Kimberly Offord and the Chicago AI Film Festival By Floyd Webb | BFM Magazine On April 18, 2026, something gathered on the South Side...
Kimberly Offord and the Chicago AI Film Festival
By Floyd Webb | BFM Magazine
On April 18, 2026, something gathered on the South Side of Chicago. Not a festival. A question.
Inside the Reva and David Logan Center for the Arts, twelve films flickered across the screen, each one generated, shaped, or assisted by artificial intelligence. Ninety submissions had come in from around the world. Twelve made it into the room.
The room itself felt like a threshold.
—
Kimberly Offord refuses the debate as it’s usually framed. Not because it’s unimportant. Because it’s abstract. She replaces the abstraction with a question: who gets to speak?
Kimberly Offord, Chicago AI Master
“The most important thing are voices that would not have been heard, stories that would not have been told,” she says. “People from underrepresented communities now have an opportunity to express themselves unlike before.”
As founder of both the Chicago AI Film Festival and the Black AI Film Festival, Offord has built the infrastructure to back that claim. The festival launched in 2025 under her Playground Pastime banner, drawing nearly one hundred global submissions for an all-online event. The second iteration moved in-person under the Chicago AI Film Festival name, with selection criteria that was both simple and uncompromising: films had to either tell the story of an underrepresented community or be made by a filmmaker from one.
Many technically impressive submissions didn’t qualify. They simply hadn’t engaged with the mission.
What screened instead told a different story about what AI filmmaking can do — and for whom.
Before Mount Rushmore is a five-minute poetic tribute to Sinťé Glešká — Spotted Tail — warrior, diplomat, and defender of Pahá Sápa, the Black Hills, which the Lakota call the heart of everything that is. The film traces his arc from Jumping Buffalo to statesman: the 1868 Treaty that guaranteed Lakota sovereignty, the 1874 gold incursion that shattered it, the federal sell-or-starve ultimatum of 1876, and the seizure of the Black Hills in 1877. In 1980, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled the taking illegal. The Sioux Nations refused the compensation money. They maintain that land, not cash, must be returned. That refusal is still open. Filmmaker Aaron Liberman built the piece from archival photographs, old maps, and historical prints, animating them through generative AI and setting them to the Victory/Veteran’s Song. The result was not a lecture. It was a reckoning — First Nations people telling their own story, in their own voice, through materials that had mostly been used by others to tell someone else’s version. One audience member, a musician, leaned over afterward and asked whether the soundtrack was AI too. Everything felt that lived-in.
Strings Attached took a different approach. The film follows a young man whose heart is literally ripped from his chest, forcing him to track it down by following the string — or face the consequences. Detroit filmmaker Kim Pratt built the piece entirely from AI-generated marionette figures — no dialogue, no narration, no studio. The film won Best AI Short Film at the Chicago AI Film Festival and later screened at a special AI program at the 2026 Cannes Film Festival.
Both films arrived without studio backing, without industry credentials, without anyone at a development table deciding whether the story was commercially viable. They arrived because a founder built a room where that kind of work could be seen.
—
Kim Pratt didn’t come to AI filmmaking through a lab or a grant. She came through Instagram. Kimberly Offord’s work crossed her timeline — she still doesn’t know why the algorithm sent it her way — and something clicked. Pratt had spent years working across videography, cinematography, photography, and music production. She recognized a new medium when she saw one.
She sent Offord her first attempt: a twenty-two-second film. Fangirling, she calls it now. Offord encouraged her. Pratt enrolled in Playground Pastime courses and within months had made her first AI-animated music video for one of her own songs. People started reaching out. It blew up.
Kim Pratt Strings Attached, AI movie
What she made with that momentum had nothing to do with Terminator or anime or the visual retreads that dominate so much AI content. She started asking different questions. What can I do with clay? What can I do with wood? She built figures, tested textures, pushed the tools away from photorealism toward something stranger and more deliberate. The first marionette image she generated opened into a story. She followed where it led.
That story became Strings Attached — and the political subtext was never separate from the craft. The 2024 election had registered differently for Pratt and for many Black women watching that moment unfold — the choices made, the margins, what the numbers reflected. The cultural specificity of that reaction doesn’t translate easily across experience. As the year progressed she began to feel like something was being performed for an audience. Entertainment. Control dressed as chaos. She understood the mindset. And she built a puppet show around it.
