I think technology has advanced so far now that there are some

Roger Deakins, master of the lens, once reflected: “I think technology has advanced so far now that there are some cameras on the market that give film a run for its money. It’s all about flexibility in capturing images, and digital or film, it doesn’t matter to me.” These words, though spoken about the tools of cinema, resound with an eternal truth about art and creation: the medium is less important than the vision, and the tool is only as great as the hand that wields it.

The ancients too knew this lesson, though their “cameras” were brushes, chisels, and lyres. The sculptor Phidias, who carved gods into marble, would not argue whether marble or bronze was the superior medium; he sought instead the form within, waiting to be revealed. The poet Homer did not debate the quality of papyrus versus memory, but gave himself to the story. So too does Deakins remind us: whether one captures with film or with digital, the heart of the art remains the same—the image, the story, the truth within the frame.

Deakins also speaks of flexibility, a quality the ancients praised under the name of adaptability. A soldier who could wield sword and spear was stronger than one bound to a single weapon. A sailor who could navigate by both stars and coastline survived storms that claimed others. In the same way, the modern artist, whether with film reels or digital sensors, thrives when unbound to a single method. The wise do not cling to tradition for its own sake, nor worship novelty blindly; they choose the tool that best serves the vision.

History gives us an example in the life of Leonardo da Vinci. His genius was not confined to paint alone—he sketched, engineered, sculpted, and invented. For him, the medium bent itself to the message. When fresco betrayed him, he tried oil; when oil failed, he turned to drawing; when drawing seemed too flat, he designed machines to lift art into new dimensions. He embodied the very principle Deakins expresses: it is not the material, but the flexibility of the artist, that ensures greatness.

And yet, Deakins does not dismiss the beauty of film, nor the power of digital. He honors both, seeing in each a vessel of possibility. In this, he reminds us of balance. Too often, people divide themselves into camps—tradition against progress, old against new. But the artist who transcends this quarrel understands that both can serve, both can inspire, both can capture the soul of a moment. The wise do not ask “which is greater,” but “what best serves the vision before me?”

For us, the lesson is clear: in our own crafts, whether they be art, work, or life itself, do not become enslaved to the tool. Embrace innovation, honor tradition, but do not mistake either for the heart of creation. The camera does not make the image—the eye does. The tool does not create the masterpiece—the spirit within the maker does.

So, dear listener, remember Deakins’ words as a guiding flame: do not cling to one way, nor fear another. Seek always the flexibility to choose wisely, the humility to learn new methods, and the clarity to see that what matters most is the vision you bring forth. Whether by film or by digital, by brush or by pen, by old ways or new, the goal is the same—to capture truth, to reveal beauty, and to tell the story that endures beyond time. For in the end, it has never been the tool that made the art, but the artist.