Zig When They Zag: Finding Value Where Others Look Away
I. A Car That Changed How I Think About Stories
This may seem odd for an opening, but bare with me… I needed a new car. Prices were ridiculous. New cars were expensive, but so were the used ones — absurdly so. Everything was inflated, and the numbers didn’t add up.
Then I noticed something strange: Teslas were cheap. Brand new models — elegant, well-engineered, performance-driven, years ahead in design — were selling for far less than any other new car option on the market. At first I thought it was a fluke, but the pattern held and the numbers checked out.
Why? The cars themselves were incredible. I didn’t have to look far before realizing it wasn’t a question of quality, but rather, it was a matter of perception. For political and cultural reasons, a significant portion of the public had turned against Elon Musk — and by extension, against Tesla. The cars hadn’t changed. The optics had. That’s when it hit me.
Between quality and image, there was a divide — a misalignment between what people think about something and the reality of said something.
That gap created an opportunity. And I immediately realized it’s often the same with filmmaking.
II. The Market of Perception
The art world is a market too — not of cars, but of ideas, stories, and aesthetics.
And like any market, it can misprice things.
We live in a culture obsessed with perception. The “value” of a story can fluctuate not because it changed, but because we did. A subject becomes unpopular, a genre gets labeled passé, a filmmaker becomes politically unfashionable — and suddenly, something of real quality becomes invisible. You can see it throughout film history:
Terrence Malick’s Days of Heaven was considered overly precious and self-indulgent in 1978; now it’s taught as a masterclass in visual storytelling.
Martin Scorsese spent decades making masterpieces while being told his films weren’t “commercial enough.”
Documentaries were once thought of as niche, academic, even boring — until streaming platforms made them prestige television.
Markets move on mood. But the staying power of any art hinges on authenticity, relevance, and the truth. If you can see past perception and focus on quality, you start to notice how many remarkable stories are sitting right there — undervalued, mispriced, waiting for someone to look again.
III. What Tesla Taught Me
The lesson I learned from my Tesla is simple: find undervalued quality.
It’s the art of recognizing when public sentiment and intrinsic value have drifted apart — when the crowd is chasing flash and ignoring substance.
In filmmaking, that might mean a story that doesn’t fit a current political mood. It might mean a film that moves too slowly, speaks too quietly, or requires patience in an age of noise. But if it’s real, if it has weight and honesty, it’s worth more than what the market says it’s worth.
Buying a Tesla, for me, was about investing in the truth of my own situation in spite of the fact that the world was distracted by image. Operating this way has helped me to stop chasing trends and to always be seeking longevity.
IV. Case Study: Jeremiah Johnson — A Cinematic Tesla
Few films embody this principle better than Sydney Pollack and Robert Redford’s masterpiece, Jeremiah Johnson.
On paper, it shouldn’t have worked.
A quiet mountain man story in an era of loud, action-driven Westerns. Sparse dialogue. Long silences. Snow, isolation, loneliness.
Hollywood didn’t see box office potential — they saw risk. But Redford saw the truth. He and Sydney Pollack believed in the stillness, the restraint, the authenticity of the story. Redford even used his own money to make it happen, insisting it be filmed in Utah rather than on a studio backlot or some cheaper European stand-in.
It was the definition of undervalued quality:
A film no one expected to succeed, crafted with conviction and simplicity.
And it became a classic — not because it followed the market, but because it ignored it.
Jeremiah Johnson proved that real storytelling doesn’t need spectacle to endure. It needs honesty. It needs respect for the silence between words. It’s a film built like a great handmade object — minimal, enduring, quietly perfect. And it’s a near perfect example of investing in truth when others chase convenience.
V. Griffyn.Co and the Modern Parallel
That same philosophy runs through everything we’re building at Griffyn.Co.
We make films and podcasts that live in the space between perception and truth. We aren’t chasing the fastest-moving market — we’re looking for the undervalued stories that reveal something lasting about who we are.
Our documentary Ullberg: Wind in the Sails isn’t built for flash or formula. It’s contemplative. Honest. Rooted in art, conservation, and legacy.
Our latest podcast, Lone Star Lore, tackles Texas history through multiple lenses — not to stir controversy, but to reveal nuance, honesty, and perspective in a climate that too often rewards oversimplification.
We’re drawn to stories like that — stories with substance beneath the noise. Because in a market where perception changes overnight, authenticity is the only thing that holds its value.
VI. Reflection
Buying a Tesla reminded me of something fundamental:
Markets — whether for cars or ideas — are emotional. They swing wildly. Real art has to be steadier. If you build something true, it outlasts the cycles of taste and politics. If you chase what’s real, you’ll never have to discount your work.
So whether it’s a car or a film, I look for the same thing now:
Where others see controversy or trend fatigue, I ask — is it good? Is it honest? Does it last?
Becausen the end, the crowd forgets what was loud — markets rise and fall, noise fades — but authenticity compounds forever.
