They say never to meet your heroes. Several years into my twenties, I was beginning to understand why. I had already met several of my heroes, and every time, without fail, I got tongue-tied and said something stupid – the kind of thing you recall when you’re in the shower, holding a bottle of shampoo, cringing at yourself and silently wishing you were dead.

So when I was invited to a MoMA screening of Instrument — the documentary about the punk band Fugazi, directed by Jem Cohen — and asked if I wanted to meet co-frontman/guitarist Guy Picciotto afterward, I was hesitant. Guy “Glueman” Picciotto? Aw, MAN. I didn’t want to make a fool of myself yet again, especially in front of this man I so admired. But Fugazi as a band, and Instrument as a film, were both too important to me to let the opportunity pass by. I knew I had to say something, even if it would ruin my showers for years to come.

I first fell in love with Fugazi when I was a freshman at the SUNY Purchase Film Conservatory, where I played my CD copy of 13 Songs on repeat, exhilarated by their anger and moved by their integrity. The following year, our documentary professor – the extraordinary Deanna Kamiel – showed Instrument to the class. It was the first time, but wouldn’t be the last, that Deanna would have a profound impact on the way I view the world.

Originally from Toronto, Deanna spent the last few decades of her life living in Harlem, teaching documentary filmmaking at SUNY Purchase and The New School. I’ve never met anyone, before or since, who was so passionate about student films; when screening work in class, you could measure the success of your footage by the loud, rapturous gasp of delight that would come from the back of the classroom. An avid lover of cafes and art of all kinds, she often invited her favorite students to discuss cinema, music and literature over cappuccinos and croissants (just don’t try to take her plate away before she’s done — perhaps her biggest pet peeve, second only to the inclusion of lies or misrepresentation of facts in nonfiction films, which she staunchly believed filmmakers had an ethical duty to correct).

Although my senior thesis was a narrative film, Deanna was a huge supporter of it; she knew I’d been heavily influenced by Michael Haneke, and one day over coffee she gifted me a copy of The Paris Review because it featured an interview with the director. I’d never read The Paris Review before, but it’s since become one of my favorite publications and a constant source of inspiration. That copy she gave me also had an interview with Karl Ove Knausgård, discussing the first book in his series, My Struggle. Intrigued, I bought the book for my then-boyfriend Mike for his birthday, suspecting it would be right up his alley. My instinct turned out to be correct; Mike has since read every book in the series and everything else that Knausgård has ever written. Mike was also very close to Deanna, who sadly passed away in 2018.

But long before then, Deanna screened Instrument for us in our sophomore documentary class. About two thirds of the class complained, calling it long and boring and self-indulgent. For me, it was everything – the visuals, the message, the music. Were we even watching the same film? Every frame was imbued with so much energy, so much power. Rarely does a band so vehemently live by what it claims to believe; rarely does the shooting and editing of a film capture the rhythms of music the way this one did.

But there was one scene in particular that really grabbed me. During a live performance about 42 minutes into the film, Guy is shown aggressively slow-dancing with a fan on stage, some dopey-looking kid, then clutching him in an intimate embrace, refusing to let go. Just hugging him, holding him, moving to the music. The fan finally sits Guy down on the corner of the stage, who stares at the floor blankly for a while as the fan kind of hovers around him in confusion.

When I was introduced to Guy — by Deanna, who had of course invited me to the MoMA screening — the first thing I told him was how that moment changed the way I thought about film and art. It struck me as a shining, literal example of an artist’s ability to connect with his audience – to reach out, touch someone, and hold on for dear life – and of film's unique ability to capture and focus our attention on a single moment in time.

Guy looked at me in surprise. He told me that no one had ever mentioned that scene to him before, and he never understood why; although this was the first time he'd watched the film in 10 years, it always struck him how strange that moment was. I asked him what was going through his mind when it happened. He said that the fan had been causing a lot of tension during the show, and to diffuse it Guy decided to dance with him on stage. Then he got overheated and kind of fainted, and he doesn't remember much else. 

As someone who’s fainted several times, I told him I could relate to that feeling — it’s scary and it sucks. I couldn’t imagine watching it from the outside looking in, but I’m grateful that Jem Cohen chose to include it in the final edit. The beauty of those images, of that moment of connection, could’ve easily been lost in time; instead they’re forever burned into my memory.

We walked through the museum for a bit and he asked me about film school and if I was making films now. I asked him how he felt watching the doc now that he wasn't with the band anymore. He said it made him sad, and that he hadn’t been doing much lately since Vic Chesnutt died, but he really wanted to get more productive again. After a few minutes, we exchanged warm goodbyes and he left.

I remained where I stood for a moment, basking in the glow of our own brief connection. They say never to meet your heroes, but I’m so glad I got to meet mine.