The Initial Concept
Setting, Story, and the Beginning
A piano performance—becomes a summoning ritual.
What emerges is one of the Seven Deadly Sins: Envy. Its form is grotesque—two-headed, skinless, stripped bare of all disguise. As the saying goes: “Envy disfigures the face.”
The world begins to spin, and a mirror-world appears. Through the glass, I see myself, and behind me, the shadow of Pride. A dice slips silently into my pocket—like some kind of magic stone.
I look again at the figure in the mirror. Eyes closed, I pull out the dice and strike the mirror with its sharp edge.
The mirror-world shatters. Fragments swirl around the protagonist, and in their brief reflections flash glimpses of other Sins. Darkness falls.
When light returns, it reveals a pure white art museum.
This is a “white hell”—for the Gates of Hell stand in Heaven.
The space is rectangular, its walls lined with paintings. At the center looms a massive sculpture of The Gates of Hell.
The dice is tossed into the air.
The protagonist watches, then reaches out toward the gate.
The dice falls, spinning—images flicker in alternation.
The hand passes through the gate, entering Hell.
The dice lands—a critical success.
On the far side of the Gates of Hell, the protagonist seizes Envy by the throat.
The scene freezes:
- On the left, the protagonist in the white museum.
- In the center, The Gates of Hell.
- On the right, the blackness of Hell.
The End.
On the mirror, an inscription appears:
Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate.
Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
Omnem spem relinquite, vos intrantes.
From Dante’s Inferno, Canto III:
“All you who enter, abandon hope.”
It is the final inscription on the Gates of Hell—the threshold of descent, and the dividing line between psyche and fate. The beginning of confronting the Seven Sins.
On Creation and Reflection
This short piece was meant as a teaser for my graduation film—an “origin episode.” In a sense, it’s an extended version of the dice short I once shot—a Plus edition.
I tried merging two storylines: A Roll (the protagonist enters the Gates of Hell), and B Roll (the dice lands on a critical success). Combined, they tell the story of Lucifer returning to Hell to face the Seven Deadly Sins.
But the outcome disappointed me. The two threads never fully blended; they felt stitched together, because, in truth, they came from entirely different storyboards. In the end, I chose to keep only A Roll, discarding the hidden line.
That choice made the piece flow more smoothly, but it also stripped away montage, hidden depth, and space for interpretation. For a teaser, I can convince myself that rhythm outweighs all. But in a finished film, such compromise is unacceptable. My biggest weakness remains the same: storytelling.
From Science Student to Artist
For years, I identified as a science student.
I trusted technique. I believed that through mathematics, logic, and science, I could achieve any artistic goal. Technology first—that was my foundation.
But over the past year, I’ve realized something crucial: story is the heart of art.
Art originates in emotion, resonance, cause and consequence—in the humanistic dimension. Technique can be mastered, but what cannot be replaced is the artist’s creativity, story, and emotional truth.
So I began to study psychology, sociology, philosophy, art history.
At first, I only wanted to know what was “trending.” But slowly, I understood: what I need to learn is not fashion, but ways of thinking.
Good works reflect the creator’s inner world. They reveal whether someone is calm or flamboyant, insecure or arrogant, yearning for freedom or bound by rules. Technical showmanship often betrays restlessness. Truly mature works are natural, balanced, and quietly original.
I remember Emily once asked me:
“You’re an artist. What makes you irreplaceable?”
I couldn’t answer. I said I was just a craftsman.
She replied: “No—you are the artist here.”
Not About Technique, But Growth
In this blog, I don’t want to focus on technical details. Of course, I could write about many things: merging hyper-real digital humans with anime styles, years of hand animation study, pseudo-fluid painting, AI video experiments, or depth-based background displacement. All fascinating—but the real theme here is growth.
For me, this short feels more like a prologue to my graduation work, or the seed of a “series of shorts.” In just a few months, it forced me to fill in the gaps of my humanities background and to rethink the roots of art.
Religion, Art, and Humanity
Across art history and religious studies, psychology and philosophy, I’ve noticed one common truth: religion and art have always been inseparable.
Buddhism, before the 1st century BCE, had no image of the Buddha. It was Gandhāran art—drawing on Greco-Roman sculpture—that gave the Buddha a face and form, enabling the faith to spread. Christianity followed a similar path: Heaven and Hell were originally states of spirit, not physical places. But art made them tangible—through sculpture, painting, and literature—so the masses could understand.
Art visualizes the abstract; religion borrows art to root itself in human hearts.
I dove deep into Gandhāra and Mathura art, into the Christian iconography of Heaven and Hell, into Dante’s layered Inferno, Michelangelo’s Last Judgment, Nordic myths of rivers and ferrymen. Again and again, the immaterial was given form—so the uneducated could grasp it. For intellectuals, theology was “a state of mind”; for the masses, it became “a real place.” Fear of Hell, hope of Paradise—belief was easier than doubt. Psychology explains this perfectly.
Today and Tomorrow
In the 21st century, the same pattern persists. People overwhelmed by technology and AI turn again to religion, seeking belonging. Thinking is the hardest labor of all. Belief offers a shortcut, a release from the burden of constant doubt. Even if it’s an illusion, even if it’s a placebo—the key word is comfort.
But for those who wish to see the world as it really is, there has never been a better time. Research in psychology, sociology, and the humanities grows ever stronger, revealing the hidden mechanics of human behavior, the forces shaping our every move.
Still, no one has the right—whether through religion or science—to impose belief on others. As Conversations with God suggests: neither envy nor pity is needed, because others’ choices are not ours to control.
What we can offer is simply options. When someone seeks help from psychology or philosophy, the knowledge is there, waiting to be explored.
As artists, as communicators, our role is the same: to present visions, to provide choices. What the world does with them is not ours to dictate.
And perhaps, what I create—what I choose to show—might serve as a kind of placebo too. But unlike belief systems prone to collapse under contradiction, I hope mine can be a gentler, side-effect-free kind of comfort. Something people can hold on to, for as long as they wish.
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