Assembling the Present

I spent years moving images around like you move furniture when a room isn't working. You look at them, they don't convince you, you put them back, you take them away, you bring them closer, until at some point something happens that isn't exactly rational: it stops being a collection of pieces and becomes a direction. Not perfect, not definitive, but recognizable. That's when you realize you can stop, at least for a moment.

This thing has never left me. Everything else has changed, the formats, the machines, even the type of chaos you deal with, but that gesture has remained the same. Today, the disorder is no longer in the film or the tapes, it's in the data, in the interfaces, in the systems that accumulate information without ever really returning it. And so you find yourself doing the same work as before, just with different material: removing friction, finding a rhythm, understanding where to look.

The ad you see above was born like this, without grand statements. It had to be short, almost inevitable, something that didn't explain too much but hinted at the mechanism. One scene, one transition, then the map that opens and the chat that responds. No special effects, just the attempt to align what Vistagare does with the way you tell it.

To do this, I used tools that a few years ago I would have looked at with some suspicion, not out of snobbery but out of habit. DaVinci Resolve remained the workstation, the place where it is decided what stays and what disappears. OBS Studio acted as the eye, recording without interpreting. In between, stitching the transitions and generating movement where there was none, LTX Studio also came in — one of those tools that doesn't replace editing but gives it other material to edit. And then Suno AI, which here doesn't sing and doesn't show off, but builds a background, a kind of current that holds the images together as they flow.

Artificial intelligence, in this case, is not an author nor a shortcut. It's more like a silent assistant that hands you the tools while you work. If you know what you're looking for, it speeds things up. If you don't, it won't save you. And this, after all, I find reassuring.

What remains, in the end, is always the same problem I faced when editing my first films: knowing when to stop. When a sequence stops asking for further corrections and begins to defend itself. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, you recognize it immediately, because there’s a kind of sudden calm, as if the material has decided to suffice.

This video is there, in that intermediate point. It doesn't close anything, it doesn't open everything. It stands on its own. And for now, that's enough.