The Creativity Room

I went to The Dresden Dolls concert last week. WOW!

Yes, they are one of my top three bands to listen to and to see in concert (I don’t go to a lot of live music gigs). But why was this concert among the best experiences I’ve had as a consumer of art? It was the genuine care and interest they had in us, their audience, and their encouraging of our creative experience. Of course their music is clever and fun and performed with fantastic precision and great theatricality, but for me it’s the inclusiveness and generosity that sets them apart.

Part of this was seeing them perform at Occupy the day before – no makeup, no amplification, no stage, just Amanda and Brian under a tree with a bunch of punks and fans sitting all around on the grass.

They really want us to sing and dance and be courageously playful and I certainly felt inspired towards random acts of art and kindness.

People say things aren’t important. Things like, you know, stuff, material possessions. I think they are important, though. I think of my things a little like I think of a pet – they don’t really belong to me, it’s just that I have a certain responsibility to them and a certain power over their destiny. But only for a time. Things have a life beyond their current owner. Many things have come from previous owners and go on to future, other owners, in other places and sometimes with other purposes.

Take Humphrey, for instance:

I just bought Humphrey for $2 at “Somebody’s Treasure” in Murchison. He was designed in Texas and made in China. He was probably not called Humphrey before I bought and (re)named him, and one day (because I will take very good care of him), he will go on to another different life with another different owner.

Or my new bus -

- a 1959 Leyland. I feel a responsibility to care for these ‘things’ in a way that would be pleasing and satisfying to any onlooker. Beautiful things, with a past and a future, that come into my life for a time, aren’t truly mine. I don’t own them. I think of the way Thomas Moore describes the pastor’s role in a community, caring for the souls of the people like the shepherd cares for the sheep. Can we care for the souls of our things in this way too?

In the Cook Islands, nobody is allowed to sell land. The bodies of the dead are buried on their land and then the land is divided or new houses built so that all family members can continue to share ownership. There is nothing in my life that I have this sort of relationship to – what I would call true ownership.

The house I am currently living in is awaiting demolition – pre any earthquakes and despite minimal damage. Two other houses I have lived in have been demolished and a third is planned for demolition. Our “things” are impermanent, they come and go, gifts are given and received, things break down (regretfully) and are mended or replaced, we harvest, we store, we eat, we compost.

Yet this impermanence (even the late 20th century phenomenon of planned

obsolescence, super-cheap goods and the marketing of replaceability) doesn’t mean we shouldn’t engage fully with our things, to hold them dear and treat them with loving care, as we would treat our loyal dog. My partner and I care for this house, we enrich the soil, grow vegetables, prune the fruit trees and keep the damp from rotting the window sills.

In “The Re-Enchantment of Everyday Life,” Thomas Moore (he really is a favourite of mine) talks about the importance of surrounding yourself with objects of quality, things that connect you to the natural world and the local environment, things that are well-made by craftspeople, that give you a soul-ful experience as you go about your everyday life. These things aren’t always affordable. But it is possible to take this soulful attitude towards the things you do choose to surround yourself with – hopefully not in a confused clutter or a hoarder’s pile – and to allow yourself to fall in love with little Humphrey the way I have, and to ensure, for the world’s sake (as you are responsible to the whole world for the way you care for him) that he has a jolly good life.

… and then sometimes you wake up in the morning and you think “Is this all really just bullshit?” … and every day you live with the uncertainty … is this project going to succeed – artistically? financially? … you understand that your integrity as an artist means you have to allow for about one in five projects to fail … and some others will succeed only marginally, or only in your own eyes … and sometimes someone comes up to you and says one sentence and you see they have had some sort of experience of your work that is wonderful for them and opened their perspective on life … and one day you show someone your half-finished work and they express disappointment and discouragement only then they are surprised and touched by the finished work when it is shown … and sometimes you know what it is you are trying to do but you have no idea whether what you are doing right now is going to take you in that direction at all … and sometimes you receive empty flattery … and some people are unendingly encouraging of what you do … and different philosophies, spiritual perspectives and reasons for making art vie in your mind and heart for your undivided loyalty … and you wonder if it would be so much simpler to be an artisan than an artist, a craftsperson, a designer, a chef … and you treasure memories of those moments and those projects where everything felt right and you flowed and people were drawn to see your work in some almost magical way … and seeing other people’s work sometimes gives you renewed hope and passion and sometimes makes you feel like there’s no point doing anything because someone else is always going to be better … and, whatever happens, you just keep doing it and it might work out and it might not and you might fumble in the dark and you might soar in the sky and write one word today and 1000 tomorrow … and you keep going … and going … and going … somewhere

I would like to have conviction. I would like to be convinced of the worth of what I do regardless of any markers of success.

I imagine leaders of small spiritual movements in the third world … Is their work slowed or halted if the number of their followers is small or doesn’t grow? Do they consider their mission a waste of time if there is no financial reward?

The answers seem kinda obvious, but I think it is worth considering – Would you continue with a vocation if, after years of work, the financial reward was still unequal to the time you put in? What if you knew that, besides yourself, your work touched the lives of only a few?

