Writings
October 16th, 2025.
As part of a traumatic experience during a film competition that lasted 48hours, I would very much like to share with you some thoughts that sprung out of overthinking. why, on a personal level, this experience was a bit traumatic, and stressful, not to say that trauma or stress are inherently bad, but because they can be signals inviting us to question what we usually ignore or take for granted.
let's talk about cinema..
beyond the industrial machine of production, why some of us humans on earth, are studying film?
because we simply want to make films. okay fair, but WHY?
It is coming from a place, memory, perhaps. maybe also passion, to give the world a chance to see what is it like inside your head, how you care too much, how it means so much to you that the world sees it, before talking about fame, money or recognition, it's rage, passion, anger, love, hate, it's our past, our family, friends and lovers. we chose this medium, because it's the most powerful in not just reaching people but uniting them in one single space.
We care too much yet again, because we want to make other people feel the same way we did that one night when we looked at the sunset on a rooftop of a building with someone we care about. We want to transmit the warmth of those moments to someone that works a soul crushing minimum wage job, we want to transmit how angry we are at the current state of things, We want to transmit our rage at a world where its people no longer have the luxury to breathe clean air.
And then someone tells us about the script supervisor’s job.
Yes, teach me about continuity and precision. I respect the craft. But don’t pressure me to accept it as law. If there is anything useful I actually learned by studying Montage, it is that meaning comes out of the logic of collision, not randomly and not linearly. the film industry has many defects, Its hierarchies and protocols often reproduce the same systems we claim to escape. unless you take a step back and think, what the actual f am I doing this for, you are yet again part of the same old bureaucratic system only it is on the "artsy" side. on a completely different note : I fucking love film-making, no matter how fucking devastating it is.
April 27th, 2025.
On the claim that Ai is killing creativity or whatever...
I'm not an artist. ( I could be but I'm not so sure whether I'd like to regard myself as one. )
Ai is neither a part of progress nor a danger. It doesn’t matter what tool you use to make art , art is about ideas and self-expression. As long as the work is genuine, the medium you choose doesn’t matter. Before we can even debate whether Ai is a "danger" to creativity, we first need to redefine what art is, and what purpose it serves for humanity. Art is not about how good you illustrate, how good you use cameras, or how perfectly you play an instrument. Art is never perfect. Art is never about how good you are at a certain skill. If you paint a portrait of someone, you are a painter. If you take a photograph of someone, you are a photographer. Technical perfection is not art. Meaning and intention are art — because art carries stories. Therefore, anything Ai generated is not art. But I’m not against the medium's existence, Ai it’s a tool, like any other. An image generated by an Ai engine is still just an image. Real artists don’t care if other people "steal their art," because art is not something you keep for yourself, or something reserved for a category of people who can afford it. Art galleries are bullshit. Any money you pay to "own" a piece of art is a scam if you think that's what art is about. To conclude: Art is defined by ideas, self-expression, and its impact on human consciousness. Mastery of a certain technique alone does not make someone an artist. It makes them a craftsperson skilled in a medium. If you just want to sell paintings to hang on the wall of a bourgeoisie’s dining room, fine — go ahead. But don’t label yourself an artist.
March 26th, 2025.
A Case Against Contemporary Art and Digital Media
I’m writing this under a red blanket in my room, using my aunt’s laptop. I’m filled with rage, and I want to cry, because I don’t know if what I’m doing with my life has any real value. Hustling day and night, building a portfolio full of “beautiful” artwork, pictures of conventionally attractive people, modern aesthetics stamped with approval by the elites, the cool kids of the elites, and, of course, the ones who wish they were elites.
What’s the purpose of art? What’s the purpose of being an artist? Can it even be a job, something to survive off of, to sustain a life, a family? Yes, I am fucking furious because to make it, I have to strip away my values, conform to some bullshit beauty standard, produce work that is digestible, aesthetic, sellable, a work that feeds the endless scroll of social media, a machine owned by people who steal your data, decide what you see, what you think, what you believe. To stay relevent you have to post daily to prevent the algorithm from burying you alive.
And then, if you actually make it into the so-called “art scene,” you’re in for a different kind of hell—networking, fake smiles, pretending to like people who don’t give a shit about you, just to climb one step higher. Being an artist fucking sucks. Maybe the grass is greener where you water it, but watering is exhausting when it feels like you’re pouring into poisoned soil. To be seen, to be validated, you need to sacrifice yourself, make work that the elites approve of—work that is just obscure enough for them to claim it as intellectual property, something only they can truly understand. Because if it’s for everyone, if it’s accessible, then why would they pay for it? Why would they collect it, own it, claim it as a marker of their refined taste?
Take filmmaking for example, Your image has to be polished, pristine, worthy of the newest, most expensive camera. If you shoot on a cheap camcorder, on your phone, with shaky hands and grainy footage, good fucking luck getting your work taken seriously. Art has been reduced to a status symbol—like designer clothes, a flex, a way to show power. If you can afford the right tools, then maybe, maybe you’re worth looking at.
And yet—despite all of this, despite the hypocrisy, despite the rage—what the fuck else can I do? Creating is the only thing that makes me feel human, like I actually exist. Nothing compares to the moment when a kid, a teenager, someone who has zero background in cinema, watches my film and gets excited, asks if there’s more. When someone tells me my work made them feel something, made them think, made them question shit they never questioned before. hell even if my work made them laugh then, maybe that’s where I belong. That’s when my art means something.
To be an artist is to carry pain, to take everything that hurts and somehow try to turn it into something else. Something softer, funnier or something so raw it cuts. Maybe to make a small part of this world less unbearable. Maybe so that somewhere, someone, someday won’t have to go through what we did.