On The Cusp Of Creating

// May 3rd, 2011 // 3 Comments » // creativity, curiosity

I don’t know what’s coming next.

Sometimes it seems like the fire’s extinguished, the Muse snuffed out all the lights as she left, everyone’s gone to sleep, and the streets have stilled.

It’s just me and a full, insolent moon staring down:

Moon: ”What?”

The thing about creativity is you never know.

Maybe this is a trance I’ve fallen into, maybe it’s a trance I’ve fallen out of, either way: this could be it.

Maybe yesterday was the last day, and nothing will ever be created again.

But also, maybe I’m on the cusp of creating the best thing I’ll ever create.

Who knows? I don’t know.  The only way to find out for sure is to pick up a pen, to pick up a brush.

If I’ve dug myself into a hole and don’t have the materials to build a ladder then I’ve learned that it’s good for me to pick up my shovel and think “tunnel” or “pole vault” or “whatever” and do something about it.

Because as someone who gets stuck, a lot, I know that just thinking isn’t going to get me out of that hole. Once I get to the point that I’ve realized I’m in a hole, I can guarantee there’s already been a lot of not-so-great thinking going on.

When I shift into taking action, not only do things start to happen, but my thinking loses the stale quality it had and starts to take on a different air.

Small actions enliven my mind like oxygen bubbling through a stagnant pool of water.

The actions can involve doing something directly related to my art, or something seemingly unrelated like walking a labyrinth, or Shiva Nata, even just going outside and pulling a few weeds. Anything helps.

And when acting, I start making associations and things start to get clearer, brighter.

This feels good, too. It reminds me of why I like to create things in the first place: that quickening of the mind and body that tells me something is coming, that tells me something fresh and new is on its way.

This information comes through as both thoughts and sensations. It’s an embodied sense, it’s not just an idea or a state of being–it’s both those things, it’s everything–and when it’s happening I feel really alive to it, and to me. I feel like I’m really here.

I remember when I was a kid and my parents would drive us to the beach, approaching the coast there would always be these hills and dunes before we arrived, and I’d be stretching and straining to get the briefest of glimpses out the window: a flash of blue, swells moving in, a wave crashing over rocks.

It was a whole-body thing. I’d be tense and alert, my eyes would be scanning like mad. My mind was taking everything in and forming mental pictures of the surf–the size, if it was choppy or not, how crowded it was.

Once we got out of the car and started racing down to the water, the excitement was still there but that initial tension had been released.

That’s what it feels like when I’m in the act of creating, when the idea has appeared and things are happening.

There’s still an alertness and joy in everything that’s going on, but the initial burst of adrenaline always comes from those last few minutes of moving from total stuck-ness, to the glimpse of an idea, the picture being assembled in my head, and knowing this was going to happen.

I also remember that I used to, kind of, hate those last few minutes in the car.

As exciting as it was it was also hugely frustrating. I’m an immersive person. If I see an ocean I want to be in it. Forest, in. I’m claustrophobic and terrified of caves, but if I see one I want to go in. I like to be in the middle of things.

I like especially to be in the middle of creating things, right in that sweet spot where everything is flowing along nicely, thank you very much, and great things are emerging.

So not knowing what’s coming next, feeling creatively frozen, when the fires seem out–that’s the point just before everything gets great again. I know that, and also, I’m really good at forgetting that, at allowing myself to get immersed in that feeling too.

The other thing that’s easy to forget is the remedy: that when the idea of ever creating again seems insurmountable, like some great mountain looming over me, all it takes to shift things is to pick something up.

It can be an object so small it fits in the palm of my hand–a pen, a brush– and that small tool, put into action, can wipe away entire mountains, shadow and all.

Creative Bank Deposit: Backgrounds

// November 7th, 2010 // 2 Comments » // creativity, painting, work in progress

I have a really busy week ahead and I know time will be short for creating art, so today’s Art Every Day Month project was to get a whole lot of backgrounds started so I could make the most of the time that I do have this week.

I feel good, like I’ve just made a big deposit into my creativity bank that I can draw from over the next few days.

Doing backgrounds has also become one of my favourite ways to beat creative blocks. They’re very non-threatening to do, and I always find myself getting into that artsy meditative state as I paint. When I do go to begin something, there’s no “blank canvas” to worry about, I’ve at least made a start.

Another great thing about painting backgrounds is that there’s very little at stake. Anything I come up with is fine, and I usually build a few layers up for my paintings these days. I love the textures and the aliveness they bring to a painting.

So if I mess one of them up, no problem. Another layer or two and it will be looking great.

Exercising Different Art Muscles

// September 30th, 2010 // 4 Comments » // drawing, painting, Uncategorized

In my last post, I spoke about the portrait drawings I’ve been working on through my online drawing tutorials. The painting here is the next step in the process, going from the scraps of paper to the canvas.