The marionettes were never physically constructed. They existed only inside the AI — digital figures with wooden stiffness and string-pulled movement that the tools rendered with their own uncanny logic. Pratt didn’t fight the limitations. She inhabited them. The jitter became intentional. The not-quite-human motion became the argument. The puppet master looming over the frame, the strings visible, the control unambiguous.
The room went quiet when it ended. Not bored. Stunned. “I love making people think and feel,” she told me. “I like to leave the interpretation open.” But she knows what she made. And so did the audience.
—
Ungapped Territory
The question of who owns AI-generated work is unresolved in law and immediate in practice. A musician I know recently tried to upload AI-generated work to The Orchard. It was rejected: no rights could be attached to it. The work existed. The authorship didn’t — not in any form the distribution infrastructure recognized.
Offord has developed her own answer, practical and principled. She puts a brand, a watermark, a logo on everything she makes. She doesn’t generate prompts that reference specific artists or filmmakers. “The story is mine,” she says. “The intention is mine. The creative direction is mine. That matters, even when the law hasn’t caught up to it yet.”
It’s a strategy, not a solution. But in ungapped territory, a strategy is what you build with.
—
The Conversation
I asked Offord afterward what she thought a movement actually required.
Floyd Webb: You frame the festival as a movement, not a moment. What’s the distinction?
Kimberly Offord: A moment is people having fun with AI, creating content to go viral — there’s nothing wrong with that. A movement is intentional storytelling. It’s people who do not normally have the opportunity to have their stories seen and heard, for whatever reasons, taking this opportunity to have them seen and heard on a larger scale.
FW: Your selection criteria self-eliminated a lot of technically strong work. How does that shape what the festival actually is?
KO: Some of those were great films — I wanted to show them — but they just didn’t meet the criteria. And the judges had a real variety of backgrounds. They weren’t all AI people, weren’t all tech guys. That mattered, because the films that made it in weren’t just technically interesting. They were telling stories no one else would have told. That’s the difference between people creating content and people creating films. The difference is intention.
FW: You’ve pushed back directly on creators who claimed generating images of Black women was simply impossible in current AI systems.
KO: That’s just not true. It is possible. It’s difficult sometimes — creating images with color, variety, different shapes, sizes, hues — but it is not impossible. And the statement was made by some white female creators who said they just could not create any Black images, no Black women. So one way I fight it is just by doing it. Putting the images out there. But the second way is being proactive with the platforms. I’m a creative partner with four AI platforms, which means I test new tools and give direct feedback to developers. I can say: this was my prompt, this is what I got — you might want to look at your training models. And the more people of color using these tools and creating images, the more representation we’re putting into the ecosystem.
FW: Desktop publishing, digital video, streaming — each wave promised democratization and eventually recentralized power. How do you see AI in that lineage?
KO: I think it already has changed things tremendously, and we have yet to see what it’ll do. People ask me where I see AI in five years. I don’t know where I see it in five days. My workflow from three weeks ago is completely different than my workflow right now. The day before the Black AI Film Festival I had a full production day on the calendar — marketing materials, a promo video. The next morning I had an email from Runway saying they’d just introduced a new AI agent for creative partners. I gave it two flyers, a prompt, and had a fifteen-second and thirty-second promo with sound ready to post. Six minutes. Is it going to eliminate some things? Absolutely. But for those who embrace it and do it the right way, it’s going to push them so far forward they won’t notice what it eliminated. For me, it eliminated a headache.
FW: You screened at the American Black Film Festival in Miami Beach this past May. What was the reception like?
Kimberly Offord: From what I could tell, it was a good reception. Curiosity, definitely. People were there because they chose to be there. I think my film in particular got a great reception because of the storyline — it was different and refreshing. Sci-fi. But there were other forums where AI was mentioned and the audience got quiet. Or quietly indifferent. It’s here. It’s a tool. Bottom line.
FW: Where do you see the festival in two years?
KO: Almost like a Comic-Con — bringing Chicago to the forefront of conversations about creativity, technology, and inclusion. A real platform where emerging storytellers find audiences that would otherwise remain inaccessible. The whole point, for me, is accessibility. That’s number one. Inclusion is number two. And I think there’s still a place for traditional filmmaking — there’s a way to marry the two. You’re not regulating somebody else’s creative expression. That’s it.