In the back of my mind, these are the markers of success that I live by. This comes from my schooling, the way our society works, the things people around me say, the things I say to myself.

What are the ‘real’ markers of success? How should we assess our own life’s work?

These questions are important now. They help shape my future, my motivation and my tenacity (or lack thereof).

What is important now to do? How will I know if I’ve chosen correctly? What will my success look like?

After spending the main part of last year thinking hard about my future, I decided that this year was going to be a year for learning.

I am tired of ideas and words. I hardly ever read books, magazines or newspapers (let alone other people’s blogs!), listen to the radio or watch TV.

I want to learn from experience. I want to learn by practicing. I want to learn directly from nature.

Up in the mountains, I sat by a waterfall and watched how the water falls never in the same pattern twice but always within certain boundaries. The fallen logs that define the course of the river slowly rot, move and subside. The waterfall and the river are chaos and order.

I want to learn by sitting at the waterfall, by doing tai chi and by observing my inner experiences.

About two years ago, when I was working part time at the library and living in Lyttelton, I realised that a lot of my creative work was being done in the kitchen. My needs for spiritual alone time were met by my walks in the hills, my needs for fulfillment from completing shared tasks were being met in my work with others at the library and my personal experimentation and sense of achievement was being met through cooking.

And then I started to wonder – maybe I should be spending this creative time  on bigger, more ‘worthwhile’ or ‘meaningful’ projects, projects that have the potential to impact on others’ lives and imaginations, to inspire people and set them off on paths of playful experimentation.

And so I pulled back from spending so much time in the kitchen and waited to see if this would open me up to meeting my own creative needs in other (‘better’??) ways.

Well, here I am again, loving my time in the kitchen, filling the high cupboards with chutneys and tonics and preserved fruit and making nice dinners and keeping the kitchen a nice place to spend time.

… And I find myself wondering: In whose eyes is it ‘better’ to make a public art work? Is it some version of over-simplified feminism that gives me a little nudge to get out of the kitchen? Is it some sense of responsibility to other artists? Or the feeling that everyone expects me to be working on something big and important? Or that I feel a bit bad for spending so much time doing something that doesn’t earn us any money?

I think the biggest factor is the sense of not being unique. If I spend time making the house and food fantastic, then I’m becoming ‘just another’ of the women in my age group who have decided to put their creative energy into home-making, I have become a bit of a norm, the average person. My need for individuality and difference is being challenged.

Through our creative work – whatever and wherever it is – we are usually challenged in this sort of way. “If I do this, or make this, or spend my time in this place doing this stuff, who does that mean I am? Is this what others expect of me? What are other creative people doing that makes them feel happy and secure?” I suppose it is the same with any vocation, creative or not.

And it’s nice to remember that I am not my work, or my house, or my clothes. I am lucky to have found some activities that really help me with that – contact improvisation and tai chi, both of which give me the simple experience of being me, my body and breath and energy.

Im not sure if it’s the same for other people, but I know that I am a tidal kind of person and come and go from working on projects, teaching and other creative activities. I have quiet times and noisy times, times when I stay up late at night knitting and times when I seem to have a million ideas for new projects. My ‘inconsistency’ is actually my good health. The homely times allow me to plant foundations for the busy times and the busy times can mean enough income to have wee rest time.

I arrived quite late to a meeting today with three creative women from different artistic disciplines. They were in the throes of a discussion about creative community – specifically the idea of having a space, a hub, a place, a centre, a throbbing heart to the collective experience of being an artist.

This wish has surfaced in me and in groups I’ve been involved with many times over the past years, sometimes with great outcomes, although not always the ones that were originally envisaged. When artists get together in order to get together there are so many items on the wish-list and sometimes the people who are creating this great community initiative end up spreading themselves – and their funding and other resources – very thinly.

I liked the invitation this discussion gave me to form a vision for what I do want my artistic community heart-hub to be like. And in the back of my head two visions are doing battle with each other – on one side is a bevy of colourful, bohemian artists lounging on reclining chairs, drinking wine and talking into the night. On the other side is Hugh MacLeod, author of Ignore Everybody, who speaks for the need of artists to stay away from others’ opinions and ideas and give form to their own weird imaginings in isolation.

Here in itself is the essence of my mental process around most things: 1. see both sides of the situation, back them up with lots of examples and get a bit confused, 2. find out what I really think and feel.

What I really think and feel? Some people out there are amazingly good for me to talk to and be around, as an artist. Some of my ideas are fragile and personal and there are times I need to be away from others for an extended period.

A big factor in this idea of a heart-hub is $$money$$ and how much time and work that isn’t artistic goes into maintaining a space like this. Its so exciting when you get a grant for the first year’s rent … but then you have to do it again to buy equipment, again for any events you want to run, again for a website, again for the next year’s rent and again for wages for the person who is writing all these proposals and so it goes and goes and goes.

