Are you creating for yourself or for others?

Am I creating for myself or for others?  It's a question every creator asks at  

some point. For some, it's all about the audience.

"I mean, I've always felt that I  make films for audiences. I mean,  

I really don't make them for myself."

For others, it's a personal journey.

"I don't ever do that. I only make it  for me. I've always made my movies for  

me anyway. All right, I make them for  me, and everybody else is invited."

But Alejandro González Iñárritu  takes this idea even further:

"Well, I think as a species, we have to look  at each other. I think, if I will say, if  

tomorrow an atomic bomb finished humanity, and I'm  the only one staying alive, would I make a film?"

He's not just asking who we create for; he's  questioning if creation even matters without  

someone to receive it. It's a powerful  thought, and it's got me thinking. And so,  

in this video, I want to dive into  why we feel this pull to create. Is  

it about sharing a part of ourselves,  finding meaning, or simply being seen?

It's totally natural to want others to appreciate  our work, to feel that what we've created has  

value beyond ourselves. But if we lean too much  on external approval, we might find ourselves  

spiraling into uncertainty and self-doubt.  Why does this happen so often for creators?

Maybe because creating—whether it's art, music,  film, or writing—is such a vulnerable act. We're  

putting a part of ourselves out there, exposing  our ideas, feelings, and perspectives. And the  

response—or lack of one—can impact not only how  we see our work but also how we see ourselves.

This inner conflict often takes  the form of a voice—that persistent  

whisper questioning our choices and abilities.

"But what if they don't like it? What if  it sucks? What if it's not good enough?"

It's a voice that can drive us to improve  but can also hold us back with self-doubt.

"Why am I doing this? Is this just to show  off, to prove I can make a good video? Is  

it just so people can comment and tell me  how talented I am? Am I chasing likes and  

validation? Maybe this whole thing—this  video essay—is just about feeding my ego.  

Look at me! I'm a filmmaker. I can tell  stories. I'm different. I'm special."

In Alejandro González Iñárritu's film Birdman,  this struggle plays out through Riggan Thomson,  

a former movie star known for his superhero  role, Birdman. Riggan's trying to reinvent  

himself as a serious actor, directing and  starring in a Broadway play, hoping to escape  

his reputation as a washed-up celebrity. But at  every turn, he's torn between wanting to create  

something meaningful and getting caught  up in the need for fame and approval.

"It's about being respected and validated.  Remember, that's what you told me."

Throughout the film, Riggan is haunted by  the voice of his former superhero persona.

"You tower over these other theater  douchebags. You're a movie star,  

man. You're a global force. Don't you get it?"

This voice isn't just a reminder of his past fame;  

it's the embodiment of his  deepest insecurities and desires.

"That clown doesn't have half your  talent, and he's making a fortune."

For many creators, this voice is a constant  companion—both motivating and toxic—pushing  

them forward while feeding their  insecurities. Rewatching Birdman  

for this video, I realized that this  voice—the Birdman character—is almost  

a literal representation of what's  called the Shadow Self in psychology.

Carl Jung described the shadow as the parts  of ourselves we try to hide—the fears,  

flaws, and desires we push away or deny.  Jung said, "Everyone carries a shadow,  

and the less it is embodied in the individual's  conscious life, the blacker and denser it is."  

In other words, the more we deny these  hidden parts, the more they control us.

The idea of a character confronting their shadow  or ghost is common in storytelling. It's a past  

trauma or event that haunts them, influencing  their actions and inner conflict. Usually,  

it operates beneath the surface, subtly  shaping the protagonist's decisions and  

growth. But in Birdman, Riggan's shadow is  made literal through his Birdman alter ego.  

Riggan just wants to leave Birdman behind. He  can't accept that it's still a part of him.

"What are you doing? I don't  want to look at this anymore."

But by ignoring this side of himself—his  craving for attention and fear of being  

irrelevant—he's only making things worse.

"We should have done that  reality show they offered us."

He keeps telling the voice to shut up.

"Shut up." "That would  

have been good." "Shut up."

