I remember the first time I spotted the sand dune driving into Palm Springs from Los Angeles, peeling off the 10 onto Highway 111. I glanced right, saw the mountains, and there it was — a massive dune glowing like it had been waiting for me. I thought, How do I get there? Twenty minutes later I was crawling under an overpass, dodging barbed wire, hiking toward it like it was some private pilgrimage site.

People always ask if I was inspired by Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, and I tell them my lineage goes a little further back in the canon — to Singin’ in the Rain, when Gene Kelly meets Cyd Charisse in that smoky cabaret. She’s holding the tiniest whisper of a scarf, it flutters once, and suddenly they’re transported to a giant soundstage where that scarf has become fifteen yards of glorious fabric being whipped around by industrial fans. Cinema magic at its most extra.

Me? I don’t get fans.
I get the actual wind.
And let me tell you, she does not take direction.

But we collaborate anyway — splendidly, chaotically, sometimes hilariously. The wind lifts, snaps, sulks, refuses, then suddenly delivers a moment so perfect it feels choreographed by some unseen desert diva.

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