What If?

Camera, not a gun!

I have extended the deadline because it no longer is one. Less than four weeks ago, after the successful second showing of one of my video mash-ups cleverly disguised as a film, I (and NOT we) selected Thursday, Dec 19 as the third date in the ‘series’. In hindsight, thinking that I could dictate both the content, frequency and scheduling without first getting expressed written permission from the club, or its middle manager who’s idea of instructor support is limited to jockstraps and sports bras, was frustratingly naive. I assume full responsibility for its failure to launch. After the smoke had cleared from the verbal firefight, I returned the the business of finishing said video, because, well, once begun, one best finish. Even if she never sees the light of a projector throwing images on a makeshift screen. You do the work, create the art, script the story, pen the song and carve the sculpture, and THEN look for response. Only the big-shots do it in reverse, and this only after years of acclaim. In sports terms only the five-stars get signing bonuses. 

On Friday I was within striking distance of completion, starting the closing sequence, rolling the credits, reviewing the hour-long piece and making fine-tune additions, corrections and necessary revisions. Polishing. And then something interesting happened around Saturday afternoon. I slapped on the cans, my trusty headphones, and hit the home button, re-playing it from the top. Looking at the images assembled and the music to accompany them in the intimate privacy of the exclusive screening room in my brain was a roller-coaster ride worthy of everything this side of Disney’s Matterhorn. I practically pounded my palms raw in drumming to the tribal beat of the soundtrack, annoying I am sure the two canines and the pair of felines with whom I share this sacred space. It was, to coin the all-time cliche, cool. So naturally, as I paradiddled 4/4 time on my Levi’s, I would make the occasional note that at such and such a point on the time-line, another approach, a smoother transition, a cheat shot, or a contrasting clip might further sweeten the pot and up the dramatic ante. Yes, I could feel the urge, and as much as I tried to accept and enjoy the reality of its current form, the arch-enemy of artists, that nagging voice had squeezed its self between the cans and my inner critic, asking in unmistakable soprano splendor, ‘what if?’ 

What if what? I blurted in response, more what?  Faster, louder, with more saturation and camera movement? More dialogue, less narration, more action, less meandering? More highlights and fewer shadows? More raw and less refined? More showing and less telling? More sex and less violence? More story and less exposition? More caffeine and less red wine? 

So I added a closing plot twist (as storyline) to wrap it all up and tie it all together. Which means shooting the final sequence. Which means I will miss the deadline of Thursday. Which means I gave in to that bastard voice inside my head. I could have, should have, finished it off Friday and spent the weekend sweetening and wrapping. After all it Tis The Season. But no, I had to listen to the voice asking,

What if?