WE ARE ALL ARTISTS
As a kid, I used to wonder if life was a movie and think, “Is anyone recording this?” A lot of people have some version of this thought. You’ve probably thought something similar. But it’s not really a thought. It’s more a feeling. I think it’s in response to a signature horror of childhood, learning, at some point or another, we all die, and when we die, did we live, what makes it real, who am I, where am I, AHHHHHHHHHHH. I had it bad. Thought about it a lot. Maybe because I am Jewish. Everyone wonders to varying extents, but we, the Jews, of all ethnic groups, are the great documentarians and over-thinkers, constantly confirming our own existence, the thing that’s been threatened to be taken so many times, through tradition, written records, and documents, death certificates and marriage records passed between generations like the Torah itself. Proof! My early childhood obsession must have had something to do with being Jewish, but it was more than that. It had to do with something not specific to any group, but to everyone. I felt something. I actually felt a lot of things. I felt happy. I felt sad. More than anything, I wanted to give these feelings to other people in order to somehow help them, but I didn’t know how.
Art is a storage unit for feelings. A little time machine for love and heartbreak and rage. A third party carrier shipping the immaterial from one person to another.
Eventually, I became an artist. That is who artists are, after all, isn’t it? — People who feel too much. And that is what art is, after all, isn’t it? — a place for them to put those feelings. This longing has been the source of great works of art and comedies and tragedies. Art is, in the end, a delivery system for emotion. I feel something. I don’t know what to do with it. I put it into a piece of art. You see said piece of art and feel what I feel, or felt. That’s it. That’s the whole thing. Art is a storage unit for feelings. A little time machine for love and heartbreak and rage. A third party carrier shipping the immaterial from one person to another.
Then, on October 2nd, 2014, I had an idea to finally satisfy my lifelong obsession– our collective obsession. One piece of art to end the longing once and for all, one piece of art to close the gap between sender and receiver, but not a piece of art, a piece of… technology? I know the exact date because it was my twin niece and nephews’ first birthday. I didn’t want to get them another toy. They already had too many. I wanted to give them all those feelings I had as a kid, that I still had thirty-five years later. So I started them email accounts and told family members to send photos, videos, and messages. When the kids turn thirteen, at their joint bar/bat mitzvah, I’ll give them their passwords, and they’ll have a time capsule of love curated by their family.
I’m a genius, I thought. I had invented love storage. But when I told people my brilliant gift, they said they did the same thing. It turned out I hadn’t invented anything. Families everywhere were starting email accounts and private Facebook groups to try to preserve memories and give love to their kids. But why were they using these clumsy workarounds? There had to be a product that provides this service for families. Despite all our technical innovation, there wasn’t. Not a good one at least, nothing to create a complete record of our lives like the never-ending movie of my childhood fantasy, and nothing that let people store and share their feelings. Proof! That night, I wrote the first outline for my idea. I called it Footprint, because of the iconic image of a baby footprint on a birth certificate, and because of the emotional and digital footprint we all leave in the world. And I made a tagline, “Store love today. Share it tomorrow.”
That was eight years ago. A lot has changed. My niece and nephew are almost nine. The idea is now a company. There are lawyers and developers and features and revenue models and all the things that make something “real”, but the core of the idea is still the same. It’s still called Footprint, and our tagline is still, “Store love today. Share it tomorrow.”
The stakes are high, for me, at least. I have rejected job offers and taken money from friends and family. I’m doing it because I believe in the idea and I believe deep down we all want the same thing. We are all artists. We all feel too much. And we all need a place to put those feelings. And I want to invite you along for the ride. This is something people already do, I am told by friends who know more about this stuff than me. It’s called “building in public”. So that’s what I am doing, building in public.
Enjoy the show.
Learn more and download Footprint here.