I’m actually pretty new to painting, up till about 6 weeks ago I’d completed about a dozen paintings. That’s ‘proper’ ones. On canvas.

I’ve done heaps of paintings in sketchbooks and on paper, but always found the act of moving from paper to canvas intimidating. Canvas seems so much more formal, more permanent, and more open to public criticism.

My earliest attempts at painting were in oils, but the fumes always made me sick.

So, that’s out.

Just before I came out to the U.S. I went on a painting spree in acrylics, and got a few paintings done, and even put one into a local exhibition. But I’ve always seen myself more as a drawer. (Of the pencil in hand kind, not the sock kind).

I’m getting more of a sense of control as I go, and regret not jumping into painting earlier. What stopped me was mostly my own fears, or self judgements.

It’s like the opposite of what I spoke about in my last post. Yes, it’s good to lower the stakes and do lots of drawing on throw-away paper. But it’s also good to raise the stakes and push myself on a bit.

As kindly as possible, of course.

I sold my first painting on Etsy the other day, which was great. The painting was actually painted over the top of two previous failed attempts. I’d received a few comments on that painting, some mentioned what a lovely texture it had. Well, the texture was the build up created by my prevoius mess ups. Which is pretty cool, there’s plenty of metaphorical ground to mine there.

What I’m finding is that part of the process of painting, for me, involves: beginning a piece, completely messing it up, then finding a way through that and ending up with a completely different painting than what I set out to paint.

Part of the reason I feel like I’m learning so much through each painting is that I’m completely messing up and having to push through that.

Part of my motivation to push through is the fact that I’m using a nine dollar canvas from the art-store instead of painting onto a disposable scrap of paper.

So, where I’m at now is swinging between two poles–moving from lowering the stakes and doing heaps of stress free drawings and sketches, to raising the stakes and really pushing myself to complete a painting on canvas.

I know my ‘default’ position is to try to keep the stakes lowered, to keep things as ‘stress-free’ as possible. So, it feels really good to move a step or two in the other direction. There is a nice tension involved in moving between these two ways of making art, I’m exercising different ‘muscles’ and my learning feels a little accelerated as a result. And I can always reserve the right to move back when I want.

The Idea Catcher

// May 20th, 2010 // 8 Comments » // creativity, illustration

“I have so many ideas that I’m lucky if I don’t trip over them each morning.” J.S.Bach

I love the image of Bach tiptoeing through his room, over the ideas strewn on the floor like yesterday’s underwear.

Isn’t that just how creativity works, too? Ideas are abundant.

Having ideas is much easier than bringing them into the world.

If i’m looking for a good metaphor, I always begin with nature. And the sheer abundance of creative activity in nature amounts to an embarrassment of brilliance–think about the millions of eggs laid by sea turtles on a beach on a single night; the way fruit rots on the ground beneath trees; the outrageousness of Spring where the whole landscape blooms for a few weeks.

Maybe you’ve experienced one of those lazy days lying in the garden, trees swaying above, the drone of bees thick in the background, as idea after idea flows through your mind, only to be swept away as you fall into a nap. Or maybe your ideas arrive in the shower. Or you receive wild visions while stuck in traffic.

Ideas are floating all around us.

The next step involves action. We need to pick up our imaginary butterfly net and snatch the ideas we most resonate with, the ones we commit to working on.

But I’ve noticed something that can stop me from picking up that net and going for it.

Once I commit to an idea I remove it from the safe bubble marked ‘daydream’ and start to make a place for it in the real world. Undertaking this process means I risk mucking it up, or being laughed at,  or ridiculed.

I have piles of notebooks that I keep in a red box, each one filled with sketches, doodles, ideas. I love that box. It’s like a bright red cocoon for my ideas. They sit in the box like fat little grubs, readying themselves for the day they’ll burst out into the world.

Flipping through my notebooks can be like chilling out in one of those covered butterfly exhibits. I can safely watch all my ideas and sketches flap about, both hands tucked in my pockets to avoid squashing anything.

But if I want to create, then I need to get out that net and commit. Problem: I often find a sense of dread rising when I do that.

I think that sense of dread comes from the tension between the ideal version of the idea in my head, and the flawed version which my limited abilities will actually produce.

And it’s true, the flaws will be there. But these flaws are part of the good work that I’m trying to do, too. This is the work of adding beauty and meaning to the world.

And not just any beauty and meaning, but the singular beauty and meaning that can only come filtered through me, and my perfectly flawed life. That’s the only stuff I can bring out into the world.

So, my thing at the moment is to try and be a little more daring. And to snatch these ideas as they float past, then do something with them.

Flap Flap. *swoosh*

5 Unhelpful Questions For Your New Creative Project

// January 26th, 2010 // 8 Comments » // creativity, curiosity, Uncategorized

At the start of a new creative project do you ever find yourself facing down a barrage of shaky thoughts designed to prevent you from even beginning?

