It’s been a while. Nearly 4 years, in fact, judging by the date on the next-newest post to this one. Lots has happened! I wasn’t sure if I would ever get back to this blog. I mean, I never intended to stop, but life kind of got busy for a while there and it fell by the wayside in kind of a big way.
But today I have a reason to fire it up again. And that reason is the subject of this post. Warning: this post – and likely those that follow, at least for a while – will be predominantly personal in focus; however, it (and they) will touch on themes that I think most creative people can relate to, no matter how fearless…
Busy busy busy
A little backstory: I’ve written before about my performance work, which mostly consists of playing piano and keyboards – and increasingly, various other instruments including accordion, trumpet, french horn, and flute – for circus-tinged stage shows here in Germany. That work kind of took over the bulk of my life for a few years – over 200 shows a year for a few years, and these are typically long, intense shows.
I finished a run of such shows, at Palazzo Berlin, in March of this year, and found myself without any performance work on the horizon for 7 months, an unusual situation and while problematic on an income level, not an unwelcome one: I was pretty burnt out, needed a rest, and figured I could tie up a few loose ends and then dive into one or another of my various dormant personal creative projects.
But the weeks went by, and then months, and I realized I wasn’t doing that. The minutiae of daily life – parenting, taxes, home maintenance, computer maintenance, changing phone contracts – was like a gas that expanded to fill its container, and its container was my life.
And so I found myself with a creeping sense of anxiety. I have long defined myself in terms of the creative work that I do, and a lot of my sense of self-worth is tied up with that, for better or for worse. It’s one thing to be too busy performing, playing with other great musicians and crazy talented performers, digging deep and delivering in a professional show night after night and not really feeling like I have the time or energy to dive into a personal passion project. It’s quite another to have, in theory at least, all the time in the world and still be unable to get anything started. More
There’s a unique feeling about being in a New Place – somewhere you’ve never been before, a place you get to see and experience for the first time, with fresh eyes and ears. Anyone who has travelled a reasonable amount will be familiar with it. There’s an alertness, an innocence, an openness to the experience which is really special and which can never really be reclaimed on subsequent visits – although familiarity, of course, brings its own very different rewards.
There is also a difference between being in a new place for a very short time, just passing through as it were, and moving to a new place for a longer period. ‘Just passing through’ is what many tourists and travellers do – even if you have a few days to spend in a great city, say, you still have limited commitment and are really only there for the quick ‘taste test’.
There’s nothing wrong with this, but the fact remainst that living someplace new for an extended period – say, a few months at least – is an essentially different experience. You see things through different eyes when you’re looking for things to ground yourself and your new life in. There is a greater sense of commitment to the neighborhood you have landed in, the shops you know you’ll visit many times, the patterns you’ll fall into.
You’re inserting yourself into the environment in a more substantial way, and allowing itself to get much deeper under your own skin. You’ll become enmeshed with it, hear and feel its more subtle rhythms and allow your own to synchronize somewhat with them.
And being conscious of this at the outset (perhaps because you’ve done it a few times before, as I have) is a pretty neat feeling. It’s fun to know that there is so much waiting to be discovered, so many secrets waiting to reveal themselves to your explorations, so many stories waiting to unfold.
Just passing through, or staying a while?
That’s what I’m experiencing now, for the first time in many years. I’ve relocated for 5 months or so to Vienna, Austria – one of the great cities of Europe, without a doubt, and a place with a deep and complex history and culture which I’m excited to have the opportunity to really explore.
And it’s got me thinking about that particular sense of openness that comes with relocation – as distinct from the dislocation of travel which I discussed in the last post. More than being open to new experience, allowing a place to make its superficial imprint on you and imagining what it might be like to live there, this is about opening ourselves up as well. It’s a symbiotic thing.
In a sense, any creative act is more like this than like the just-passing-through feeling of travel; we give of ourselves to a new creation, and we allow it into ourselves just as we shape it, put our stamp on it, and so on.
But I’m wondering if some creative work is more like this, and some more like travel. There is a different feeling when poised at the edge of beginning something ‘big’, a sense of anticipation that many things remain to be discovered, many secrets have yet to be revealed… More
I can’t say I’m the world’s most prolific social media user sometimes, especially when I’m going through a heavy work phase as I have been recently (more on this soon)… but sometimes I have to admit that it facilitates wonderful meetings with people I would very likely never have encountered otherwise.
Recently, after a lively debate on another online-friend’s post, I was contacted by Deryn Collier to see if I was interested in making a contribution to her ongoing series of ‘Soundbites’ – short, provocative question-and-answer format pieces on creative ideas and issues.