—
Coda: The 10:30 Movie
I was eleven on a Cold War Friday night when Forbidden Planet came through the television and rearranged my head permanently.
The Krell — an alien civilization millions of years beyond humanity — had built a machine that could read the mind, amplify it, and translate its contents directly into physical reality. Generative. It took what was inside and made it outside. It didn’t follow instructions. It interpreted intention.
They solved the problem completely. And it killed them.
Not because the machine malfunctioned. Because it worked. It materialized everything — including what lived underneath their civilization. The ancient drives. The territorial rage. The monsters they had evolved past in their conscious minds but never extinguished. The machine was indifferent to the distinction between the civilized self and the archaic self beneath it.
We built a different machine. Ours went outward first — consuming every film ever made, every image digitized, every story uploaded. Having swallowed the archive of human civilization, it learned to generate from it. The default outputs are not random. They are a mirror reflecting the shape of the cultural record that trained them: who was centered, whose stories were worth producing at scale, which futures were imagined and by whom.
The machine doesn’t have a bias. It has your bias. Every choice ever made about what was worth making, funding, distributing, preserving.
Morbius couldn’t see his monster because it was made of him.
Standing in that room in Chicago — watching Spotted Tail brought back to life from old prints and maps, watching a puppet show tell the truth about Black life in America through the medium’s own limitations — I thought: this is what it looks like when the people the machine wasn’t built for turn around and use it anyway.
The software can generate images. It cannot generate lived experience. It cannot replicate memory. It cannot replace perspective.
The archive can be expanded. The mirror can be turned.
What happened at the Reva and David Logan Center on April 18 was not an isolated event. Across the Black diaspora, filmmakers and storytellers are actively navigating AI as both instrument and argument — using generative tools to democratize production, challenge the historical bias baked into commercial models, and scale distribution in ways that traditional studio infrastructure never made available to them. The conversation is global, and it is not waiting for Hollywood to lead it.
The cost argument alone is significant. AI-assisted pre-visualization, generative VFX, and prompt-based world-building have lowered barriers that once made certain stories simply unproduceable outside major studio budgets. In Nollywood and across African film hubs, AI-assisted dubbing and subtitling are enabling distribution across dozens of languages without the backing of a single traditional distributor. Willonius Hatcher, a filmmaker whose work has drawn attention in Wired, has gone further than most in naming what this shift represents: he describes AI as reparations — a redistribution of creative capacity that was structurally withheld from Black artists for generations. It is a provocative claim. It is also not an easy one to dismiss.
The archival dimension runs deeper still. Generative tools are being used to re-contextualize history — placing diverse voices and bodies into records that excluded them, reconstructing missing histories, preserving indigenous cultures that mainstream media never adequately documented. Organizations like AI Lagos are working to ensure that the models themselves reflect African and Black diasporic contexts, fighting the default bias of systems trained almost entirely on Western data sets. Before Mount Rushmore, screened at Logan Center, belongs to this tradition: a First Nations filmmaker using the archive against itself, animating the materials of dispossession into an act of reclamation.
None of this is without friction. Commercial AI models carry the biases of their training data, and the scraping practices used to build those datasets remain ethically contested. Reconstructing the voices or likenesses of real individuals raises questions that technology cannot resolve. And the democratization argument has a counter-history: desktop publishing, digital video, and streaming each promised to redistribute power and each eventually recentralized it. The question Offord is asking — and that the Chicago AI Film Festival is built to answer — is whether this time the infrastructure can be built by the people who need it before the consolidation arrives. That is a political question. The films are the argument.
—
Kimberly Offord (IG @kimberlyofford) is the founder of the Chicago AI Film Festival and the Black AI Film Festival (www.blackaifilmfest.com). In May 2026, she screened The B-Side: The Future is Past and sat on a panel at the 30th annual American Black Film Festival in Miami Beach, Florida.
Kim Pratt (IG @kimpratt also known as Kiwi) is a Detroit-based filmmaker, videographer, and recording artist. Her film Strings Attached won Best AI Short Film at the Chicago AI Film Festival and screened at the 2026 Cannes Film Festival.
Floyd Webb is a filmmaker, photographer, and curator based in Chicago. He is the founder of the Black Light Film Festival and the Blacknuss Network.