So here’s what I want to see happen: this thing happens spontaneously, it grows up around an individual artist or a household of artists who open their doors to others and begin to hold soirees (or tea parties or parties or symposia or whatever they wish). They host artists who are traveling through town, they maintain an easy presence on the internet (perhaps through an already-existing site like the big idea), they continue to get funding for the projects that excite them and they continue working with others who share their vision.

The whole community that arises around this house understands that each member has the need to come and go, to talk and listen, to dance, to be still, to show off, to be silent and to withdraw.

How is this different from a ‘normal’ group of friends who come together to party? The hosts have chosen carefully who comes to the soirees and they don’t mix these up with the friends of theirs who come to their other parties. There is a kaupapa of careful and caring creative feedback, full listening and a formal structure to part of the night (eg a talking stick, where each person gets to talk uninterrupted about how their work is going and how they are feeling about things).

From this simple, free, spontaneous practice starting up, other groups may form for specific needs, rather than the whole group having to meet all the needs of a very diverse community. Some may work together to buy film equipment that can be shared, some may get together to read their poetry aloud, some may hire a studio or band practice room and share the space, some may get drunk, others might share recipes and some might help others write funding proposals.

Would I go, if invited to such a soiree? It depends on where I am at the time with my work and life. It would be important that it was unpretentious and open and didn’t become a set group of people but rather a shifting community of people who share the one common need: to talk, as artists, about their work and what it means for them.

It is a month since my last post about finding a practice of presence, emotional honesty and wisdom. What I have found is The Virtues Project (see also The Virtues Project Aotearoa and Wikipedia for a concise description of the project).

The founders of this project, which comes out of the Baha’i faith, have identified 100 human virtues, present in all of us. They have created a set of virtues cards, each of which defines the meaning and the practice of a virtue. Here is an example of the front and back of a card:

Choosing a virtue card each day at random allows me to reflect on my own values, my ability to be with others in positive ways and the simple things in my day to day life that can alter the quality of my experience. It is humbling and thought-provoking to pick a virtue such a “forbearance” and exhilarating to read about the practice of “reverence” or “zeal” and reflect on their place within my life.

The virtues are useful for reflection, for learning and as a vocabulary. It is lovely to see the virtue I have chosen arise throughout the day, and I enjoy speaking my appreciation when others practice the virtues. One of the first things I learnt about the virtues project was the way people are invited to use them in speech: rather than “You are very generous” (in which we define the person, trapping them in an eternal identity), we can say “I saw your generosity when you invited your aunt to stay for dinner” (giving specific details in our feedback and speaking to someone’s practice of generosity).

Follow the first link above to do a random pick for yourself on The Virtues Project website.

2011 begins for me with a strong conviction that this year will be a year of practice. My patience for ideas, thinking, theory and talk are at an all-time low, and even reading and writing feel like diversions from the business of being and doing.

It took a good friend to point out to me that my ability to put faith in the unknown, the uncertain and the murky is well developed in terms of the creative process. Now I hope to let that seep into other aspects of my life, bringing a surrender of control, planning, theorising and analysing.

I understand and warm to new ideas quickly, yet so few stick with me for more than a month or two. This year, I welcome a practice that will begin to make some of those ideas into more of a daily reality.

What sort of practice? It has something to do with presence, something to do with deeper honesty (emotional honesty – with myself for a start – and the growth of emotional wisdom), and something to do with spontaneity, as defined by psychodrama: “an appropriate response to a new situation or a new response to an old situation.”

I’m involved in a Young Playwrights Initiative workshop at the moment. I’m attending as a director. The workshop is there for my development, especially in regard to working with the written word (ie playscripts), which is something I almost never do.

I have to choose from 3 plays by local playwrights and give a presentation on how I would stage it. I want to use this opportunity to develop myself in the directions I’m actually intending to move in. So here are my thoughts and questions:

I’ve started off with my values, ethics and intentions:

I value participation. I think and feel that my work lies in liberating adults from the idea that they are not creative, spontaneous or playful and from the limitations that surround their ability to be creative, spontaneous and playful. I wish to create theatre experiences (both through directing and through teaching) that leave their audiences feeling both liberated and empowered.

I value community. At the moment we are reliant on a fast disappearing resource to ship all our necessities to the supermarket and shops we use. Some people around us are strengthening local community and their community’s ability to survive in a civic emergency or a sudden or gradual unavailability of oil, transport and food resources. I would like my work to contribute to this effort in some way – by strengthening local communities: their ability to come together, create solutions and share resources.

I value the principle of using local resources. I would like to create theatre that has a very small carbon footprint. In my theatre projects I would like to support the growth and development of local actors, artists and technicians.

—–

So, how do I take a scripted play and stage it in such a way that the audience doesn’t separate themselves (or feel separated) from the creative team? How do I encourage togetherness amongst the audience members? Can I offer an experience for them that invites participation in such a way that they feel liberated and empowered when they leave?

My initial ideas are to stage a short play and follow it up (or break it up) with Forum theatre or psychodrama.

But I think this might be too full on for almost everyone in the audience. It could work with a community who are already well acquainted with one another and used to a lot of contact and dialogue.

My feeling now is that the audience’s participation must be simple, small and meaningful.