I'm not optimistic. Optimism feels like a corporate memo. I'm hopeful in a dirtier way—like someone who has seen the worst of human taste and still insists on making a beautiful frame.
Because beauty isn't denial. Beauty is defiance.
When you make an image with intent—when you shape light like a confession and let the shadows keep their secrets—you're telling the world: I noticed. I cared. I chose. That choice is rare now, in a world where machines can generate a million "good" images while you're still deciding what you meant.
AI will accelerate production. It will compress timelines. It will make miracles routine. Good. Let it. Let it handle the busywork. Let it broaden your sandbox. Let it draft pre-vis and organize chaos and remove friction. Let it help you show up on set with clarity instead of guesswork.
But the part that matters—the part no machine can do for you—is the moment you decide what's worth seeing, and why. That's authorship. That's taste. That's the soul's signature.
And here's the hopeful part, the part that survives the nihilism: humans still crave human decisions. They still respond to intention. They still feel when a frame contains a real point of view—something specific, slightly dangerous, emotionally honest. The algorithm can imitate style, but it struggles to imitate the cost of a decision. It can't replicate the way your life leaks into your work.
So I believe in the viewfinder as a form of resistance. Not because it's pure. Because it's flawed. Because it costs something. Because it's real.