Once I had seen 'Journey to Italy,' I knew that, even if I were

Hear now, O children of art and imagination, the words of Jean-Luc Godard, one of cinema’s boldest voices: “Once I had seen Journey to Italy, I knew that, even if I were never to make movies, I could make them.” In these words, there is both paradox and revelation. For how can a man who has not yet created know with certainty that he can create? Godard speaks not of external skill alone, but of an inner awakening, a recognition that art is not born only of craft, but of vision, of spirit, of daring to see differently.

The origin of this declaration lies in Godard’s encounter with Journey to Italy, a film by Roberto Rossellini, which broke from convention and defied the rigid rules of traditional cinema. To Godard and the young critics of his generation, this film revealed that movies need not follow the polished formulas of the studios; they could be raw, personal, fragmented, as close to life as a glance or a breath. By watching Rossellini’s work, Godard felt the stirring of possibility. He saw that cinema was not locked behind gates of wealth and machinery—it could be reached by anyone who dared to dream in images.

This revelation is akin to the moment when a poet first hears Homer and realizes that words can make men weep, or when a painter sees the rough strokes of Van Gogh and knows that imperfection itself can become immortal. It is the awakening of potential—the moment when art ceases to be a distant monument and becomes a living flame one might touch. Godard’s words tell us that inspiration is not merely admiration; it is a recognition of kinship. To see a great work and whisper, “I, too, could have made this,” is to step into the lineage of creators.

History gives us other examples of this awakening. Recall the young Michelangelo, who, upon seeing the ancient statue of the Laocoön unearthed in Rome, knew at once that marble itself could breathe with agony and passion. From that vision, he realized that he too could carve stone into living form. Or think of the composer Beethoven, who, though deaf and broken by fate, found in the works of Mozart and Haydn the assurance that music was not beyond him—it was already within him. Such moments are sparks that ignite destinies.

The deeper meaning of Godard’s statement is that art is not merely a matter of permission or profession—it is a state of mind. By witnessing Journey to Italy, he discovered that making movies was not the privilege of the chosen few, but the calling of those who see differently. Even if he never touched a camera, the vision of film was already his. It was not about possession of resources, but about possession of courage, the courage to see the world as cinema.

The lesson for us all, O listener, is profound. When you behold a work that moves you, do not think of it as distant or unattainable. Let it awaken in you the truth that you, too, can create. If a book moves you to tears, perhaps your words can one day move another. If a song pierces your heart, perhaps your own melody waits within. Great works are not meant to paralyze us with awe, but to stir us into action, to show us what is possible.

Therefore, carry this teaching: do not wait for perfect skill, nor the world’s permission, before you begin. Begin because you have seen, and because seeing has awakened your will to shape. Like Godard, let the encounter with greatness plant in you the certainty that you, too, can create. For the flame of art is not held by a few—it is passed from hand to hand, from vision to vision, across the generations of humankind.

Thus, let Godard’s words endure as a reminder: to see is already to begin, and to be inspired is already to create. For once the mind knows that movies—or poems, or music, or dreams—can be made, then the soul has already crossed the threshold from admirer to creator. And that crossing is the first step toward immortality.