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The Mirror Can Be Turned: Kimberly Offord and the Chicago AI Film Festival
AI FilmmakingAI FuturesBFM News and UpdatesCommentaryFeaturesInternationalMixed Bag June 14, 2026 Floyd Webb
Kimberly Offord and the Chicago AI Film Festival
By Floyd Webb | BFM Magazine
On April 18, 2026, something gathered on the South Side of Chicago. Not a festival. A question.
Inside the Reva and David Logan Center for the Arts, twelve films flickered across the screen, each one generated, shaped, or assisted by artificial intelligence. Ninety submissions had come in from around the world. Twelve made it into the room.
The room itself felt like a threshold.
—
Kimberly Offord refuses the debate as it’s usually framed. Not because it’s unimportant. Because it’s abstract. She replaces the abstraction with a question: who gets to speak?
“The most important thing are voices that would not have been heard, stories that would not have been told,” she says. “People from underrepresented communities now have an opportunity to express themselves unlike before.”
As founder of both the Chicago AI Film Festival and the Black AI Film Festival, Offord has built the infrastructure to back that claim. The festival launched in 2025 under her Playground Pastime banner, drawing nearly one hundred global submissions for an all-online event. The second iteration moved in-person under the Chicago AI Film Festival name, with selection criteria that was both simple and uncompromising: films had to either tell the story of an underrepresented community or be made by a filmmaker from one.
Many technically impressive submissions didn’t qualify. They simply hadn’t engaged with the mission.
What screened instead told a different story about what AI filmmaking can do — and for whom.
Before Mount Rushmore is a five-minute poetic tribute to Sinťé Glešká — Spotted Tail — warrior, diplomat, and defender of Pahá Sápa, the Black Hills, which the Lakota call the heart of everything that is. The film traces his arc from Jumping Buffalo to statesman: the 1868 Treaty that guaranteed Lakota sovereignty, the 1874 gold incursion that shattered it, the federal sell-or-starve ultimatum of 1876, and the seizure of the Black Hills in 1877. In 1980, the U.S. Supreme Court ruled the taking illegal. The Sioux Nations refused the compensation money. They maintain that land, not cash, must be returned. That refusal is still open. Filmmaker Aaron Liberman built the piece from archival photographs, old maps, and historical prints, animating them through generative AI and setting them to the Victory/Veteran’s Song. The result was not a lecture. It was a reckoning — First Nations people telling their own story, in their own voice, through materials that had mostly been used by others to tell someone else’s version. One audience member, a musician, leaned over afterward and asked whether the soundtrack was AI too. Everything felt that lived-in.
Strings Attached took a different approach. The film follows a young man whose heart is literally ripped from his chest, forcing him to track it down by following the string — or face the consequences. Detroit filmmaker Kim Pratt built the piece entirely from AI-generated marionette figures — no dialogue, no narration, no studio. The film won Best AI Short Film at the Chicago AI Film Festival and later screened at a special AI program at the 2026 Cannes Film Festival.
Both films arrived without studio backing, without industry credentials, without anyone at a development table deciding whether the story was commercially viable. They arrived because a founder built a room where that kind of work could be seen.
—
Kim Pratt didn’t come to AI filmmaking through a lab or a grant. She came through Instagram. Kimberly Offord’s work crossed her timeline — she still doesn’t know why the algorithm sent it her way — and something clicked. Pratt had spent years working across videography, cinematography, photography, and music production. She recognized a new medium when she saw one.
She sent Offord her first attempt: a twenty-two-second film. Fangirling, she calls it now. Offord encouraged her. Pratt enrolled in Playground Pastime courses and within months had made her first AI-animated music video for one of her own songs. People started reaching out. It blew up.
What she made with that momentum had nothing to do with Terminator or anime or the visual retreads that dominate so much AI content. She started asking different questions. What can I do with clay? What can I do with wood? She built figures, tested textures, pushed the tools away from photorealism toward something stranger and more deliberate. The first marionette image she generated opened into a story. She followed where it led.
That story became Strings Attached — and the political subtext was never separate from the craft. The 2024 election had registered differently for Pratt and for many Black women watching that moment unfold — the choices made, the margins, what the numbers reflected. The cultural specificity of that reaction doesn’t translate easily across experience. As the year progressed she began to feel like something was being performed for an audience. Entertainment. Control dressed as chaos. She understood the mindset. And she built a puppet show around it.