The question Deryn gave me was this:
Stacey Cornelius’ post a few weeks ago got us talking about creativity and risk. You have a project underway where you compose a piece in less than an hour and you post it immediately to your website. Most people would call this risky, but you think of it as exploration and play. Is there a difference? What is it? Risk of what? Exploration of what?
And, given the tight 200-word limit, here’s what I came up with:
First I should probably clarify that the ‘under an hour’ thing is more a prescription than a rule, as I don’t like being rigid about these things. However, it’s a helpful framework for actually getting something done… It also minimizes risk, as it’s clear that not every session will produce a masterpiece.
However, I believe creative risk is largely artificial and comes from falling into a trap I like to call the Phony Syndrome – imagining that everything we ‘put out there’ is an opportunity for the world to discover the frightened child hiding behind the confident, competent façade we try so hard to maintain.
But kids don’t actually do this to themselves, at least not until we teach them to. They don’t worry about how their work will be perceived, they just pour the blocks out on the floor and start stacking them up into something. What people will think of it or whether it’s ‘good enough’ are thoughts that don’t enter their minds until later. I think it’s our great mistake to let them in.
So I basically try to channel that approach as much as possible. If people end up liking the results, so much the better!
Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, as Nietzsche once said… and yet here I am coming back for a second round. Yes, it’s time for a re-match with the Rambling Roses (Rosa Multiflora) that are not so slowly but ever so surely taking over my parents’ property here in beautiful Nova Scotia.
The lesson I drew from my last encounter with these invasive giants was about physical work and the creative value to be gleaned from it. This time I’ve been pondering what might be learned from the plants themselves – and from the nature of the battle. More
In part one of this article, we looked at the value of channeling what we might think of as the ‘beginner’s spirit’ in our creative work – that combination of curiosity, naiveté and excitement at the discovery of something new that so often lends the work of ‘beginners’ its energy and spark, and which is all too often missing in more established, ‘career’ artists, musicians and so on.
Today I’d like to look at another kind of beginner, and to think about this idea in a different light. And to illustrate what I’m talking about, I’m going to look at the work of my good friend Josh.
Josh is a cartoonist. Well, in fact there are other dimensions to his work, but that’s the one he’s best known for. He publishes a daily comic strip called Caffeinated Toothpaste, which is basically an illustrated diary of funny, interesting or unusual things that happen to him in the course of the day, filtered through his rather quirky sense of humour and worldview.
(He’s also known to swear quite freely in the course of this… I doubt this will be a big problem for my readers, but just in case – you’ve been warned!)
Now Josh has been putting these strips out for a couple of years now, a little longer than I’ve been at the Sound Fascination project, for which in fact Caffeinated Toothpaste was one source of inspiration. But he’s been far more consistent with it, and in this time he’s finished over 800 comics.
Now, it’s exactly this perspective that most people take on this kind of thing: it’s the number finished that’s impressive (and make no mistake, I’m as impressed as anyone with that kind of tenacity and work ethic). We have a pretty strong bias towards the value of finished works.
But as I was writing about beginners last week, it occurred to me that finishing a piece every day like that also requires doing something else every day, and that’s getting started… Josh doesn’t just finish a piece every day; he also begins a new piece every day, and I think that’s a rather remarkable thing that deserves a bit of thought… More
What makes people different? What makes creative people, create differently?
When we speak of someone having a particular style, or a unique approach to what they do, what does that mean?
In the case of music or art, how can two people who work in the same medium or idiom, play the same instrument, and perhaps even have the same influences, do what they do so differently? Or if the differences are subtle, how can they change the experience for the listener or viewer so profoundly? What is that difference made of?
I’ve been thinking about these questions quite a lot lately, partly because we’ve had some substitutes playing in the band at the show I’ve been working for these past few months.
Now, we maintain a pretty high standard of musicianship – the core players are all very accomplished and versatile players, and when we ‘sub out’ we try to make sure we hire replacements of the same calibre. Luckily Berlin is well-stocked with fantastic musicians, and we’re fairly well connected with the community. So it’s not hard to bring in players that are up to the challenge.
However, it changes the music and the experience dramatically. For us, for our non-musical colleagues in the show, and for the audience, though they may be unaware of it.
I suppose through a certain lens this is all very unsurprising, but I started to ponder it a little and it began to strike me as a deeper and more subtle thing than it might seem at first glance. And, well, I’m all about exploring deep and subtle questions that might otherwise be overlooked… More