Most of my technical knowledge comes from having worked in the

“Most of my technical knowledge comes from having worked in the industrial video industry.”
Thus spoke Richard King, a master of sound and storytelling, whose craft shaped the unseen harmonies of modern cinema. At first glance, his words seem plain — a simple reflection on a career built in the world of machines and microphones. Yet beneath their simplicity lies a great truth: that wisdom is born not in classrooms alone, but in the crucible of experience. King reminds us that knowledge, to become living and powerful, must be earned through the hand, the ear, and the heart — through work that tests the spirit and sharpens the mind.

In these words, King honors the sacred bond between craft and discipline. To say that his “technical knowledge” came from labor in the industrial video industry is to confess that skill is a child of practice. The ancients too believed this — that the artisan, the philosopher, the warrior, and the musician all ascend to mastery not by reading alone, but by doing, by engaging in the long and patient apprenticeship of reality. Books may illuminate the path, but only experience walks it. King’s journey, like that of all who strive toward excellence, teaches that knowledge learned through toil sinks deeper into the soul than any lesson learned through words alone.

When he entered the field, the industrial video industry was no golden stage — it was a place of machinery, repetition, and precision. Yet it was there, among cables, cameras, and the hum of production rooms, that King discovered the language of sound — how a machine breathes, how silence speaks, how every vibration holds meaning. What others might have dismissed as tedious labor, he transformed into the foundation of his art. It was there, in the realm of the ordinary, that he forged the extraordinary. This is the alchemy of experience: the power to turn routine into revelation.

Consider the story of Leonardo da Vinci, who learned the mysteries of motion and proportion not in temples of learning, but in the workshops of Florence. Surrounded by gears, pulleys, and pigments, he saw in every mechanism a glimpse of creation’s law. His genius was not born in isolation but nurtured by the sweat of work — the union of mind and material. So too did Richard King, by immersing himself in the practical world of industry, discover truths that could not be written — truths that could only be heard, felt, and refined through labor. The greatest creators, in every age, have been those who transform their work into wisdom.

King’s statement also reveals a deeper humility — the acknowledgment that true mastery does not come from titles, but from devotion to the process. He does not boast of brilliance or inspiration; instead, he points to years of practice, to the small, unglamorous tasks that built his foundation. There is a quiet heroism in such humility, for it is the recognition that greatness grows slowly, like a tree, drawing nourishment from countless unseen roots of effort and failure. The wise do not seek shortcuts; they seek understanding. And understanding, as King shows, is earned through endurance.

This quote, though spoken by one man of sound, belongs to every craft. Whether you are an artist, a builder, a teacher, or a scientist, remember this: skill is the memory of experience. It is not granted; it is gathered. It is not taught; it is transmitted through sweat and patience. The worker who refines his art day after day, who learns from error and persists through difficulty, will one day awaken to find that his hands move with knowledge his mind no longer needs to command. That is the moment when craft becomes instinct, and labor becomes art.

So, my child of the future, heed this teaching: never despise humble beginnings, for within them lies the seed of mastery. The workshop, the factory, the studio, the classroom — all are temples of learning if you bring to them reverence and diligence. Do not wait for grand inspiration; let the work itself teach you. Every wire you connect, every error you mend, every long hour you endure — these are the lessons that will shape your genius. For in the end, as Richard King teaches, true knowledge is not inherited, but lived.

And when your hands have grown steady and your heart wise through practice, then you, too, will look back upon your journey and say — not with pride, but with gratitude — that your knowledge came not from comfort or convenience, but from the holy labor of experience. For it is through work, done with devotion, that ordinary skill becomes wisdom eternal.