How does one learn to swim?
The toe disrupting the water’s surface is the alternative radio hit. Lana Del Rey’s plea for unconditional affection in the face of organic decay wades me into the water of unofficial music videos.
Here is the pool of YouTube’s film-to-music, or unofficial music video, editors. It is not a monolith, no structured organization of members. Maybe if there was, a caucus could decide where the limits of romanticizing Lolita exist.
Paddling in, a viewer may be provided water wings. When Sufjan Stevens describes, “It was night, when you died, my firefly,” brother and sister walk off frame left in the final scene of Grave of the Fireflies. Holly Golightly obeys Lorde’s wishes as she’s “crying in the taxi.”
“Sunsets, we wander through a foreign town.”
Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy do just so.
My fingertips are pruning.
These freelance creatives may go for the obvious choice, coupling scenes with the hit song from the soundtrack (“Where Is My Mind” and “Mystery of Love” overlaying Fight Club and Call Me By Your Name, respectively). Or rather, rely on the juxtaposition of lyric and cinematic intention to elevate a story’s objective. As Matt Damon builds lies upon lies in The Talented Mr. Ripley, Tom Odell’s “I Can’t Pretend” swears the opposite. While Ariana Grande flaunts modern luxuries not found pre-Industrial era in “7 Rings”, substituting the visuals with Sofia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette doesn’t feel misplaced. While the paraphernalia of wealth evolves by century, the upper classes pursue a timeless unashamed flauntation.
“Still wanna try, still believe in good days.”
Holding hands in the final moments before the moon crashes into the earth.
My shoulders ache to keep me afloat.
This community creates not for the riches of percentage of cents per views, copyrighted well before such an honour. As a labourer within the “pay by exposure” economy, your usual returns are not hard cash but constantly reanalyzing algorithmic relevance. But any editor worth their salt handles the creation of their videos with artistic care. When is an edit good? The bass beat of the hectic instrumental syncs to the cuts, while the lingering shot is relegated for the slow buildup. Like any art form, beginner rules are broken. Two or more measures can straddle one clip but two clips cannot straddle one measure—unless those lyrics are relaying contrast or change, thus demanding a visual counterpart.
“The pretty lies, the ugly truth”
Evie’s facade of a confident and mature 13-year-old falls.
Water soothes my forehead.
There’s a saying in showbiz, attributed to many names from Robert Bresson to Francis Ford Coppola. A film is made three times—by the writer, then director, and finally editor. The latter is no longer of the end credits but the channel handle—i’m cyborg but that’s ok, kindred spirit, Just Some Videos and Teenage Wasteland.
Lens onto lens onto lens. Creation is ownership. Recreation is public domain.
“Will you hold on, my love, even in a time of trouble?
Hands ripped from a pleading grasp on an eight-year marriage.
When does one start to drown?
One of the starkest generational divides is in the portionalizing of attention given to free time entertainment. As a McDonald’s society, our consumption defines goodness as dopamine yield per input and efficiency as caloric intake per unit. An hour to read between the lines of a fraction of Anna Karenina is the same hour to watch the unresolved tension rise between Keira Knightley and Aaron Taylor-Johnson is the same hour to tap through 27 edits to narrative finale exhausting thousands of shots in varying sequence. I’ve been training in the Olympic pool with my diet of three-minute summations.
“The world was on fire and no one could save me but you.”
The novitiate nun cut between sensual gazes and Catholic relics.
My chest burns; a fire of pain, a fire of passion.
Chronically online brain demands a filter in real-time. Eyes fixed on the screen as the mind scrolls the Spotify playlist and punches up the quips of a Letterboxd analysis. All I think as I watch the lights and colours: How do I repackage this experience for the next viewer? How do I get a say in the story?
I’ve felt betrayed by the director for their failure of capturing one specific moment, from a different angle, longer, in varied lighting. I’ve felt intrigued by the adopted editor, wanting to know how they could manipulate audio and visual to make me feel something for characters of whom I don’t know the name, places I cannot map, plots I may not discern.
When will I ever again watch a creation and leave it on the shore complete—when will my feet dry?
“Running away is easy, it’s the living that’s hard.”
Neighbours of a Hong Kong apartment contemplate on either side of the wall.
Goggles are fitted; I can see underwater.
