Читать книгу Finding the Missed Path. The Art of Restarting Horses онлайн

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“Set,” the camera operator said, indicating he was ready to shoot.

“Action!” the Director shouted.

Rusty stood perfectly still, looking off into the distance from time to time, smelling the ground, looking toward me, then toward the camera, then back at me. A minute passed, then two, then three.

“Cut!” the director yelled. I moved quietly back to where Rusty was standing. He still hadn’t even offered to move.

They repositioned the camera again. This time they would be shooting in close up. The makeup man came in and began applying fake blood to Rusty’s side, shoulder, and face. He put a lot of fake blood on the big white mark near his withers left by all the past ill-fitting saddles. Now, instead of it looking like a saddle mark, it appeared to be a large, gaping wound. I stood next to Rusty but this time didn’t even feel the need to put the rope over his neck. He never moved a muscle as the makeup was applied.

The steadicam operator was now in charge of the camera: it was placed on a harness attached to the operator’s body, and he filmed as he moved around Rusty only a few inches from the horse’s body. Once again, Rusty stood like a champ as the camera slowly scanned his fake wounds, starting at his flank and traveling all the way to his head.