Here’s an interesting segment from a Substack post by Joshua Heath Scott that arrived this morning concerning the elusive search for the perfect tone.
If you’re interested, here’s an article on the Chronovisor and the Catholic priest who “invented” it.
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The Chronovisor was never really a machine. It was more of an expression of a desire. The human desire to skip the process and get straight to the answer. To point a device or a technology at the mystery and have it hand you the truth without any of the friction, any of the searching, any of the years of sitting with uncertainty.
None of the work. Just a fast result.
Right now, this has never been more possible. We build AI tools that generate images of things that never happened and call them real. We feed in our problems and get answers. It doesn’t matter to most that the answers are shallow. We want the output more than we want what the process could teach us.
I work in the world of guitar. I’ve spent my entire adult life around guitarists, and there’s a version of this that lives in our world. The search for “the tone.” The belief that the right pedal, the right amp, the right combination of gear will unlock something transcendent. That the perfect sound already exists out there like a signal, and you just need the right machine to tune in and capture it. This happens in every artistic discipline. Painters who want the perfect painting without the stack of bad attempts. Photographers who want to be Ansel Adams without living in national parks and taking the same photo a hundred times. Writers who want to produce the right words without fighting for years as they write the wrong ones.
The search and the struggle are what make us who we need to become. The hours with your hands on the strings, the experiments that fail, the happy accidents that only happen because you were in the room doing the work — that’s where tone lives. Not in a shortcut. In the friction.
Ernetti wanted to see Christ without faith. I’ve been there. He wanted to photograph the past without living through it. And the great irony is that his “proof” was a handmade sculpture. A thing someone actually carved, probably over weeks or months, with tools and intention and skill. The human-made artifact was right there the whole time. It was more real, more beautiful, and more true than anything his imaginary machine could have produced.
Irony doesn’t get close.