The marionettes were never physically constructed. They existed only inside the AI — digital figures with wooden stiffness and string-pulled movement that the tools rendered with their own uncanny logic. Pratt didn’t fight the limitations. She inhabited them. The jitter became intentional. The not-quite-human motion became the argument. The puppet master looming over the frame, the strings visible, the control unambiguous.
The room went quiet when it ended. Not bored. Stunned. “I love making people think and feel,” she told me. “I like to leave the interpretation open.” But she knows what she made. And so did the audience.
—
Ungapped Territory
The question of who owns AI-generated work is unresolved in law and immediate in practice. A musician I know recently tried to upload AI-generated work to The Orchard. It was rejected: no rights could be attached to it. The work existed. The authorship didn’t — not in any form the distribution infrastructure recognized.
Offord has developed her own answer, practical and principled. She puts a brand, a watermark, a logo on everything she makes. She doesn’t generate prompts that reference specific artists or filmmakers. “The story is mine,” she says. “The intention is mine. The creative direction is mine. That matters, even when the law hasn’t caught up to it yet.”
It’s a strategy, not a solution. But in ungapped territory, a strategy is what you build with.
—
The Conversation
I asked Offord afterward what she thought a movement actually required.
Floyd Webb: You frame the festival as a movement, not a moment. What’s the distinction?
Kimberly Offord: A moment is people having fun with AI, creating content to go viral — there’s nothing wrong with that. A movement is intentional storytelling. It’s people who do not normally have the opportunity to have their stories seen and heard, for whatever reasons, taking this opportunity to have them seen and heard on a larger scale.
FW: Your selection criteria self-eliminated a lot of technically strong work. How does that shape what the festival actually is?
KO: Some of those were great films — I wanted to show them — but they just didn’t meet the criteria. And the judges had a real variety of backgrounds. They weren’t all AI people, weren’t all tech guys. That mattered, because the films that made it in weren’t just technically interesting. They were telling stories no one else would have told. That’s the difference between people creating content and people creating films. The difference is intention.
FW: You’ve pushed back directly on creators who claimed generating images of Black women was simply impossible in current AI systems.
KO: That’s just not true. It is possible. It’s difficult sometimes — creating images with color, variety, different shapes, sizes, hues — but it is not impossible. And the statement was made by some white female creators who said they just could not create any Black images, no Black women. So one way I fight it is just by doing it. Putting the images out there. But the second way is being proactive with the platforms. I’m a creative partner with four AI platforms, which means I test new tools and give direct feedback to developers. I can say: this was my prompt, this is what I got — you might want to look at your training models. And the more people of color using these tools and creating images, the more representation we’re putting into the ecosystem.
FW: Desktop publishing, digital video, streaming — each wave promised democratization and eventually recentralized power. How do you see AI in that lineage?
KO: I think it already has changed things tremendously, and we have yet to see what it’ll do. People ask me where I see AI in five years. I don’t know where I see it in five days. My workflow from three weeks ago is completely different than my workflow right now. The day before the Black AI Film Festival I had a full production day on the calendar — marketing materials, a promo video. The next morning I had an email from Runway saying they’d just introduced a new AI agent for creative partners. I gave it two flyers, a prompt, and had a fifteen-second and thirty-second promo with sound ready to post. Six minutes. Is it going to eliminate some things? Absolutely. But for those who embrace it and do it the right way, it’s going to push them so far forward they won’t notice what it eliminated. For me, it eliminated a headache.
FW: You screened at the American Black Film Festival in Miami Beach this past May. What was the reception like?
Kimberly Offord: From what I could tell, it was a good reception. Curiosity, definitely. People were there because they chose to be there. I think my film in particular got a great reception because of the storyline — it was different and refreshing. Sci-fi. But there were other forums where AI was mentioned and the audience got quiet. Or quietly indifferent. It’s here. It’s a tool. Bottom line.
FW: Where do you see the festival in two years?
KO: Almost like a Comic-Con — bringing Chicago to the forefront of conversations about creativity, technology, and inclusion. A real platform where emerging storytellers find audiences that would otherwise remain inaccessible. The whole point, for me, is accessibility. That’s number one. Inclusion is number two. And I think there’s still a place for traditional filmmaking — there’s a way to marry the two. You’re not regulating somebody else’s creative expression. That’s it.
