A lot of these angles are really about trying to mimic broadcast

Hear now the words of Matthew Barney, artist of vision and architect of moving image, who declared: “A lot of these angles are really about trying to mimic broadcast sports angles in order to anchor the scene, to sort of normalize it before it becomes abstracted.” At first, these words seem technical, a craftsman speaking of camera and frame. Yet within them lies a profound truth: that before the mind may soar into abstraction, it must first find its ground in the familiar; before the spirit may ascend, it must have roots in the earth.

For what are broadcast sports angles but the common tongue of our modern age? They are the language by which millions understand the drama of the game—the sideline view, the overhead shot, the slow-motion replay. These images anchor us, for they mirror our experience as spectators, as participants in the ritual of sport. By invoking these angles, Barney does not merely borrow a technique—he summons a language of recognition, a normalizing gesture that prepares the viewer for what comes next. Only when grounded in the known can the mind be led into the abstract, into the strange and visionary.

This is not unlike the method of the ancient teachers. Plato, in his dialogues, began with simple questions drawn from common life—what is justice, what is love, what is courage?—and only then guided his listeners into the higher realms of philosophy, where thought became less concrete, more transcendent. Just as Barney begins with the camera angles of sport, Plato began with the shared ground of human experience. Both knew that to lead men into the unfamiliar, one must first anchor them in the familiar.

Consider also the story of the Greek tragedians. Before they could carry their audiences into the realms of myth, fate, and divine justice, they rooted their plays in recognizable human conflict—families torn, kings betrayed, lovers divided. This grounding allowed the abstraction—the gods, the oracles, the eternal laws—to strike not as alien, but as revelation. In the same way, Barney’s use of the familiar angles of sport allows his vision, however abstract, to remain tethered to human recognition, lest it drift into meaninglessness.

The wisdom here is that the path to transcendence requires an anchor. Abstraction alone, untethered from the real, risks becoming chaos. But when framed, when grounded in something we know, abstraction transforms into revelation. Sport itself is a mirror of this truth: the rules, the lines of the field, the time on the clock—these structures anchor the game, making its moments of unpredictability meaningful. Remove the rules, and there is no game—only confusion. Remove the anchor, and there is no art—only noise.

Thus, Barney’s words remind us that the work of creation—whether in art, in philosophy, or in life—is to find the balance between the normal and the abstract, between the earth and the sky. Begin where men stand, then lift them upward. Begin with what they know, then guide them into what they do not know. Anchor the scene, then let it soar. This is not only the method of the artist, but of the teacher, the leader, the visionary.

Therefore, O children of tomorrow, take this lesson: when you seek to create, to inspire, or to guide, do not begin in the clouds. Begin with what is common, what is shared, what all can grasp. Once you have anchored your listeners, your students, your companions, then and only then may you lead them into abstraction, into vision, into the unknown. For in this lies the secret of all persuasion, all teaching, all creation: the union of the familiar and the mysterious.

So let Barney’s words echo: anchor first, then ascend. Normalize, then abstract. In this rhythm lies not only the art of film, but the art of life itself.