Am I still a maker when no one's asking?
I wrote that question down this summer on Jura, an island in the Inner Hebrides with one road, one village and a lot of weather. For the first time in years my diary was clear. No edit booked, no deadline, nobody waiting on a cut.
So I did what I did at fourteen. I picked up a camera.
A pocket camera, and a drone I'd been too nervous to fly on my last trip. This time I flew it. I filmed beaches, the ferry across to Islay, the light coming and going. Nobody had commissioned any of it. I came for a holiday and made a film.
The idea
Somewhere on those beaches the idea arrived. Every show I've cut had a studio behind it. Producers, directors, composers, sound recordists. People who would watch a cut and tell me what was working and what wasn't.
Most people making films on their own never get that room. So I decided to build one.
It needed a name. Something industrious, and magical. Something that called back to what inspired me, but really meant everything to me.
It's all about story and magic. That was it. I had a name.
The studio
Then came the part nobody sees. Lessons shot and cut. A home on Skool. A promise to every guest: you see the cut before anyone else does.
And then the conversations started.
Seven recorded so far.
A showrunner from Planet Earth II. An executive producer from DIY SOS: The Big Build. The showrunner of Lost Cities with Albert Lin. A producer-director from BBC Natural History. A composer, a sound recordist and the founder of a production studio. People I've worked beside for years, talking about how they actually do it.
The promo
Then I had to explain all of it in one short film.
I wrote a script, shot my pieces to camera with an iPhone as the autocue, and cut it. Then I showed it to friends. Their first note: what do you mean by studio?
Fair. I'd spent 28 years inside one and never had to define it. So now the film says it plainly. A team of people who will tell you what's working and what isn't.
That's an editing lesson in itself. The thing you know best is the thing you forget to explain.
What's next
This week I'm recording with two puppeteers. Different world, same questions.
The conversations go out to members one at a time, with clips on YouTube. There's a weekly Studio Call where members bring their work, a Watch List every week, and a short lesson on that iPhone autocue trick, told through the shot I didn't use.
The answer
So, am I still a maker when no one's asking?
Nobody asked me to film that ferry. Nobody asked me to build a studio. I did both because I wanted to see what would happen. That turns out to be the answer.
If you make things on your own, you know the feeling, even if your reason looks nothing like mine. You don't need permission. You might need a crew.