—
Coda: The 10:30 Movie
I was eleven on a Cold War Friday night when Forbidden Planet came through the television and rearranged my head permanently.
The Krell — an alien civilization millions of years beyond humanity — had built a machine that could read the mind, amplify it, and translate its contents directly into physical reality. Generative. It took what was inside and made it outside. It didn’t follow instructions. It interpreted intention.
They solved the problem completely. And it killed them.
Not because the machine malfunctioned. Because it worked. It materialized everything — including what lived underneath their civilization. The ancient drives. The territorial rage. The monsters they had evolved past in their conscious minds but never extinguished. The machine was indifferent to the distinction between the civilized self and the archaic self beneath it.
We built a different machine. Ours went outward first — consuming every film ever made, every image digitized, every story uploaded. Having swallowed the archive of human civilization, it learned to generate from it. The default outputs are not random. They are a mirror reflecting the shape of the cultural record that trained them: who was centered, whose stories were worth producing at scale, which futures were imagined and by whom.
The machine doesn’t have a bias. It has your bias. Every choice ever made about what was worth making, funding, distributing, preserving.
Morbius couldn’t see his monster because it was made of him.
Standing in that room in Chicago — watching Spotted Tail brought back to life from old prints and maps, watching a puppet show tell the truth about Black life in America through the medium’s own limitations — I thought: this is what it looks like when the people the machine wasn’t built for turn around and use it anyway.
The software can generate images. It cannot generate lived experience. It cannot replicate memory. It cannot replace perspective.
The archive can be expanded. The mirror can be turned.
—
Beyond Logan Center
What happened at the Reva and David Logan Center on April 18 was not an isolated event. Across the Black diaspora, filmmakers and storytellers are actively navigating AI as both instrument and argument — using generative tools to democratize production, challenge the historical bias baked into commercial models, and scale distribution in ways that traditional studio infrastructure never made available to them. The conversation is global, and it is not waiting for Hollywood to lead it.
The cost argument alone is significant. AI-assisted pre-visualization, generative VFX, and prompt-based world-building have lowered barriers that once made certain stories simply unproduceable outside major studio budgets. In Nollywood and across African film hubs, AI-assisted dubbing and subtitling are enabling distribution across dozens of languages without the backing of a single traditional distributor. Willonius Hatcher, a filmmaker whose work has drawn attention in Wired, has gone further than most in naming what this shift represents: he describes AI as reparations — a redistribution of creative capacity that was structurally withheld from Black artists for generations. It is a provocative claim. It is also not an easy one to dismiss.
The archival dimension runs deeper still. Generative tools are being used to re-contextualize history — placing diverse voices and bodies into records that excluded them, reconstructing missing histories, preserving indigenous cultures that mainstream media never adequately documented. Organizations like AI Lagos are working to ensure that the models themselves reflect African and Black diasporic contexts, fighting the default bias of systems trained almost entirely on Western data sets. Before Mount Rushmore, screened at Logan Center, belongs to this tradition: a First Nations filmmaker using the archive against itself, animating the materials of dispossession into an act of reclamation.
None of this is without friction. Commercial AI models carry the biases of their training data, and the scraping practices used to build those datasets remain ethically contested. Reconstructing the voices or likenesses of real individuals raises questions that technology cannot resolve. And the democratization argument has a counter-history: desktop publishing, digital video, and streaming each promised to redistribute power and each eventually recentralized it. The question Offord is asking — and that the Chicago AI Film Festival is built to answer — is whether this time the infrastructure can be built by the people who need it before the consolidation arrives. That is a political question. The films are the argument.
—
Kimberly Offord (IG @kimberlyofford) is the founder of the Chicago AI Film Festival and the Black AI Film Festival (www.blackaifilmfest.com). In May 2026, she screened The B-Side: The Future is Past and sat on a panel at the 30th annual American Black Film Festival in Miami Beach, Florida.
Kim Pratt (IG @kimpratt also known as Kiwi) is a Detroit-based filmmaker, videographer, and recording artist. Her film Strings Attached won Best AI Short Film at the Chicago AI Film Festival and screened at the 2026 Cannes Film Festival.
Floyd Webb is a filmmaker, photographer, and curator based in Chicago. He is the founder of the Black Light Film Festival and the Blacknuss Network.
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