I was on a shoot in Kosovo at the turn of the century. When I put it that way, it sounds so weighty. Historic. My wife, Annie, and I were on a freelance assignment for an NGO (Non-Governmental Organization) in a small village about an hour outside of the capital, Pristina. Our task was to document the distribution of relief supplies to the tattered and war-weary Albanian population; the war had been over for less than a month.

We were given a big black Mercedes to drive, which we later learned had been bought on the black market and, like most luxury cars crossing the border after the war, probably belonged to the Albanian Mafia. We navigated the shell-pocked roads in style, the narrow streets barely lit by generator-powered porch lights. Bridges were especially challenging since most had endured direct hits by the vengeful retreating Serbian army bent on scorched earth or by the relentless Nato air strikes.

One afternoon I was asked to film the distribution of shoes to school children outside of a burned school. They were playing soccer with the Scottish troops in charge of protecting the region, and I always cringed when the soccer ball went out of bounds and into the mine-laced woods. I couldn't watch as one of the boys ran carelessly to fetch the ball, not allowing myself to breathe until they were safely back on the soccer field.

Not every boy was allowed to play. The gypsy minority population is still discriminated against, and the young gypsy boys would watch from the sidelines, squatting on the heels of their filthy feet. At halftime, Annie and I began to head back to the village when one of the gypsy boys approached us, asking us for a piece of candy, which we usually had to give. Instead, we offered him a drive back to the village in the back of our Mafia Mercedes.

He climbed in, caressing the leather seats, his face glowing. We drove back to the village slowly, allowing him to fully savor the experience. I felt like I was chalkin' one up for the underdog. But when we opened the door to let him out on his street, I watched the faces of the kids who saw him step out of the Mercedes instantly darken in jealousy. Or was it hatred...

He looked nervous as we pulled away; I don't know what happened to him. I think about that boy from time-to-time, hoping that I didn't inadvertently bring him more suffering because of my well-meaning, but ignorant act. I think about him when I turn my on camera to begin an interview. "How will the way I portray this person affect their life?" I find myself thinking about him in the edit suite. "How will the way I assemble this program impact others?"

Filmmaking is all about judgment calls. What will change if I put this shot after that shot? Do I let the camera linger on my subject for a few more seconds? Do I add music here to heighten the tension and if so, what kind of music?

When I turn on my camera, I am not simply reflecting the world so much as I am interpreting the world. And the way I interpret the world leaves a mark on those around me. I hope this blog does at least three things:

• initiates conversations as I try to launch my own business,
• is a behind-the-scenes glimpse into how I interpret the world,
• and is a written record of this journey, which really began about 26 years ago.
  

Want a ride in the back of my big shiny Mercedes? Hop in. It's going to be a fun ride. But you may find things you didn't expect along the way.