The truth is that I didn't start out making commercial movies.

When James Gunn declares, “The truth is that I didn’t start out making commercial movies. My films were not film festival movies with the possible exception slightly of ‘Super,’ but I was able to nurture my gifts through the works of artists making lower budget films that needed a place and an outlet,” he speaks as one who has walked the long road of the craftsman, from the narrow paths of obscurity to the wide halls of renown. His words are a confession of origin, but also a testimony: greatness does not always begin where the world is watching. Oftentimes, it begins in hidden places, in small rooms filled with burning passion rather than glittering gold.

The ancients knew this truth well. A mighty oak does not spring forth in a day, but begins as a small acorn, hidden beneath the earth, unseen by kings or crowds. So too with Gunn’s films: they were not born under the banners of commercial movies, nor did they shine with the laurels of grand festivals. Instead, they came forth in the humble soil of low-budget films, nurtured by others who also carved their art in the shadows. It was there, in the land of the overlooked, that Gunn’s gifts found their strength.

Consider the tale of Vincent van Gogh, whose paintings were once deemed unworthy of the market, dismissed and unseen by the great galleries of his time. He painted in poverty, his canvases created not for commerce nor for acclaim, but because his soul could not remain silent. Though the world did not yet honor him, the act of creation itself honed his gift. In the same way, Gunn reminds us that the path of the artist is often one of small beginnings, where the absence of wealth or fame becomes the crucible that forges endurance, resilience, and authenticity.

The meaning of Gunn’s words is also heroic: the artist must be faithful to the work, even when the world does not yet open its gates. By walking with other artists who needed a place and an outlet, Gunn stood within a fellowship of strivers, creators who carved out spaces where no space was given. In this, there is nobility. For to wait upon the approval of others is weakness, but to create in the wilderness, with no certainty of reward, is strength. It is in the hidden places that the artist learns discipline and discovers his true voice.

Yet the lesson is not reserved only for artists. Every soul who has ever borne a dream must understand: do not despise the day of small beginnings. Whether you seek to build, to write, to lead, or to teach, the first works of your hand may seem lowly, unpolished, unnoticed. But these are your training grounds, your proving fires. What begins humbly may later rise to greatness, but only if it is first nurtured in patience and faith. Great works are born from unseen labors.

Practical wisdom flows from this truth. First, embrace the low places where your gifts can grow. Do not refuse opportunities because they lack grandeur; instead, seize them as fertile ground for your craft. Second, seek community among those who, like you, strive in obscurity. For in such company, courage is multiplied, and creativity finds breath. Third, be faithful to your own voice, even if the world does not yet applaud. Time will reveal the worth of what you have built in silence.

Let Gunn’s words be a reminder: what matters most is not where you begin, but that you begin, and that you do not cease. The commercial stage may come later, the festival spotlight may or may not shine, but if you have nurtured your gifts faithfully, your work will carry the mark of truth. For it is not wealth, nor praise, nor honor that makes the artist immortal—it is the faithfulness to the craft, even when no one is watching.

Thus, walk the path of creation with steadfast heart. Begin in the shadows, labor with patience, stand with your fellow dreamers, and one day, like Gunn, you too shall see that your humble beginnings were not weakness, but the very soil from which your greatness grew.