Friday, May 4, 2012
Monday, April 23, 2012
Notes on "Somebody That I Used To Know"
Gotye's "Somebody That I used To Know" unfolds not as song, but as story. It has three acts, with character introductions, climaxes and grieving along the way.
Don't bore us, get to the chorus? Pft. Gotye spends the first 1:30 of the 4:04 song in murmur mode. He's developing a character, a man relieved that an impossible relationship has finally ended.
Conflict is introduced at the beginning of the second act in the form of the chorus. Deep inside, our protagonist is confused and angry about just how completely his girlfriend separated herself. "But you didn't have to cut me off / Make out like it never happened and that we were nothing."
The third act begins at 2:33 with the introduction of the female lead. She has her own desperations and regrets. She feels her ex demanded a complete separation, that he told her it was the only way he could go on with his life. And at the climax at 3:02, his cries spill down over hers like a mountain waterfall that will not be pushed aside by the wind.
The dénouement starts at 3:47, the boiling subdued by haunting, inevitability and loss. Unlike classic dénouement, the protagonist isn't any better or worse off than at the start of the narrative. The story concludes with the same indie hopelessness that you'll find in movies like Winter's Bone. The characters have cried without finding a shoulder, opened their hearts and found nothing waiting.
[Ed. - I don't really like the video for "Somebody That I Used to Know," but you can watch it here. And I doubt "desperations" is a word. But it seemed so perfect, defining for me that feeling that you get when you have fucked up absolutely everything, and you don't know how to make any of it better.]
Don't bore us, get to the chorus? Pft. Gotye spends the first 1:30 of the 4:04 song in murmur mode. He's developing a character, a man relieved that an impossible relationship has finally ended.
Conflict is introduced at the beginning of the second act in the form of the chorus. Deep inside, our protagonist is confused and angry about just how completely his girlfriend separated herself. "But you didn't have to cut me off / Make out like it never happened and that we were nothing."
The third act begins at 2:33 with the introduction of the female lead. She has her own desperations and regrets. She feels her ex demanded a complete separation, that he told her it was the only way he could go on with his life. And at the climax at 3:02, his cries spill down over hers like a mountain waterfall that will not be pushed aside by the wind.
The dénouement starts at 3:47, the boiling subdued by haunting, inevitability and loss. Unlike classic dénouement, the protagonist isn't any better or worse off than at the start of the narrative. The story concludes with the same indie hopelessness that you'll find in movies like Winter's Bone. The characters have cried without finding a shoulder, opened their hearts and found nothing waiting.
[Ed. - I don't really like the video for "Somebody That I Used to Know," but you can watch it here. And I doubt "desperations" is a word. But it seemed so perfect, defining for me that feeling that you get when you have fucked up absolutely everything, and you don't know how to make any of it better.]
Thursday, April 19, 2012
The problem with effort
The problem with effort is that as you progress towards the top levels of any given skill set, you have to work exponentially harder to see incremental improvements.
Imagine a novice guitar player. It takes him a month or two to learn a few open chords and soon he is strumming his way through a selection of campfire classics. This is enough for many people to label him a "guitarist." The next level of musicianship requires him to learn moveable chords, pentatonic scales, and a few hammer-ons well enough to work them seamlessly into songs. This requires a bit more effort. But within a year or so, 90% of people will nod their heads and say, "Hey, you're pretty good at guitar." To get to the next level, he has to learn some theory, to study major and minor scales and their relationship to chords, to spend hours with a metronome, and to integrate this knowledge so fully it becomes instinctual. It may take years. Yet to the untrained ear, it doesn't sound terribly different from what our imaginary guitarist was playing before. He soldiers on and spends a decade mastering sweep picking, tapping, and palm muting. But he finds these techniques are only usable for a few seconds of any given song, and most listeners don't recognize them anyway, lumping them all into the category of "Playing Guitar Real Fast." A virtuoso - Vai, Gilbert, Buckethead, Bumblefoot - has invested tens of thousands of hours developing skills so refined that only a tiny fraction of human beings can possibly appreciate them.
In P. H. Mullen Jr.'s Gold in the Water, swimmer Sergey Mariniuk is puzzled by the same phenomenon. He finds he only needs four hours of training every week to achieve speeds that guarantee him a slot on his country's Olympic team, but he'd need upwards of 20 hours of weekly training to knock another three seconds off his time. A 500% increase in effort to achieve an almost immeasurable increase in speed. He decides the added struggle is not worth it. After all, what's the difference between seventh and sixth place?
It's not that effort is bad. It's that it is most efficiently applied to learning new skills, not refining existing ones. This is the exact opposite of the way most of us lead our lives. We jump and sweat, trying to reach the next plateau, never realizing that amazing things are easily within our grasp if we're willing to walk in an entirely new direction.
[Ed. - I am not sure I agree with my own post here. But it is an idea that has been rattling around in my head for awhile and I enjoyed writing it. I think that I think that excellence has some intrinsic value. And while effort may not be efficient, it is still worthwhile.]
Imagine a novice guitar player. It takes him a month or two to learn a few open chords and soon he is strumming his way through a selection of campfire classics. This is enough for many people to label him a "guitarist." The next level of musicianship requires him to learn moveable chords, pentatonic scales, and a few hammer-ons well enough to work them seamlessly into songs. This requires a bit more effort. But within a year or so, 90% of people will nod their heads and say, "Hey, you're pretty good at guitar." To get to the next level, he has to learn some theory, to study major and minor scales and their relationship to chords, to spend hours with a metronome, and to integrate this knowledge so fully it becomes instinctual. It may take years. Yet to the untrained ear, it doesn't sound terribly different from what our imaginary guitarist was playing before. He soldiers on and spends a decade mastering sweep picking, tapping, and palm muting. But he finds these techniques are only usable for a few seconds of any given song, and most listeners don't recognize them anyway, lumping them all into the category of "Playing Guitar Real Fast." A virtuoso - Vai, Gilbert, Buckethead, Bumblefoot - has invested tens of thousands of hours developing skills so refined that only a tiny fraction of human beings can possibly appreciate them.
