Van, thank you so much for speaking with us today. You are a writer, filmmaker, and artist who’s synthesized your talents into The Spirited Man Channel on YouTube—can tell us a bit about how you got your start and boil down the ethos of your efforts for our audience?

I got my start back in 2000 with the iMac DV—a game-changer at the time. With a Sony TRV-8 camera and a FireWire cable, I could finally import footage without a $40,000 editing system. So, I took my tax return, bought the iMac DV, and began digitizing hours of VHS footage my mother had shot, condensing it into a one-hour home movie. That was my first editing project for fun. After that, I spent 16 years making videos, worked with my brother on the HBO series The Neistat Brothers (essentially a YouTube channel on cable television), and collaborated with artist Tom Sachs for over a decade, culminating in the feature film A Space Program. But after years of structured work, I realized I hadn’t made anything purely for myself in a long time—and that’s when I made my first episode of The Spirited Man.

The name comes from Shop Class as Soulcraft by Matthew B. Crawford, a book that celebrates those who work with their hands while engaging deeply with ideas. It introduced me to the concept of the “gearhead bookworm.” The book describes how a ‘spirited man’ doesn’t just take his car to the mechanic—he wants to understand what’s wrong with it. I identified with this philosophy: being hands-on, self-reliant, and engaged in the world around us. And that’s partly what The Spirited Man is all about. A “spirited man” is, as Crawford put it, basically someone who takes care of his own business.

Over time, you’ve carefully curated your “Spirited Man” uniform. It’s function-first, workwear-inspired. Can you talk about how you’ve curated and modified your fit to optimize it for your everyday work?

I dress like I probably work here. I wear Carhartt pants, but I cut off the hammer loop because it catches on things and knocks them over. I’m naturally clumsy. These pants fit me perfectly straight off the rack—no alterations needed—so I order two to four pairs a year. The iPhone Pro (not the Pro Max) slides perfectly into one of the tool pockets, locking in just enough that it won’t fall out but is still easy to grab. Carhartts also come in two key colors—caramel and black. The caramel fades beautifully and hides dirt well, while the black ones are my go-to when I’m riding my motorcycle or working on an engine. I always get the double-knee version because it extends their lifespan—if the knee wears out, it doesn’t go straight to the skin. In the summer, I switch to white Roundhouse painter’s pants. I remove the factory label and sew my own onto the back pocket.

For boots, I wear Limmers. They’re the cheaper ones, but they’re still expensive—because they’re built to last a lifetime. They have a single seam with six rows of stitches, which was Peter Limmer’s innovation. As for shirts, years ago, a guy I used to work with named BC Slice gave me a box of brand-new Red Kap work shirts from his union job. They were the perfect shade of blue but didn’t fit me well, so I got them tailored. Isabel ordered me a bunch as a gift, and then had my labels sewn in. My jacket is a Japanese denim chore coat from Flint and Tinder. I sewed a little pencil slot into the pocket because I’m dead in the water without a pencil. The uniform simplifies my life and lets me connect with people, probably because I look like a workin’ man. It’s kind of like stolen valor, I suppose.