My critic showed up this morning before heading out to shoot.
You know you don't know what you're doing. Keep posting pictures and everyone else will know, too.
He's an asshole.
Congratulations, you're filming lots of pretty things. And that's art... how, exactly? Maybe you should go be a wedding photographer.
Smart self-critique is always something I've been pretty good at. But that's not what this is.
If you want to write poetry, go write poetry. At least then there'd be an excuse for no one wanting to read it.
I guess if there wasn't crippling self doubt, artists would just be motivational speakers.
Your stuff is too weird to make it in the fiction world, too earnest to be anointed by the experimental kingmakers, too full of shit to count as a documentary. So congratulations, you've mastered the art of making films no one wants to watch but you.
Damn. He's mean.
You're too old to be an art film darling anyway. That ship sailed long ago. You should have partied with those people more when you had the chance. Have you noticed the pedigree and social acumen of the Guggenheimers? The Whitney Bienniale? You don't have those skills, not the ones that really matter, and you're not a good enough liar to build some quirky, twee persona to hang all this shit on.
See how he does it? Masterful.
Chin up, pal. Maybe you'll get a lifetime achievement award in something someday.
Oh, hey, that one was actually pretty encouraging. Maybe he's getting soft. I thought I'd try to let him get it all out before shooting. Head down, push on. The sun is out.