Through the Lens: The Power of Film as an Expression of Truth and a Camera's Connection to Humanity

    Filming, to me, feels like a way for people to express love. It can also be a way to express hatred. Film can express a multitude of feelings and thoughts and expression. That’s what makes it so special—it captures a moment of which the person recording interprets and intends to portray. Watching movies opens the world to a new perspective and a new story. It is literally food for thought. Film can evoke both laughter and tears, showing the breadth of their impact. Like a painter, a videographer has a muse. Every type of art has one, though it might not always be a model. An idea, a feeling, a grudge, a hope—these can be muses too. Artists are always chasing their muse, attempting again and again to capture that feeling just right. It's the pursuit of perfection, that desire to finally get it exactly as envisioned.

    Not all artists may strive for perfection, but one thing is certain: every artist strives to make a difference. Art is an expression of one's truth. It may not always be "right," but it is always true. A statement piece will always have an effect on an outside viewer because, in the beauty of humanity, no one truly has an entirely unique experience. There is always relatability somewhere, even if it comes down to the basis of "you're alive and so am I." That’s what makes art so moving. It's an outlet for empathy, for acknowledgment. It’s a statement that says, "never are we not connected somehow," even if that statement is layered in complex meaning.

    Film, or the moving picture, has pushed the limits of what it can achieve—special effects, music, cameras that capture every blade of grass. But recently, there has been a resurgence of cheap, old cameras that fit in the palm of your hand and shoot at a mere 24 frames per second. This digital camera, once seen as outdated, is now making a comeback because of its nostalgic charm. We’ve grown tired of increasingly sophisticated cameras, shrinking in size but improving in quality. It’s the simplicity that draws us back. That grainy texture adding a different kind of life to picture. What is left to the imagination is what gets enhanced to the very best, meaning that there's no way to make it better, it is at its best.

    It's the blend of emotion, simplicity, and imperfection that makes art—particularly film—so powerful. It resonates deeply because it captures the human experience in all its forms, unfiltered and raw. Whether it’s a high-budget production or a grainy, handheld shot, film remains a timeless medium for storytelling, constantly evolving but always at its heart, an expression of who we are.

What makes Alfred Hitchcock's Rear Window a classic?

    There aren’t many definitive ways to determine what qualifies as a 'classic' and what doesn’t. Generally, the concept relies on two main factors: when it was created and the nuances it introduces. Classics are often works that 'did it first,' or were the first to convey a particular message in a large way. Classic books are typically well-written and more than fifty years old. Films, which is a medium of artistic expression that hasn’t been around nearly as long as literature, are also considered classics when they are beautifully crafted and usually about fifty years old. But what both books and films share as 'classics' is their ability to express a familiar idea that plays with timeless moral dilemmas in a fresh way.

    Alfred Hitchcock's Rear Window (1954) remains as a timeless classic as it uses cinematography to play with everlasting ethical dilemmas. The film centers on L.B. Jeffries, who is a photographer confined to his wheelchair from his injury and observes his neighbors through their windows. Throughout the movie, it explores the ethical and psychological consequences of voyerism. Of which is a growing issue that has become increasingly more relevant in the digital age of surveillance with social media and online oversharing. Through social platforms like Instagram or TikTok, it opens the figurative curtains into our private lives and makes us both victims and participators of voyeristic culture.

In this scene, Jeffries uses an almost comically large camera to spy on the lives of his neighbors. From an outside perspective, his behavior seems odd and even creepy. However, the plot follows Jeffries’ character as he transforms into a sort of hero, ultimately solving a murder mystery right from his apartment window. Jeffries' physical confinement to his apartment makes his life seem solitary and isolated, only having Stella or Lisa - and occasionally Detective Doyle - visit him in his small apartment. This physical and psychological isolation mirrors many viewers' experiences in the modern day, especially after the COVID-19 pandemic. The film's portrayal of loneliness and the human desire for connection resonates deeply with contemporary audiences.

    Rear Window endures as a classic because it not only entertains modern viewers but also challenges people to confront timeless questions about morality, technology, and human relationships. Its relevance continues as our world grapples with similar ethical dilemmas and social challenges, ensuring its place in the canon of great cinema.

The Weight of Choices

   Have you ever stopped to wonder just how many decisions we make every single day? From the moment we wake up—deciding whether to snooze the alarm or get up on time—to the end of the day, when we choose which television show to watch to wind down, we are constantly making decisions that reflect our values. These choices are often small and seem insignificant on their own, but collectively, they shape the fabric of our lives. When we pause to consider them, the weight of our decisions can feel overwhelming. What do these choices say about who we are and what we value? How do we determine what is "right" and what is "wrong"?

