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On Being a Generalist in a World That Rewards Labels
by Shiv
January 30, 2026
8:37 PM
In a world that rewards labels, should we confine ourselves within them—or choose wholeness over convenience?
We live in a world that prefers neat answers.
Are you a photographer?
A musician?
A writer?
The question is rarely malicious. It’s efficient. Labels make people comfortable. They simplify introductions, clarify expectations, and keep algorithms well-fed. They promise certainty in a world that moves too fast to linger. But the truth is simpler—and far harder to package.
The Tension of Definition
In the early days of building 35 Wonder Street, I had a conversation with a branding consultant—one of those well-meaning, sharply observant conversations that reveal uncomfortable truths.
“What’s the intent of this website?”
“Who is your target audience?”
“What exactly are you offering?”
Instead, you should be telling stories. The medium doesn’t matter.
But somewhere between frameworks and funnels, something felt off. The more we tried to pin it down, the more the authentic essence of the person behind the work seemed to slip away. The conversation wasn’t wrong—but it was incomplete. Amid labels and positioning statements, the living, breathing complexity of a human life was getting flattened.
Mediums Don’t Define Identities
I have always been drawn to filmmaking and theatre—not as ambitions to pursue outright, but as ideas of wholeness. Among all creative forms, they feel closest to how I naturally think: where image, sound, rhythm, silence, and movement converge to carry a story forward. In many ways, everything I do now quietly alludes to that convergence, without trying to become it.
What interests me is not choosing a single lane, but allowing a story—regardless of medium—to evolve into something that feels authentically mine. Not optimized. Not pre-declared. Simply honest in its becoming.
Mediums, to me, are not identities.
They are languages.
Being a generalist is not about doing many things at once, or doing them carelessly. It is about listening carefully enough to sense which language a moment asks for. It is about authorship—allowing the work to find its own form, rather than forcing it into a predetermined shape.
A Moment of Clarity
Around that time, I remembered a conversation from two years ago at the Upper West Side residence of my friend Rick—a singer-songwriter and psychologist.
He introduced me to Moishe—once a producer who had walked Manhattan’s theatre scene with confidence and acclaim. Moishe listened as I spoke, uninterrupted, for nearly fifteen minutes. I tried to explain everything I did. Everything I wanted to do. Every contradiction I felt compelled to justify. When I finally paused, he looked at me—gentle, attentive—and said simply:
“You should be telling stories.”
That was it. No qualifiers. No disciplines. No categories to defend.
Storyteller.
Not just a photographer, or a musician, or a writer. A generalist by inclination, a storyteller by necessity, and never bound to a medium.
And Who’s on The Other End?
Not a demographic. Not a niche.
People.
People like you and me—who have lived a little, and paid attention. Who observe, listen, wander with curiosity. Who carry both pain and pleasure quietly. Who are already scripting stories, even when they don’t tell them out loud.
Over time, I’ve learned to be comfortable with this ambiguity. To resist the pressure to explain myself quickly. To let the work do the talking—even when it takes longer.
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