How does one learn to swim?
The toe disrupting the water’s surface is the alternative radio hit. Lana Del Rey’s plea for unconditional affection in the face of organic decay wades me into the water of unofficial music videos.
Here is the pool of YouTube’s film-to-music, or unofficial music video, editors. It is not a monolith, no structured organization of members. Maybe if there was, a caucus could decide where the limits of romanticizing Lolita exist.
Paddling in, a viewer may be provided water wings. When Sufjan Stevens describes, “It was night, when you died, my firefly,” brother and sister walk off frame left in the final scene of Grave of the Fireflies. Holly Golightly obeys Lorde’s wishes as she’s “crying in the taxi.”
“Sunsets, we wander through a foreign town.”
Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy do just so.
My fingertips are pruning.
These freelance creatives may go for the obvious choice, coupling scenes with the hit song from the soundtrack (“Where Is My Mind” and “Mystery of Love” overlaying Fight Club and Call Me By Your Name, respectively). Or rather, rely on the juxtaposition of lyric and cinematic intention to elevate a story’s objective. As Matt Damon builds lies upon lies in The Talented Mr. Ripley, Tom Odell’s “I Can’t Pretend” swears the opposite. While Ariana Grande flaunts modern luxuries not found pre-Industrial era in “7 Rings”, substituting the visuals with Sofia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette doesn’t feel misplaced. While the paraphernalia of wealth evolves by century, the upper classes pursue a timeless unashamed flauntation.
“Still wanna try, still believe in good days.”
Holding hands in the final moments before the moon crashes into the earth.
My shoulders ache to keep me afloat.
This community creates not for the riches of percentage of cents per views, copyrighted well before such an honour. As a labourer within the “pay by exposure” economy, your usual returns are not hard cash but constantly reanalyzing algorithmic relevance. But any editor worth their salt handles the creation of their videos with artistic care. When is an edit good? The bass beat of the hectic instrumental syncs to the cuts, while the lingering shot is relegated for the slow buildup. Like any art form, beginner rules are broken. Two or more measures can straddle one clip but two clips cannot straddle one measure—unless those lyrics are relaying contrast or change, thus demanding a visual counterpart.
“The pretty lies, the ugly truth”
Evie’s facade of a confident and mature 13-year-old falls.
Water soothes my forehead.
There’s a saying in showbiz, attributed to many names from Robert Bresson to Francis Ford Coppola. A film is made three times—by the writer, then director, and finally editor. The latter is no longer of the end credits but the channel handle—i’m cyborg but that’s ok, kindred spirit, Just Some Videos and Teenage Wasteland.
Lens onto lens onto lens. Creation is ownership. Recreation is public domain.
“Will you hold on, my love, even in a time of trouble?
Hands ripped from a pleading grasp on an eight-year marriage.
When does one start to drown?
One of the starkest generational divides is in the portionalizing of attention given to free time entertainment. As a McDonald’s society, our consumption defines goodness as dopamine yield per input and efficiency as caloric intake per unit. An hour to read between the lines of a fraction of Anna Karenina is the same hour to watch the unresolved tension rise between Keira Knightley and Aaron Taylor-Johnson is the same hour to tap through 27 edits to narrative finale exhausting thousands of shots in varying sequence. I’ve been training in the Olympic pool with my diet of three-minute summations.
“The world was on fire and no one could save me but you.”
The novitiate nun cut between sensual gazes and Catholic relics.
My chest burns; a fire of pain, a fire of passion.
Chronically online brain demands a filter in real-time. Eyes fixed on the screen as the mind scrolls the Spotify playlist and punches up the quips of a Letterboxd analysis. All I think as I watch the lights and colours: How do I repackage this experience for the next viewer? How do I get a say in the story?
I’ve felt betrayed by the director for their failure of capturing one specific moment, from a different angle, longer, in varied lighting. I’ve felt intrigued by the adopted editor, wanting to know how they could manipulate audio and visual to make me feel something for characters of whom I don’t know the name, places I cannot map, plots I may not discern.
When will I ever again watch a creation and leave it on the shore complete—when will my feet dry?
“Running away is easy, it’s the living that’s hard.”
Neighbours of a Hong Kong apartment contemplate on either side of the wall.
Goggles are fitted; I can see underwater.