'La La Land' is about the city I live in. It's about the music

Hear, O lovers of art and seekers of beauty, the words of Damien Chazelle, who said of his creation: “La La Land is about the city I live in. It’s about the music that I grew up playing; it’s about movies that I grew up watching. Even the big spectacle of the movie feels private to me in that way.” In these words shines the eternal truth that the greatest works of art are not born of distant invention, but of the soil of one’s own life, watered by memory, and shaped by the places, sounds, and dreams that formed the soul of the artist.

The meaning is thus: Chazelle reminds us that though cinema may reach the multitudes, its heart can be intensely personal. La La Land, with its sweeping dances, glittering lights, and grand gestures, is not for him merely a performance for the world. It is a mirror of his own journey—his city, his music, his beloved films. In this way, what seems to the audience a grand spectacle is, to the creator, an intimate confession, as though his memories and passions were clothed in the costumes of art for all to see.

The ancients too understood this paradox of public grandeur and private meaning. Consider Homer, who sang of Troy and Odysseus in epics that thundered through generations. Yet beneath the gods and battles, the poet revealed his own yearning for home, for belonging, for the fragile ties of family. To his listeners, the Odyssey was a tale of heroes; to him, perhaps, it was a song of his own heart’s desire. So too does Chazelle’s film dazzle the world while secretly speaking the language of his own soul.

History also offers us the example of Michelangelo, who, when painting the Sistine Chapel, filled the heavens with prophets, angels, and creation itself. Yet hidden in the folds of paint are his own struggles, his own reflections on mortality, his own unyielding devotion to craft. To the world, the ceiling is spectacle; to Michelangelo, it was a wrestling with God and self. Thus, as with Chazelle, the private becomes the public, and the intimate is magnified into eternal form.

Chazelle’s reflection also teaches us of authenticity. Too often, artists seek only to impress, creating works designed to please others. But the greatest art is born when the creator dares to place their own truth, their own upbringing, their own passions upon the stage. In doing so, they discover that the personal, far from being too small, often becomes the most universal. For the beating of one heart, honestly expressed, echoes in the hearts of many.

The lesson for us, then, is clear: make your life the foundation of your creation. Whatever you build—whether in art, in work, in love—let it spring from what is truly yours: your experiences, your struggles, your joys. Do not be afraid to let the world see what feels private, for in so doing you may touch others more deeply than if you had sought only to dazzle. Grandeur without truth is empty, but truth clothed in grandeur becomes eternal.

What, then, should you do? Reflect upon the city you live in, the music that shaped you, the stories that moved you as a child. Carry these with you into your work and your speech, for they are the soil from which your authenticity will grow. When you create, do not ask first, “Will they applaud?” but “Does this bear my truth?” In this way, even the grandest performance, even the most public achievement, will feel to you—as Chazelle said—private, sacred, and true.

Thus let these words be remembered: “Even the big spectacle of the movie feels private to me.” For in them lies the wisdom of all creation—that the greatest gift of the artist is not the show itself, but the offering of their own soul, hidden beneath the spectacle yet shining through it. And when you too dare to give your truth in this way, your life shall become a work of art that both dazzles the world and honors the quiet story of your own heart.