In P. H. Mullen Jr.'s Gold in the Water, swimmer Sergey Mariniuk is puzzled by the same phenomenon. He finds he only needs four hours of training every week to achieve speeds that guarantee him a slot on his country's Olympic team, but he'd need upwards of 20 hours of weekly training to knock another three seconds off his time. A 500% increase in effort to achieve an almost immeasurable increase in speed. He decides the added struggle is not worth it. After all, what's the difference between seventh and sixth place?
It's not that effort is bad. It's that it is most efficiently applied to learning new skills, not refining existing ones. This is the exact opposite of the way most of us lead our lives. We jump and sweat, trying to reach the next plateau, never realizing that amazing things are easily within our grasp if we're willing to walk in an entirely new direction.
[Ed. - I am not sure I agree with my own post here. But it is an idea that has been rattling around in my head for awhile and I enjoyed writing it. I think that I think that excellence has some intrinsic value. And while effort may not be efficient, it is still worthwhile.]
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
New work for Colorado
Just one of the pieces of film from our 2012 summer campaign for Colorado. See stories about the work in The Denver Post, Westword, 9 News, Channel 7, and The Denver Egotist. And for the full story of the production, check out the Karsh Hagan blog.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Random thought about director-level hiring
I have heard some iteration of this sentiment from three agency leaders in the past year:
This makes sense to me. After all, I have never met a creative director who didn't start his career in the trenches, creating work as a copywriter or art director. Why should any director-level position be different?
But then again, maybe it doesn't make sense at all. Not all great workers are suited to be managers. (I know genius creatives with stellar portfolios who never became creative directors.) And not every great manager was a screaming success as a worker. (For instance, John Fox never played a down in the NFL.)
I don't have an answer. I'm not even sure I am asking a question. It's just what's rolling around in my head. Who wants to buy me CD: Y0?
I have been trying to find the right interactive director for my agency. I keep hiring these brilliant, inspirational thought leaders and they always flop. Great speakers, but they just can't get projects done. The next hire I make, I am am going to ask to see applicants' code. And if they can't show me actual code they have written, I am showing them the door.
This makes sense to me. After all, I have never met a creative director who didn't start his career in the trenches, creating work as a copywriter or art director. Why should any director-level position be different?
But then again, maybe it doesn't make sense at all. Not all great workers are suited to be managers. (I know genius creatives with stellar portfolios who never became creative directors.) And not every great manager was a screaming success as a worker. (For instance, John Fox never played a down in the NFL.)
I don't have an answer. I'm not even sure I am asking a question. It's just what's rolling around in my head. Who wants to buy me CD: Y0?
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Is it possible for my brain to do this?
My brain did something really disturbing last night. Something I wouldn't have thought possible. Something so flabergasting to me that I am blogging it now in the hopes someone might understand how the brain can work in this marvelous but terrifying way.
The first thing you should know is that I sometimes dream entire original movies. These movies are often long, graphic, densely plotted horror movies. I wake up feeling like I watched a very sick, very scary piece of underground cinema.
Last night I had one of these dreams. And I noticed some elements early on in my dream-film that seemed out of place. A misplaced seam on a jacket, for instance. At the end of the movie, there was a huge twist. (He was the killer all along! Here's how he killed his victims! Here's why!) The end of my dream-film explained the misplaced seam and other elements from early in the dream.
Think about that for a second. Some part of my brain composed the entire script of a dream in advance, including seeding it with clues and foreshadowing. That means my composer-brain must have known how the dream would end all along. Then, somehow, my composer-brain was able to keep all these elements secret from my audience-brain so that it could be surprised (and disgusted) by the big twist.
I only have one brain, don't I? Don't I?
The first thing you should know is that I sometimes dream entire original movies. These movies are often long, graphic, densely plotted horror movies. I wake up feeling like I watched a very sick, very scary piece of underground cinema.
Last night I had one of these dreams. And I noticed some elements early on in my dream-film that seemed out of place. A misplaced seam on a jacket, for instance. At the end of the movie, there was a huge twist. (He was the killer all along! Here's how he killed his victims! Here's why!) The end of my dream-film explained the misplaced seam and other elements from early in the dream.
Think about that for a second. Some part of my brain composed the entire script of a dream in advance, including seeding it with clues and foreshadowing. That means my composer-brain must have known how the dream would end all along. Then, somehow, my composer-brain was able to keep all these elements secret from my audience-brain so that it could be surprised (and disgusted) by the big twist.
I only have one brain, don't I? Don't I?
Monday, January 9, 2012
The new karshhagan.com launches
I was always a little odded-out when people told me they liked the old karsh.com. It was missing most of the work we've done in the past two years. And it provided only a snapshot of the 60-something people that make our agency what it is.
On Friday we launched the new karshhagan.com. Besides a much broader array of work, it has a spiderweb navigation system that lets you browse the site by exploring our connections to campaigns, clients and each other. Check it out. Rachael has a more in-depth look at the site on the Karsh Hagan blog.
On Friday we launched the new karshhagan.com. Besides a much broader array of work, it has a spiderweb navigation system that lets you browse the site by exploring our connections to campaigns, clients and each other. Check it out. Rachael has a more in-depth look at the site on the Karsh Hagan blog.
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