    Philosophical dilemmas often seem like the dark, shadowy corners of our minds—the places we venture to only when we face a fork in the road with no easy answer. These are the decisions that, once made, may alter the course of our lives in ways we can’t predict. But, of course, the problem isn't that we have choices; it’s that each option reflects a different set of morals or beliefs, some of which may even conflict within us.

    Take the classic "trolley problem," for example. Would you actively cause harm to one person to save five others, or would you do nothing and let events unfold as they will? This hypothetical scenario forces us to question our moral compass. Are we utilitarians, willing to do harm for the greater good of a larger population? Or do we believe in the inviolability of every single life, regardless of numbers? What strikes me about this dilemma is that it's less about what we should do and more about what we wish we could do. In real life, there is no "right" answer, only the unsettling reality that our choices may leave scars deeper than we intend.

    Then there's the paradox of free will versus determinism. Are we truly free to make choices, or are our actions predestined by factors outside our control—our upbringing, the people around us, or even something as arbitrary as chance? As much as we like to believe we're the architects of our own lives, moments of introspection can make us wonder: How much of my life is really mine? If everything I've chosen or decided to do has been shaped by a multitude of factors that influence my perception and worldview, can I truly claim ownership of my achievements? Or am I simply fulfilling a script written long before I had the chance to read it?

    And what about living authentically? How often do we act based on what society deems "righteous" or "correct," rather than our genuine desires? This dilemma hits close to home because the pursuit of authenticity is deeply personal, yet incredibly hard to define. How can we "be ourselves" when so much of who we are is influenced by the roles society assigns us? There’s a sense of rebellion in wanting to live unfiltered and unapologetically, but is that rebellion merely another fabricated part of us that we haven't chosen? So, where do we draw the line between living for ourselves and living in accordance with others?

    Ultimately, perhaps the point of these dilemmas isn’t to solve them but to let them push us deeper into reflection. They force us to confront the limits of what we know and to make peace with ambiguity. And perhaps that is the crux of it: accepting that life is just one big question mark, not always offering a clear answer. Instead, it presents us with choices, values, and a moral pursuit to become "better" individuals. We have a compass, but no clear map. And maybe that’s okay.

The Weight of Now: Escaping into Nostalgia

    I’ve been feeling lonely lately, even though I’m not alone. I’m not entirely sure why—maybe it’s because of recent events or the fact that I often find myself doing things that make me feel disconnected from the present. It’s strange because, despite wanting so badly to find my grip on the present moment, I turn to a constant stream of media. It’s almost like a form of procrastination. I’ll read three books in a day or binge-watch four seasons of a show in two, just to avoid facing the feeling of now. It’s like carrying around a heavy weight I can’t seem to let go. I write stories to distract myself from my tasks, and I rush to bed, hoping a bad day will end sooner—though I’m finding that bad days are becoming more frequent. If escapism weren’t so common, it could easily become an addiction.

Nostalgia feels like an addiction, too. It’s fleeting because every moment I spend trying to recapture that sense of youth only adds another layer of time to it. The more I use nostalgia to escape, the more it starts to lose its magic. Recently, I’ve fallen into some early 2000s nostalgia—things like the Frutiger Metro art, 27 Dresses, Ramona and Beezus, and social media sites that try to replicate that familiar 2000s aesthetic. It’s odd because I find myself wanting a Motorola flip phone instead of a sleek iPhone, which makes me feel a little like a poser. I think it’s because I long for simplicity, hoping that by immersing myself in past media, I can regain a sense of rhythm or ease. But the more I try, I find that life doesn't become simpler, but emptier instead.

Beyond the Mirror: Embracing the Self You See

    Hold up a mirror to yourself. What do you see? Who are you? I won’t get too existential, but really, who are you? For this post, I’m going to drop the complex sentences and formal grammar because this is now a conversation I want to have with you. So, please, if you're on your couch, in your bed, or at your desk, I encourage you to find a mirror.

    Look at yourself. Look at each and every pore, every hair, every centimeter of skin that covers your face. Naturally, you’ve probably already built up a perception of yourself and your external flaws. "I haven’t tweezed my brows in a while," or "my skin is so dry," or even "my lips are too small." All these overwhelming details that you wouldn't have thought of until I told you to pick up your mirror—sorry, by the way—confront you, taunt you, and nag at your thoughts. It's natural to be critical, but it's unhealthy to hyper-focus on it. Now, let’s look deeper at the self you see in your mirror.

