Frame Zero

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There’s always a moment before the camera turns on when the world seems to lean in.
Light hangs in mid-air, waiting.
Shadows stretch like question marks.
That pause—the breath before motion—is what I call Frame Zero.
It’s where every film begins, long before there’s a shot to compose or a crew to call.

I’ve never treated the camera as a collector of images.
It’s more like a pen that answers what the world keeps asking.
When I frame something, I’m writing back—responding to color, to weather, to the way a body occupies a corner of the frame.
It’s conversation, not capture.
Each cut, each exposure, is a reply.

I learned that rhythm early, on 46th Place in Cleveland.
We built treehouses out of scrap wood and geometry—Trapezoid X rising from the woods like a crooked equation.
Inside it, everything was alive: wind through the planks, the hum of faraway trains, the flicker of light between branches.
Those sounds taught me that the world already edits itself; you just have to notice the cuts.

That’s what filmmaking became for me—an ongoing correspondence with motion itself.
Sometimes the reply takes shape in live-action, sometimes in animation, sometimes in experiments with AI.
Different languages, same exchange.
I’m not documenting the invisible; I’m speaking from it.
Every image is a sentence in a conversation that started long before me and will keep going after.

There’s no signature shot, no definitive style.
The film writes me as much as I write it.
What matters is the honesty of the answer—how clearly I can respond without noise, without ego, without rushing to finish the sentence.

Frame Zero is the point where awareness meets light.
It’s where the story stops pretending to be separate from the one telling it.
Every project that grows from here—live-action, animated, synthetic, or quiet—starts the same way:
with a pause,
a question,
and the wind waiting to be answered.

Maistros — human first, always.