Musing

“So, what’s it like to be creative?” a visitor to an art show asks Karin, who is exhibiting her handcrafted jewelry. She has no idea how to answer that.

Gary’s out in the desert shooting pictures when a woman approaches him to ask, “How do you know what to take a picture of?” He doesn’t have an answer for that one either.

Most artists probably don’t know how to answer those questions. They just are creative, they think. They just know what to take a picture of, what to paint. It’s a way of life for them, a way of being. But it isn’t that simple.

Karin doesn’t sit down at her workbench and say, “Okay, I’m going to be creative now.” She’s probably been turning over ideas for a new necklace for a few days, or weeks or maybe just this morning she saw an unusual flower and thought it might make a nice piece. Maybe she didn’t have a particular inspiration when she sat down, but as she worked with her materials and her tools, her hands took over and crafted something she didn’t even know was in her mind.

That’s being creative – letting go and seeing what happens, playing a little. There can’t always be a plan. Sometimes it’s just a feeling that propels the artist forward or a single observation or a fortunate mistake that leads to a discovery. Inventors are creative that way, as are scientists, carpenters, cooks, mothers, fathers, teachers, executives. In fact, I’d venture to say we are all somehow creative, maybe not artistic, but creative nonetheless. But we want more. We want to be artists.

The woman asks Gary how he knows what to take a picture of, because she wants to take pictures like his. She doesn’t see anything in the stark desert landscape worthy of a photograph, though. She doesn’t see what Gary sees: the light, the colors, the shapes, the textures. Sure, Gary has years of training and experience that form the foundation for his decision of what to photograph, how to compose it for maximum impact and beauty. But mostly it’s just that he sees it. Not everyone has that fine-tuned sense of what will make a compelling image. Being an artist is about being observant, taking the time to see the unique in everyday surroundings, in normal life.

Sometimes, though, it’s just plain luck. Sometimes the most amazing clouds roll in and Gary can’t not take a picture of them. Sometimes he takes hundreds of pictures and gets nothing worthwhile. Other times he rounds a bend to find an old tree perfectly lit in the late afternoon sun and one shot is all he needs, even though he takes a dozen. Sometimes he turns around to see if I’m making it up the hill behind him and is surprised by a sweeping panorama he would have missed otherwise. That’s why he says you always have to turn and look behind you every so often to see where you’ve been. Some of the best shots happen that way.

In other words, there’s a lot of trial and error involved in being an artist. You don’t make a great work of art just by being creative. It’s called a work of art for a reason. What the casual observer doesn’t realize is that the artist has spent years honing his craft. The first necklace or painting or photograph was a far cry from what you see now. So being creative requires gumption, perseverance and dedication, because the work will likely be horrible at first. Being an artist is not for the faint of heart. You must be willing to keep working on it, even if it seems like it will never be right. Especially then.

People seem so curious about creativity. They long for it. Deep down I think even the most logical left-brained person wants to set loose their inner creative spirit and let it run free, to be an artist.

So the questions come. What’s it like to be creative? How do you know what to take a picture of? Like it’s a mystery than can be solved with a simple answer. They might as well be asking: Where do we come from? What are we here for? Maybe one question answers the other: Being creative is knowing what to take a picture of. Better yet, being creative is going ahead and taking the picture, even if you don’t know how it will turn out. Then taking another and another and another. Observing. Playing. Exploring. And every so often turning around to see what’s behind you.

Copyright 2011 by Liz Zuercher

Brown Leaf

by Susan Cameron

I teach an exercise class called Longevity Stick on Tuesday mornings to a group of elderly Vietnamese people. The two eldest ladies are ninety years old. One is Cu Rang, a tiny, sweet-faced happy lady who sometimes brings fruit and says, "Su-Su! You eat-ee!" The other is Cu Lan, an even tinier lady, who brings wrapped hard candies and saves the coffee flavored ones for me. They have matching Costco rolling walkers, the ones with the padded seats, and when they get tired they rest until they can stand up and exercise some more.

We were all sitting at our picnic table in the park last week, waiting for our 9 a.m. start time. Cu Lan sighed, said a few sharp, exasperated-sounding sentences, and everybody laughed. I looked at Kieu Ton and raised my eyebrows for the translation.

Ton explained, "Cu Lan says she has to go to the doctor again today. She says, 'I am like the last brown leaf hanging on a tree. Why am I not dead yet?'"