    People say that the eyes are the window to the soul. They show fear and determination in a millisecond, and people who know you best can recognize exactly what you feel just by looking into your eyes. The soft wrinkles underneath and at the outside corners of your eyes tell the story of your joy. The deep darkness underneath your eyes tells the story of your exhaustion and journey. The heavy lid that overshadows the color and light suggests that you're tired, maybe sad, maybe empty. Sometimes people hyper-focus on the color of their eyes—blue, brown, green, hazel, or whatever other colors are out there—but we tend to forget that the pupils in every eye are the same. They both dilate when you see someone you love, and they both shrink in moments of fear and anxiety. Everyone is more connected than you think, which makes it hard to understand how so much hate exists in the world.

    Your nose—big or small, straight or crooked, wide or narrow—serves a clear purpose: to help you breathe, but also to offer a glimpse into your ancestry. It tells the story of the people you come from and who they were. With the recent resurgence of nose job popularity, it may be difficult to appreciate your nose for what it is. You might think the curve isn’t enough, or it’s too small, too big, or any of those vanity-driven thoughts. It’s become so clear in our time that beauty is seen as more valuable than anything else, which leads people to change even the most permanent parts of themselves. If we look back in time and consider beauty trends and the standards people, especially women, had to live up to to afford to be seen as anything less than flawless, we’ll notice that vanity has always been a priority—but the standards change with time and culture. It's what an animal at this level of evolution cares about. It’s no longer just about functionality, and maybe it shouldn't be, at least not all of it. We, as humans, look at each other and see variety, like a field of wildflowers. We pick and choose the most beautiful flower, even if it's not the best at pollinating. Beauty standards have always mattered and always will, but we must see this as a good thing. Because if beauty standards lose importance, it would mean we’ve all become too alike, too artificial. We are all connected, but we are not the same. That’s the real beauty of humanity.

    I could go on and connect each part of your face to something about the real world, but to keep this clear, I’ll be brief. This post is not meant to poke fun at your face, but to reshape the way you perceive yourself and the actions you take because of those perceptions. I’ll say this again and again until my lungs run out of air: happiness will never be found in superficial meadows or ego-centric cities. Happiness can be found exactly where you are right now.

Written in the Pages: Fate, Free Will, and the Fear of the Unknown

    Think for a moment: imagine that a book arrives at your door. As you pick it up, you feel its weight in your hands—hefty, lined with a leather binding, the pages uneven and ripped. There is no label or image on it. Curiously, you sit down and set the leather cover onto the wooden table. Your tea, which you set on the stove a while ago, has started screeching, so you get up, leaving the mysterious book behind. With a full cup of strong black tea, you sit back down, finding yourself strangely drawn to the book. As you open it, your eyes widen as it begins to tell the story of your life from the beginning all the way to the end.

    Within our society, most of us are drawn to the idea of knowing our future. Students fantasize about their future college or career; children wonder what adolescence will be like; and working people contemplate when retirement will come around. Some find safety in knowing what’s ahead, perhaps trying to prevent it. Now, it depends on how the book works: maybe it serves as a cautionary tale, helping you avoid bad things, or perhaps it is the very precautions you take that lead you to the dreaded events. Hypothetically, if the book were to reveal future events, offering you a chance to diverge from that path and create a new one to escape those events, it could very well be possible to extend your ending—your death.

    Death is a tantalizing phenomenon, a topic humanity has wrestled with since the dawn of time. The fountain of youth, vampires, phoenixes, gods and goddesses—all these mythical stories arise from the idea of immortality. What if we had the ability to live forever? In some ways, we’ve figured out how to achieve a semblance of that: legacy. If we can become very memorable or exceptionally famous, we can be remembered, thus making ourselves immortal, in a way. If we knew how we would die, we’d most likely do everything to prevent it. However, if we weren’t given a specific day—if the last page of the book did not tell us exactly when we would meet our demise—then that would create a sense of paranoia.

    While we are busy perfecting the minor details of our lives and preventing the small parts that don't fit our image of our dream future, we can become lost in a close-minded frenzy, unable to see the bigger picture. But what if you were given the exact circumstances under which you would meet your demise, yet never told the time of that day? Frankly, you would live in paranoia—for most likely the rest of your life. This leads me to my question that I prompt you all to consider: fate or free will?