Was a great journey while it lasted. I learned a lot about cinematography and framing, in general, from their videos (and I have only now learned that there were two people behind the great endeavor!). Their Jackie Chan video was also one of my favorite things to watch; there was something reassuring in learning that it was their favorite to make, as well.
Nearly every stylistic decision you see about the channel <..>— all of that was reverse-engineered from YouTube’s Copyright ID.
We cannot emphasize this enough: read books, read books, read books.
As well as I realize the value of it, and even as much as I enjoyed doing so, I can't shake myself into reading something for enjoyment. Nothing is stopping me — there are books aplenty — but my first reaction when thinking about it is "...eh".
Maybe it is first-world, but I keep making the choice not to read, and I can't figure out why.
There’s a common myth in the arts — the lone genius, usually a man, creating everything by himself. For the most part, neither of us has found it to be completely true. Look up most cases of a lone genius, and you’ll find a footnote about some unacknowledged helper.
I find this true, in my own art. I need to bounce ideas off someone, otherwise they dwindle and shrink, or get stuck in a loop of themselves. This may be why I'm not in any way prolific: I have no partner, no one to bounce ideas off of.
The Internet, and YouTube in particular, is a massive echo chamber of people asking you to write the same book over and over again.
Not just the Internet: "they changed it, now it sucks" has been the motto of every second fan of any artist ever. It's not to say that disappointment with changing directions is unfair. I find it best to move on, because things change, and if you aren't changing with them, you're not growing.
A certain popular YouTuber has been a part of my daily Internet commute for a few years, until at some point I realized I no longer enjoyed what they were giving to the viewer. It felt like losing a friend to unsubscribe from them — not as intense, but of the same nature. You once felt joy from their company, and now it's gone — and though the memories of the good times persist, they're nothing but a mirage.
I suspect — inept as I am in the social sphere — that this is what so many people feel whenever their favorite artist changes ways. Even small changes pile up over time, and at some point, you no longer see the same appeal in their work. It is selfish to demand the same book, and it is immature to rave about the flow of things, but underneath that unseemly mask, the feeling is one of loss.
It was a beautiful, sincere essay from a couple of beautiful, sincere minds. Best wishes to both of them, whatever they're going to do next.