(#024) Coordinate time.
PART 1
Richard Linklater — who needs no introduction, but in case cinema was banned in your country for the past 30 years, he’s the director behind Boyhood (2014), the Before trilogy (1995–2013), Dazed and Confused (1993), School of Rock (2003), Hit Man (2023)... the list goes on — would make a terrible TikTok content creator.
When he originally conceived Before Sunrise (1995), the film was inspired by a real-life encounter he had with a woman during a night in Philadelphia. It was always intended as a self-contained meditation on fleeting connection and youthful idealism.
From its inspiration to filming and release, it came from personal experience, was shaped by masterful hands, and sent into the world to capture a small speck of universal human feeling — and to last.
Then ten years passed. Life happened — to him, and to Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy.
Richard, Ethan, and Julie’s perspectives had evolved, and when they crossed paths again, the idea of continuing the story came naturally. That collaboration became Before Sunset (2004).
Once more: personal experience, art, intention.
I love the “decade.” There’s so much meaning you can build in the first and last of those 3,652 days — and in each one in between.
The decision to make Before Midnight (2013) followed the same organic rhythm — born from the desire to explore long-term commitment, aging, and everything that settles in with time.
PART 2
Last Thursday, May 15th, I was told the story of a young graduate student here in Milan who, fresh out of college, started printing plain t-shirts with provocative one-liners pulled from 1970s American pop culture.
In less than two years, he claims to have sold over 12,000 shirts in more than 70 countries (I have no reason to doubt him.)
He recently hosted an event in Milan. Three thousand kids showed up. (To be fair, they were giving out free beer.)
So how did he pull it off? (Aside from the beer.)
He promoted the shirts through regular TikTok posts — typical viral-for-a-minute drops in the vast digital ocean.
I doubt anyone watches any of those videos twice, or remembers a single one the next day.
But they did what they were supposed to do: the shirts sold, the money came in.
Another content-maker I came across recently put it this way: “People today will look at your work for a few seconds, then move on and forget. You’ll have as many interpretations of your work as you have viewers.”
They don’t lament the ephemerality of their output — they embrace it. Each piece need not strive for meaning or clear intention. The only rule is: keep posting.
It’s not the content that earns attention — it’s the constant act of poking into people’s lives.
PART 3
Jam Nation — my new venture, and adventure — launched this month, on May 8th.
It’s my attempt to leave a dent in the music world’s underbelly — to bring to fruition and celebrate the vast universe of music played every day but never recorded or released, and to return a bit of the industry back into the hands of the musicians themselves.
In the first 24 hours, we welcomed around 100 members.
Ten days in, we’re adding one or two new users a day.
At that pace, I’d have to wait a decade to build the user base we need to make this project viable.
Neither Jam Nation nor I can afford to wait ten years.
Sure, I could start churning out TikTok videos — fast, flashy, forgettable. That would be one way.
But if you ask me,
I’d rather work at the local post office than dedicate my life to creating content designed to be meaningless and forgotten.
I’ll figure something out. I always did.
L.F
