Little Art Everywhere
Quick work update:
I heard back from the studio and producers about the pitch for my new sci-fi series. They were really happy with this last round of revisions and we feel like we’re ready to take it to market. Calls are being made, pitches are being set. Fingers crossed we find a good home.
One other piece of great news, I landed an opportunity to work with a couple of creators that I’ve been a fan of for a long time. I’ll be working with them to craft a pitch for a new series based on the massive sci-fi story world they’ve been building for the past twenty years. I have a lifelong friend from back home who messages me every few years to tell me how great this would be as a series, how I should get my ass in gear and try to get this job. He’ll be the first person I call if we sell it.
I had a couple of general meetings this week, one of them was with a guy I met when he was just branching out on his own as a producer back in 2013. I had just broken in with EXTANT and he drove to Orange County to meet me instead of having me drive up to LA to meet him. I never forgot that. Now he’s got a great job on the feature side at a studio. He’s like the producer we attached to my feature spec, HALF-LIGHT, one of those people I met early on who felt like a kindred spirit, somebody I hoped I’d cross paths with again.
Chris Bianco says he’s not in the pizza business, he’s in the relationship business. When I look at a lot of the stuff that’s in motion right now, it comes down to long term relationships, to seeds that were planted going as far back as 2006 and cultivated over time. Over the past nine years I’ve been getting better at my craft and leveling up. So have many of the people I met who were assistants back in 2013, or people who were junior creative execs at studios and production companies.
All it takes is one idea, one piece of IP that screams your name, a hole in the slate, a window of opportunity, and pretty soon there’s a confluence of events that brings you back together and gives you another shot at making something great together.
I love that about this business.
Little Art Everywhere
This past Saturday we took Ellie for an afternoon walk at Travel Town, a museum in Griffith Park dedicated to trains and railroad travel. The most popular attraction is a miniature train ride that takes visitors around the perimeter of the park.
They don’t let dogs ride the train (I hate it) so we had to watch from behind the fence. Every time the train passed by, either we started waving or someone on the train waved to us and soon we were all waving to each other. I’ve never really thought about that impulse or where it comes from but I know I’ve done it thousands of times over the years, going all the way back to the train and the Skyliner ride at Camden Park.
Then, Sunday morning we went to Deukmejian Wilderness Park on the outskirts of Glendale and I saw this amazing tree:
I pulled out my camera to take that picture and in that moment I couldn’t help but see a connection between the train and the tree.
In both cases someone felt compelled to say, “See me.” And I felt compelled to say, “I do.”
I have a habit of taking pictures of all the random little works of art that I find in the world. The more hidden and out of the way the better. Unlike going to a museum, there’s no description next to it, no biography of the artist. In most cases they’re completely anonymous. I’ll never know who did it, and they’ll never know that I saw it. But, that call and response still took place.
“See me.”
“I do.”
I have had so many cases of the “Why bothers” this year.
I think it’s because for the past few years of development it’s been all call and no response from the people on the other side of the fence. And when I look at the things that do get made, there’s no guarantee they’re going to be any more satisfying in the long run. Shows based on popular IP get canceled all the time. A major studio made a BATGIRL movie, hundreds of people poured their hearts into it, and it got shelved for a tax write off.
Last week I told you what George RR Martin said, that he’s an entertainer who needs an audience. Eventually he left Hollywood and moved to Santa Fe to write novels.
Moving to Santa Fe is not really an option for me at this point in time. I love living in California. There’s only two ways I’m leaving, either floating out to see on a chunk of land after the big one, or piled up in an urn. (I always tell Julie, “I only want you to mourn me for one year, during which you will spread my remains around the globe.” I’m putting it here in writing because I’m not sure she’s fully on board.)
I also can’t imagine living here the rest of my life, surrounded by show business all the time, and finding anything else as fun and challenging.
So what’s the solution for these long periods of dissatisfaction?
What do I do about the “Why bothers?”
I take some comfort in the train and the tree.
The call and response can be as big as a new series or a movie that gets a massive reaction from a global audience.
Or it can be as small as a painted stone hidden under the bushes in a secret park.
Or a red balloon painted on a rusty gate fifty yards from the nearest street.
Or a gnome door so small you may never notice it if you weren’t watching your dog sniff the base of the tree.
Or a cairn on a cliff near the top of Tongva Peak.
And there’s a whole range of stuff in the middle.
Short stories. Short films. Comic books. Kids books. Audio dramas. Pizzas.
This newsletter.
And on and on.
As long as I’m making something tangible, as long as I’m putting out that call, I feel that small spark of joy. Sometimes there’s a great response. Sometimes it’s just one or two people waving back.
Sometimes it’s crickets.
When it’s crickets I imagine a response coming from someone, somewhere down the line.
Sometimes the response takes time.
I'm thinking about the person who built the cairn on the way up to Tongva Peak. They didn’t stand around waiting for someone to applaud or tell them how great it was. They built it, probably took some pics for the grid, then they kept on moving. It was a little work of art. A momentary call.
"See me."
Maybe later, in bed, they imagined someone like me stopping to take pictures of my own in the future.
"I do."
Maybe the dream of future me was enough.