The Most Generous Thing an Artist Can Do

I don't remember the first time I watched Superman.

I remember the hundredth.

More specifically, I remember what happened after the hundredth.

When I was about ten years old, my father brought home our family's first VCR. If you grew up with streaming, it's difficult to explain what a miracle that felt like.

Until then, movies disappeared.

You saw them in the theater and then hoped they might reappear months, or years, later on television, interrupted by commercials and dubbed into Spanish by someone who sounded nothing like Harrison Ford.

Now I could watch the same movie whenever I wanted.

And I did.

The first tapes we owned were Superman and Raiders of the Lost Ark. I wore them out.

There was one moment in Superman that completely captivated me.

Lois Lane falls from a helicopter.

Clark Kent sees what's happening.

He pulls open his shirt.

The "S" appears.

Then he flies.

For the first time in my life, I believed a man could fly.

I watched that scene so many times I could probably recite every frame from memory.

But eventually something strange happened.

I stopped watching it for myself.

Instead, I started inviting my cousins over.

I'd fast-forward through the movie until I reached the scene. Then I'd press Play.

Once it started, I rarely looked at the television.

I watched them. I watched for the widening eyes. The smile. That tiny moment when disbelief gave way to wonder.

Seeing them experience that feeling became almost more satisfying than experiencing it myself.

At the time, I didn't understand. Now I think I do.

I wasn't trying to show them a movie.

I was trying to give them something the movie had once given me.

Art Is an Act of Generosity

I think we've all done this.

You've probably told someone, "You have to watch this."

"You have to read this book." "Listen to this song."

On the surface, it looks like a recommendation.

But that's not really what's happening.

What you're saying is:

"This changed me, and I hope it changes you, too."

That's an act of generosity.

You're trying to pass along an experience that made your life a little richer, a little wiser, a little more beautiful.

I think that's one of the deepest reasons stories exist.

Not simply to entertain us.

But to carry something from one human being to another.

Long before we had cameras, novels, or streaming platforms, we had stories.

They carried knowledge. Warnings. Dreams. Hope.

They allowed one person's hard-earned experience to survive long after they were gone.

Storytelling may have been humanity's first great technology.

Not because it entertained us.

Because it connected us.

Somewhere Along the Way...

I think many artists lose sight of this.

We become preoccupied with being clever.

Original.

Technically impressive.

We chase beautiful cinematography, intricate plots, or the perfect shot.

There's nothing wrong with any of those things.

But they aren't the destination.

They're the language.

The destination is always another human being.

If the audience leaves impressed but unchanged...

what exactly have we given them?

The films that stay with us don't simply demonstrate talent.

They leave us carrying something we didn't have before.

A new question. A different perspective. A little more courage. A little more compassion.

Sometimes, just a renewed sense of wonder.

That's the real gift.

Returning to the Beginning

Whenever I feel myself getting distracted by the business of filmmaking, the algorithms, the views, the gear, the festivals, I think about that little boy in Puerto Rico with his VCR.

He wasn't trying to impress anyone.

He wasn't thinking about becoming a filmmaker.

He simply wanted someone else to experience the same sense of wonder he'd felt.

Looking back, I realize that little boy understood something I've spent the rest of my career trying to articulate.

The purpose of art isn't self-expression.

Not entirely.

It's connection.

The artist feels something deeply enough that they decide another human being shouldn't have to miss it.

That's an extraordinary act of generosity.

And perhaps that's why the stories we never forget don't simply ask us to admire them.

They quietly invite us to become more fully ourselves.

Maybe that's the real work of every artist.

Not to say, "Look what I made."

But to say,

"Come with me. I think there's something here worth sharing."

If this idea resonates with you, I'd encourage you to watch my YouTube video, "Your Film Is Technically Perfect But Boring - Here's Why" where I talk about finding the core of your story and making your art unmistakably yours.

And if you're ready to go deeper, you can download my free Storytelling Starter Kit, where I introduce the principles I use to help filmmakers find the Core of their stories and create work that truly connects with an audience.