It’s a sunny morning, and Sami’s song is playing.
Last week, we watched My Octopus Teacher.
Last month, I read Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie.
Last year, we saw Dune – twice – at the cinema. I cried both times, when they land on Arrakis.
The Alpinist, too – went back three times. The Dawn Wall – five. Secession – yearly card.
All that beauty, all that art. Nothing else connects us to humanity in that way. Only art, only creative work, provides us with that sense of belonging.
In nature, I feel complete – but unnecessary. Any time spent in the woods, at sea, on a mountain, shows me the planet would be better off without us.
But when I listen, read, watch, look at art, I understand our purpose. Not all is lost, if we are still capable of creating these moments, of stirring that deep.
And recreating that effect, making something that matters, that’s… very difficult. I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. People do all sorts of things to try and find that missing element, to try and reach people, to tell them a story they won’t forget.
But I don’t know that there is a formula. I don’t know that there is a missing variable that can be calculated, programmed, or manufactured.
We create from the heart. It can be worked on, it can be edited, it can take feedback. We can create favourable conditions. We can have stimulating conversations. We can have workshops, meetings, calls, briefings, processes.
But in the end, it’s a movement of the soul, and it’s uncontrollable.
It’s deeply personal, very vulnerable, often uninteresting, and sometimes, by chance, it touches deep, it moves hearts, it tells stories that matter. It’s intrinsically human.