Trying to push down his need for  validation, but like Jung said,  

"What you resist not only persists but will grow."

"A sad, selfish, mediocre actor."

The more he tries to ignore Birdman, the louder  it gets. This denial pushes Riggan to act out,  

strains his relationships, and blurs  the line between reality and illusion.

"What are you trying to prove?  That you're an artist? Well,  

you're not." "Fuck you."

By trying to present himself as a noble,  authentic artist, he's rejecting a core part  

of himself. This facade doesn't erase his desire  for fame and recognition; it only intensifies it.

"We—there is no we. I'm not fuckin'  you. I'm Riggan fuckin' Thompson!"

He's trapped in a cycle of denial and desperation,  

constantly seeking approval  yet never feeling fulfilled.

But why does he crave validation so much?

"You know I'm proud of you, don't you?"

The movie gives us a hint in this scene.

"You said in the interview your father was  a drunk like Carver. Is that true, Mike?  

Is that true? 'Cause my father was.  My father was a mean fucking drunk,  

you understand? Okay? He beat the  shit out of us. That was okay,  

though, you know, 'cause at least he was  beating us. He wasn't thinking about—"

In this intense moment, Riggan shares a painful  story about his father with his co-star.

"This horrible man. Sorry."

But then laughs it off as  great acting to impress him.

"It's also not true. See? I can pretend too."

But it feels genuine, like he's revealing  real trauma without fully admitting it.

Man, this glimpse into his past shows why fame  matters so much to him. And maybe this is how  

his shadow formed—from the emptiness left by the  lack of love and approval. And now he's trying to  

fill that void with applause, hoping it will make  up for what he missed out on in his early life.

"What do we talk about when we talk about love?"

"Are you okay? You seem, I don't  know, you seem abnormally calm."

Jung believed that acknowledging and integrating  the shadow is crucial for personal growth. And  

towards the end of the film, there's a pivotal  moment when Riggan admits to his ex-wife:

"You know, I've got this voice that  talks to me sometimes. Tells me the  

truth. It's comforting. Kind  of scary, but it's comforting."

This admission is a turning point. By  acknowledging the voice—not as an enemy  

but as a part of himself—Riggan takes  a crucial step towards self-acceptance.  

But beyond the psychological aspect, what  does Birdman say about our core question:  

do we create for ourselves or for others?

Birdman doesn't give a direct answer,  but Riggan's need for recognition shows  

that he's creating to be seen. And by  finally acknowledging his craving for  

validation and fear of irrelevance,  he finds a fragile sense of peace.

But this brings us back to Iñárritu's question:  "If you were the only person left alive, would  

you still create? Would art, music, or writing  matter if no one else was there to see it?"

"Do I make a film to see myself? I don't  think so. You know what I mean? I think,  

the bottom line, we are made  to communicate and to express."

Art has always been a kind of conversation, a  way to connect. Without anyone to share it with,  

it feels like talking into a void. But maybe  creating goes deeper than that. Even if  

in solitude, creating might be about  understanding ourselves—a way to bring  

order to our inner chaos. Maybe it's a way  of saying, "I'm here. I feel. I think."

Think about it. When we're alone,  don't we still jot down thoughts,  

hum, or doodle? These little acts  of creation aren't for anyone else;  

they're just for us. They help us make  sense of our experiences, bring comfort,  

or simply pass the time. Maybe even if we  were completely alone, the drive to create  

would still be there—not to communicate  but because it's a part of being human.

This idea reminds me of Paterson, a Jim  Jarmusch film about a bus driver who writes  

poetry in his free time. Unlike Riggan, who is  consumed by his need for external validation,  

Paterson finds fulfillment in the simple act of  writing. He doesn't write for fame or recognition;  

he writes because it brings him joy and  helps him connect with his own experiences.

"Please, please, please make some copies. You  know that I know that your poetry is really,  

really good. And someday, you might just  decide to let the world get to read it."

Paterson keeps his poems in a small notebook  and only shares them with his wife, Laura,  

who constantly encourages him to publish his  work—or at least make copies. But he's content  

just keeping them for himself, capturing  little pieces of his day-to-day life,  

each poem reflecting the subtle  nuances of his experiences.

