I had an almost fetishistic attraction to film technology.

The words of Lars von Trier, “I had an almost fetishistic attraction to film technology,” reveal the burning obsession of a creator whose very soul was entwined with the tools of his craft. To call it fetishistic is to admit that it was not merely interest, not merely admiration, but a powerful pull—an enchantment that made film technology appear as more than equipment, more than machines. It became, for him, a sacred object, a vessel through which imagination and desire could be transfigured into light upon the screen. In this confession lies the truth that artists often do not merely use tools; they love them, they are bound to them, and they are transformed by them.

Von Trier, the Danish filmmaker, was known for his relentless experimentation and daring innovations in cinema. From the strict vows of the Dogme 95 movement, which he co-created to strip film down to its essentials, to his later grand visual experiments, he was always in dialogue with the very technology of film—cameras, lenses, sound, light. His “fetishistic attraction” speaks of the hunger to explore every possibility that film as a medium could offer. He was not content to merely tell stories; he wished to wrestle with the machinery itself, to bend it, to test its boundaries, to push its essence until it yielded new forms of truth.

History offers us many who shared such devotion to their tools. Michelangelo felt a near-religious reverence for marble, saying that within every block lay a figure waiting to be freed. Nikola Tesla gazed upon his machines with awe, treating coils, magnets, and sparks almost as divine companions, whispering to him the secrets of the universe. In each, as in von Trier, there is this “fetishistic attraction”—a love not only for the work produced but for the instruments themselves. The tool becomes the muse, and the relationship between creator and technology becomes as intimate as that between poet and lover.

But there is both light and shadow in such passion. To revere technology can inspire astonishing breakthroughs, but it can also enslave the soul. The artist who loves the tool too much may become captive to it, confusing means with ends. Yet von Trier’s words do not speak of enslavement but of intensity—a confession of desire that gave him energy, curiosity, and courage to make films that unsettled, provoked, and inspired. His attraction was the fire that pushed him beyond complacency, igniting works that would redefine cinema.

The deeper meaning of his words is that true creation often requires obsession. To change the world, one must be willing to fall in love with the materials of one’s craft. Whether stone, paint, language, or film technology, it is devotion that drives mastery. The ordinary worker uses tools as means to an end; the visionary fuses identity with tool, breathing into it spirit, until creator and instrument become one. It is from such fusions that revolutions in art and science are born.

For those who hear this teaching, the lesson is not to fear intensity, but to guide it wisely. If you feel a deep attraction to your craft—whether to the brush, the code, the engine, or the camera—do not suppress it as strange or excessive. Instead, refine it, discipline it, and let it fuel your mastery. But remember also that the tool is not the final goal. It is the doorway. What matters most is not the love of the tool itself, but what you create through it—truth, beauty, knowledge, and change.

So let us pass this wisdom to the next generation: the creator must love his craft deeply, even to the point of obsession, for without love there is no greatness. But he must also remember that the technology he loves is but a vessel, a sacred bridge that leads to higher ground. Walk that bridge with passion, but keep your eyes upon the horizon, where the creation itself, not the tool, becomes the gift you offer to the world.