I certainly do. Sometimes the starting line can feel like the finishing line where, just as one last burst of energy is required to break the tape at the end of the race, a similar burst of energy is often required just to break self imposed barriers at the start of a creative journey.

These barriers often appear as questions, which is a big clue: it’s almost as if they’re designed to divert me from creative action and send me elsewhere looking for the magic answer that will make things go smoothly.

Here is a small selection of those questions from my head:

1. Do I Have Everything I Need?

Possibly the sneakiest question, and often the first to come up for me.

Here’s where the part of me that’s scared to create offers to ‘help’ by planting a doubtful seed which gives the option of ‘preparing’ rather than ‘creating’.

It’s sneaky, because sometimes we do need to gather a few things, research, prepare ourselves before we sit down to create.

But more often we need to just sit down and write/draw/sing/strum/move–whatever the action is that moves us into our creative project.

And if we don’t have everything we need? I’m often surprised when caught without my note book or preferred art supplies at how innovative I can be on the spot.

I’ve written snatches of poetry on napkins, sketched with coffee and fingers, made impromptu toys for my sons with cardboard boxes, formula tins. I’ve seen amazing Aboriginal cave art in Australia that was accomplished with sticks, spit, and crushed rock.

2. OMG! Where Did I Put The Map?

That fearful part really wants you to lay the path out exactly, wants to know where this is all leading. Because if the distance from point A to point B is comprehensively mapped out and all the dragons are banished to the edge of the page then nothing scary (ie: creative) can happen.

True creativity is always about discovering something new, no matter how incremental that discovery may be. If that newness is missing, then nothing has been created.

Needing to know the exact layout of the terrain means eliminating any risk of tripping over the unknown. Safe, but definitely not creative.

I think this is why planning, or having an exhaustive outline for a creative project is so tempting–it gives a sense of security. But writing an outline or hanging onto a predetermined plan for your project shuts out opportunities for new learning and creative growth.

It’s O.K. to have a sense of where you might want to go, but more important than that is a willingness to go where the creative project asks you to go.

If you’re surprised and thrilled by where your art takes you, then your reader/viewer/listener is more likely to feel surprised and thrilled too.

3. Can I Do It As Well As They Did?

If I listened to that one every time it came up I’d be a grown man sitting in a crib. Unfortunately, I’ve listened a lot. It’s a pointless question, comparison is not the point of creativity. Creativity is.

The best antidote I’ve ever seen for this question was reading a Gary Larson collection (the ‘Far Side’ cartoonist) that had a brief history of his cartooning career. He showed some of his first cartoons that ran in local newspapers way before he took off. The drawings were crude and a bit amateurish, but you could see the seeds of his unique style and great sense of humour in them already.

The important thing wasn’t whether his cartoons were as skillful as a Charles Schulz, or as funny as Bill Watterson, it was whether or not he was creating his own unique viewpoint and style, at whatever level he was at, which is what eventually made his work seem so effortlessly brilliant.

4. Will Everybody Like It?

It’s the most natural thing in the world to want everybody to like something that’s important to you. You’re bravely putting yourself out there in an art-form you’ve come to love and want to work at.

But this is entirely the wrong question to be asking at the start of the process. Probably in the middle and end too, but especially at the beginning. It’s like setting the handbrake, bricking your wheels and slashing your tyres all at once. You’re guaranteed a fast trip nowhere.

I used to post a lot of poems up on poetry critiquing sites, I liked it when the poems got a good reception, but I always learned more when people let me know what didn’t work.

The best response I ever got was when a whole lot of people loved a poem I had posted and another significant group absolutely hated it. To me, the fact that people were strongly engaged with the poem, some of them to the point of being pissed off, was more important than what they thought of it.

5. Will It Be Perfect?

Um, no.

This question is rarely asked via an actual ‘voice’ in my head. It’s more of a visceral question in the form of a general unease, because I know it won’t be perfect and imagine all sorts of consequences: shame, ridicule, low grades, loss of status.

Of course it won’t be perfect. And that’s a good thing. If everything I created was perfect, creating art would be a sterile experience not worth pursuing.

Not only will my creation not be perfect, It’s pretty well destined to fail, at least partially. That’s a good thing too. Failure is the Vitamin F of creativity, it’s good for your heart and your eye, your bones and your soul.

*****

All of these questions seem to have my best intentions at heart, and in their own way they do. Taking creative action means putting myself out there, and I find that scary. At some level I want to be protected from that.

At the same time I want to be vigilant in keeping focus and diving in as deep as I can when I create. And that involves letting go of any expectations I might have for the end result.

Mild Flooding, Water Wings Are Located Beneath Your Seats.

// January 8th, 2010 // 1 Comment » // Uncategorized