Even though Paterson writes just for himself,  his poetry sometimes bridges him to others.  

In one scene, he meets a young girl who also  writes poetry. She shares her poem with him,  

and Paterson is genuinely pleased to connect  with someone who shares his passion. However,  

there's no ego, no competition—just a  simple, pure exchange of creative expression.

It's a moment of shared love for creating,  with no need for recognition. But later on  

in the movie, when his dog Marvin destroys  his notebook containing all of his poems,  

losing it feels like a loss of something  deeply personal. It's like losing a piece  

of himself. He goes for a walk  to process this and, by chance,  

meets a Japanese poet who gives him a fresh  notebook, gently encouraging him to keep writing.

The movie ends on this gentle reminder  that art isn't really about finishing  

something or having a physical product. It's  a journey. It's about the act of creating,  

not about getting recognition or making it  last forever. Paterson may have lost his poems,  

but his creative spirit is still there. He  can still find beauty and keep creating.

So maybe the true essence of art isn't about  who sees it but about the joy of creating it.  

Maybe making something—anything—is  a fundamental part of being human,  

a way to connect with ourselves and the world  around us, even when no one else is watching.

But is it realistic for most of us to  be like Paterson? Many creators might  

find themselves somewhere between Riggan's  intense need for external connection and  

Paterson's quiet contentment. Maybe  the key lies in finding a balance.

Filmmaker and Pixar's Chief Creative Officer,  Pete Docter, offers an interesting take on this:

"I'm not making these movies for me. I'm  making them for you, for the audience. And so,  

you want to be aware of how people receive  stuff. But I also feel—and I've told the  

directors that I get to work with—I think  the job is to know better than the audience  

what they will like. Uh, I kind of think  of it a little bit like I'm handcrafting a  

present for my friend for Christmas, and  I want them to know that it's from me,  

but I want them to really love it. So, what  kind of gift will that be? And how do I  

craft this and tailor it so that it's well  received is kind of the way I look at it."

But later in the same interview, he says:

"The primary audience in my head is me,  which is completely contrary to what I  

said earlier. I recognize that. But I  guess what I'm thinking is like, okay,  

I know from experience this is going to be  four or five years of my life. I want to have  

something that I'm looking forward to working  on every day and something that I can explore."

For him, creating is both personal and a  way to share with others. It's not just  

about making something for others to see;  it's also about discovering something within  

himself. It's a way to understand ourselves  while sharing that journey with others.

And maybe, most importantly,  it's a journey of discovery.

"It's taken me like 25 years  of work to figure this out,  

but making movies is a discovery. If I know  exactly what I'm doing at the beginning,  

I think the movie is going to be dull. I think  I have to allow for a process of learning and  

discovery within myself that the film brings  out. So, in making the movie, by the end,  

ideally, I am able to say something that I  would have never understood at the beginning."

Creating isn't just about the  final product. It's about the  

growth and self-reflection  that happen along the way.

I feel the same way. Before starting this video  essay, I didn't know where it would take me,  

but the process of making it helped me  uncover new insights and understand myself  

better. It's both a personal journey and a way  to connect with others who might feel the same.

So maybe that's the real value  of creating—discovering ourselves  

piece by piece through every work we make.

In the end, creating is deeply  human. It's personal and shared,  

selfish and selfless. Like Riggan, I wrestle  with the need for recognition. Like Paterson,  

I find comfort in the act itself, in those  quiet moments where it's just me and the work.

But then comes the thrill of sharing it, wondering  if it'll connect with someone else, spark a  

thought, or an emotion. We don't have to pretend  the audience doesn't matter. In fact, denying  

that, like Riggan, only leads to frustration. It's  okay to want connection. It's part of being human.

Whether it's for ourselves, a few  close friends, or the wider world,  

creating something new always matters.  It's how we connect, reflect, and grow.

Hey guys, I'd love to hear your  thoughts on this in the comments.  

Like and subscribe if you enjoyed this  video, and see you in the next one.