I think the only reason people use PCs is because they have to.

“I think the only reason people use PCs is because they have to. Mac is the most streamlined computer there is. I started using the Mac in college because I was doing editing, and they were the only computers we could use to do that.” — Cary Fukunaga

Hear the words of Cary Fukunaga, the artist of film and image, whose vision moves between worlds of story and machine. His reflection is not merely about technology—it is about choice, necessity, and beauty. When he says that “people use PCs because they have to,” he speaks of the labor of the world, of duty and convention. But when he praises the Mac, calling it “the most streamlined computer there is,” he speaks of grace in design, of the union between human imagination and tool. To him, the Mac was not simply a device—it was a doorway, a companion in creation, a vessel for art.

In this, he echoes a truth known since the dawn of craft: the tools we use shape the spirit of our work. Just as the sculptor’s chisel must be balanced, just as the calligrapher’s brush must be supple, so too must the modern artist’s instrument flow with his will. Fukunaga’s words, though wrapped in modern language, carry the ancient wisdom that form and function must be one. The streamlined machine, like a well-forged sword, disappears in the hand of the master, allowing only the purpose to shine. The tool that distracts, that resists the maker’s intent, is no tool at all—it is a burden disguised as aid.

Consider, then, the story of the Renaissance painters, who toiled not only in vision but in craft. Before they could create their masterpieces, they mixed pigments, prepared canvases, and studied light for years. Leonardo da Vinci himself built tools when none existed that could realize his designs. He knew that creation demands harmony between mind and instrument. So too, Fukunaga found in the Mac a harmony between artist and technology—a tool that allowed thought to flow into image, vision into form, without obstruction. The PC, in contrast, was for him a thing of necessity, a contrivance of function over feeling.

But do not mistake his words for mere brand loyalty. What he praises is not a company, but a philosophy—the pursuit of elegance and purpose in all things. He honors simplicity as the highest sophistication, a truth the ancients themselves revered. In the temples of Greece, in the lines of Japanese calligraphy, in the architecture of Florence, the principle was the same: remove the excess until only essence remains. Such is the wisdom of the streamlined. Whether in marble, ink, or code, beauty arises when form serves meaning without friction.

Fukunaga’s memory of college, of learning to create through editing, is not just nostalgia—it is testimony. For every artist, there is a moment when the right tool awakens the spirit, when the act of creation becomes effortless. It is as if the machine itself understands the soul’s desire. That moment, he tells us, came through the Mac—through a union of design and imagination that made him free to focus not on the mechanism, but on the message. He reminds us that art flourishes not in chaos, but in clarity.

Yet beneath his words lies a deeper warning: that we must not grow numb to our tools. Many live like the users of PCs, doing what they must, bound by convention and habit. They move through life constrained by necessity, never tasting the joy of mastery or the liberation of harmony. But the wise seek the streamlined path—not the easy one, but the one where labor becomes art. To live well is to choose, wherever possible, the tool, the method, the way of being that aligns with the soul’s design.

So, take this lesson, children of the digital age: do not let your instruments enslave you. Choose your tools, whether of art or of life, with discernment. Seek the streamlined, not the cluttered; the graceful, not the cumbersome. For the measure of a tool is not its power, but how well it serves your purpose. Be like the ancient craftsmen and the modern creators alike—masters of simplicity, servants of meaning. In every stroke of work, let your mind and your tool move as one. Then, as Fukunaga discovered, you will not merely use what is given—you will create what endures.