFW member and his involvement there, rather than at the Cinémathèque, was overall more valuable towards his filmmaking, as the physical experiences of shooting without a clear plan and in self-processing celluloid film endeared him towards a processed-focused approach in his documentary-making. While one could question the Cinémathèque’s current limited direct engagement with the local filmmaking community – outside of its dedication to a small (but significant, given these screenings’ general unpopularity amongst the broader membership) number of retrospectives devoted to local films and filmmakers every year – the society makes no pretence that it aims to favour this constituency.

Perhaps, the fact that a new generation of filmmakers have still found significant inspiration and built their creative relationships within the walls of the Treasury Theatre, ACMI Cinemas or the Capitol (where the Cinémathèque screened between 2019 and 2020, and briefly again in 2022, during ACMI’s renovation and repairs) indicates the Cinémathèque’s malleability; the freedom to interpret and use the society’s activities as one wishes. As evidenced above, this group of filmmakers has variously taken on aesthetic, political, ideological, social and/or constructively reactive influences from the Cinémathèque, and formed loose and tight connections between one another that are as legible and artistically fruitful as those formed by larger film organisations in Australia. If anything, this article will hopefully stem the frequent marginalisation of the Cinémathèque in discussions of contemporary Australian film practice, as well as further provoke the Cinémathèque itself to consider the needs of practitioners amidst its broader membership. Or perhaps, as Luscri ultimately reflects, how filmmakers and viewers are united by their shared need for cinema. “It’s a home for outcasts. It’s probably why I found my home there.”

Endnotes