I’m not sure anyone enjoys admitting ignorance.
I say this after a day of doing it—having attempted the only formal videography of my life. (I refuse to count the silly videos made with friends in college.)
It wasn’t supposed to be me behind the camera, fiddling with focus and adjusting the composition, but there I was—forced to acknowledge, over and again, some variation of:
I don’t know.
I don’t know what this button does. I don’t know how to deal with those highlights. I don’t know what frame rate we shot at. I don’t know how to set the aperture.
There are a few ways to say I don’t know. You can say it with shame, with humility, or even with a dismissive smirk:
I don’t know, but c’mon—is it even worth knowing? I’m BETTER than this.
It’s the last I struggle with, as you might have guessed.
It’s a cagey, defensive posture. It’s reserved for those like me who, rather than pretending to knowledge they don’t have, choose to minimize the missing knowledge.
Thankfully, photos and videos—while subject to some subjectivity—cannot themselves be smirked out of existence.
After the shoot, I went back to the office and faced the inevitable: I didn’t fully know what I was doing—the data on the SD card told me that much.
Taylor Coe 