In my experience, not just in shooting films but in the

John Curran, speaking as one who has walked the long road of art and commerce, declared: “In my experience, not just in shooting films but in the commercials I’ve done, initially, it’s very exciting for the community, and it’s a real novelty. Very quickly, though, they realize there’s a buck to be had, and it becomes annoying, and they lose their patience pretty quick.” His words cut to the heart of human nature and its restless hunger. What begins with wonder and excitement often decays into greed, and what was once a joy becomes a burden when money enters the stage. This truth, though wrapped in the garment of filmmaking, is as old as civilization itself.

The ancients knew well the dangers of novelty. When something new enters the village—be it a tool, an idea, or a spectacle—it first stirs awe and delight. The people marvel, saying, “Here is something unlike what we have known!” But time, like a steady wind, strips away the freshness. Soon the glimmer fades, and the people’s gaze shifts, not to the beauty of the thing itself, but to the profit it might yield. The buck becomes the idol, and patience the sacrifice laid upon its altar. Curran’s lament is not only about film sets—it is about the eternal cycle of human desire, where wonder is too easily traded for profit.

History gives us a striking example in the California Gold Rush of the mid-nineteenth century. At first, there was astonishment and thrill—the cry of gold brought together communities of adventurers, dreamers, and fortune-seekers. Camps sprang up overnight, and the hills rang with the sound of ambition. Yet, very soon, the novelty turned sour. Greed took root, violence spread, and whole landscapes were scarred. What began as a communal spirit of discovery dissolved into contention over profit. Here, as Curran observed in his own way, novelty quickly yielded to the fever of money, and patience was lost in the scramble.

In Curran’s world of film and commercials, the same story unfolds in miniature. A village or town greets the arrival of cameras with wonder—the lights, the costumes, the magic of storytelling. For a moment, it feels like they are part of something larger, something extraordinary. But soon, the quiet of daily life is broken, the streets are crowded, and the people begin to ask: “What is in it for us?” What was once an honor becomes a transaction, and joy sours into irritation. This is the frailty of human expectation: the inability to preserve wonder without demanding reward.

Yet within this lament lies a lesson of endurance. We must ask ourselves: are we those who rejoice only in novelty, or are we those who can hold onto wonder when profit fades? For the wise know that not all things must be measured in coin. True richness lies in the experience itself—in the chance to witness art being made, to share in something fleeting and beautiful. If we can guard our patience, if we can protect our sense of wonder from the claws of greed, then every encounter, however disruptive, can remain a gift.

The teaching for us is clear: beware of the temptation to turn every experience into a market. Not all things must yield a buck. To the community, Curran’s words remind us: welcome the stranger, the artist, the builder—not only for what they might pay, but for what they bring in spirit. And to the artist, his warning is also true: know that patience is fragile, and that novelty soon fades. If you are to labor among the people, do so with humility, knowing their excitement may quickly shift, and be prepared to meet this change with understanding.

Thus, let this wisdom guide you, dear listener: do not lose patience when novelty passes, nor trade every wonder for a coin. Guard the heart against greed, for greed devours joy. Learn to hold onto the spirit of gratitude, even when the profit is small. For if you can keep your wonder alive, then you shall never lose the richness of life, even in the face of disruption. This, above all, is the treasure no market can buy.