This year’s campaign for the Torelló Mountain Film Festival doesn’t need much explaining. But, as I do every year, I traveled there to share the story behind it at the press conference for the edition.
“It’s my favorite one!” some would say. And I’d respond, surprised, “Oh, really?” Then someone would chime in that it’s true—the meaning is clear at first glance, no need to rack your brain to decipher it. “Hey, it’s great when you make us think, too,” someone added, “but it’s also nice when we don’t have to work so hard to understand it.”
This stance on having a dog—or the preference for projects that don’t ask too much of us—hits the same spot in my gut. It’s a kind of calm, yes, but one that feels hollow, because I sense that from here, we risk paralysis.
Since we’re talking about effort, I have to admit I’ve been mulling over this idea of comfort lately. A few weeks ago, someone told me they love dogs but wouldn’t adopt one because it would risk the life they’ve built. And—coincidence or not; it’s probably something symptomatic, maybe even generational—another person told me the same thing last week: they’d been considering a dog for a while but prefer the routine they’ve established without one.
That makes me uneasy. Honestly, I worry about the sacrifices we make in the name of comfort—or, really, immobility. It’s not that I’m a masochist or love suffering (not at all!), but some days, it seems riskier to miss out on the learning that happens when something shakes things up. Taking a dog out every day for a walk isn’t exactly thrilling, but learning to care for it, communicating, sharing time, choosing places based on whether it’s allowed, even being there for its final goodbye—that sounds like an incredible experience. But I say this from the outside, because I don’t have a dog either.
The point is, this stance on having a dog—or the preference for projects that don’t ask too much of us—hits the same spot in my gut. It’s a kind of calm, yes, but one that feels hollow, because I sense that from here, we risk paralysis. How can we reach new places if we don’t move? What can we learn if we only pay attention to what we already know? What fresh solutions can we find if we don’t step away from the familiar process?
Maybe the terrifying thing isn’t that comfort changes, but that something moves and pulls us along with it. And that, faced with this fear, we end up hitting the brakes, playing the same record as always, and watching a predictable sunset while we imagine, over and over, what the world might look like from somewhere else.
Best regards from the H6 bus,
Ingrid