Everybody thought it was funny, and I had to smile too. Cu Lan wasn't looking for sympathy; she was just ticked off because death was taking its own sweet time getting to her.

After all, death hadn't always been so lackadaisical and leisurely. Death took her husband long ago, left her widowed for decades; took friends, neighbors, children, and ultimately took her country's government. Death boarded the escape boats with the Thai pirates. Death hung out with the Viet Cong prison guards, the ones who hung the prisoners of war from their wrists until their shoulders dislocated. (The men in my Longevity Stick class have a hard time raising their arms above their shoulders to this day).

Anyhow, I think an American in her position might wake up in the morning feeling pleased, as though she'd cheated death yet another day; but I think Cu Lan feels that by leaving her alive, death is actually cheating her. Is it a cultural or religious difference that I'm seeing, or do we all get to a point (if we live long enough) where we look at our watch, tap our foot, sigh, and think, okay, time to go?

I'm American -- I don't want to get the answer any time soon.

copyright 2011 Susan Cameron

Waiting

Karen hurried into the library and looked up at the clock above the information desk as she made her way past rows of bookshelves. Four o’clock. Good. She wasn’t late after all. The doctor’s appointment had taken longer than she expected, and not wanting to keep her student waiting, she had flown down the freeway and run in from the parking lot. She slowed her step when she looked left toward the four oblong tables in the Teen section and saw no one was there. Relieved and annoyed at the same time, she slung her black tote bag full of books and tablets down on the third light oak veneer table. She pulled one of the slate blue upholstered chairs up to the end of the table and positioned another one just around the table corner to her right before she sat down and sighed deeply. The chairs, she noticed, were just like the ones in the doctor’s waiting room.

* * *

“He’s running late today,” Sally the doctor’s receptionist said. “Take a seat, Karen, and I’ll call you. You know the drill.”

Karen found a seat on one of the stiff blue chairs in the waiting room. She had once asked Sally why they had such uncomfortable straight-backed chairs, and Sally said that type of chair was easier for the moms-to-be to get in and out of. Karen had just nodded, thinking that they were still damned uncomfortable chairs. She squirmed in hers, trying to get settled as she looked around the waiting room.

A young girl with long straight blond hair was engrossed in last month’s People magazine. Her bangs shielded her eyes and her free hand absently stroked her belly as she read. Early twenties, Karen guessed, six months pregnant. Maybe she should have done that, Karen thought, instead of going with the career first.

Across the room a couple in their mid-thirties sat holding hands, talking softly to each other. Karen remembered when David used to come to these appointments with her. This morning he’d left for Chicago on business and she hadn’t even told him she was seeing the doctor.

* * *

Okay, where was her student? She looked up at the clock again. The white minute hand jumped to 4:03 on the round black face. There had been no voice mail from Josh on her cell phone, but the others hadn’t called her to cancel either. Four of them had bailed on her already this week with no advance notice. Was Josh going to be the fifth? She hated changes in her plans, hated having her time wasted. With another sigh, Karen pulled the calculus workbook out of her tote, retrieved a pencil from her purse and sat back to wait.

She had purposely chosen the library for her tutoring sessions. It was quiet, centrally located and all the kids and parents knew where it was. It was a neutral setting, non-threatening and efficient. She usually scheduled two or three students in an afternoon at one-hour intervals. As one finished up, the next one arrived. When the last student left, Karen packed up her books and followed him out. There was no down time – no lingering in the stacks after her work was done.

* * *

Sally called out for Tiffany Sellars, and the twenty-something blond put down her magazine and pushed herself out of the chair. She looked over at Karen with a sheepish grin and said, “I feel like such a cow. I can’t wait to get rid of this stomach.”

Karen tried to be polite, to return Tiffany’s smile, but all she could muster was a slight upturn at the corners of her mouth. She couldn’t think of any words for the girl, at least not any that she could say out loud. She looked at her watch instead, as Tiffany disappeared through the door to the back office. She’d been here for fifteen minutes.

“Mr. and Mrs. Wells?” Sally called out. The couple against the far wall got up and went to see the doctor. They kept holding hands until they got to the door. Mr. Wells pushed open the door for his pregnant wife and put his hand gently on her back as she passed him. She was just starting to show. Karen imagined they were going to have a sonogram today.

The chair was so hard Karen couldn’t sit there anymore. She walked across the room to look at the magazine selection on the end table. Family, Working Mother, Redbook, Us, People. Karen picked up the People that Tiffany had been reading and sat down in Tiffany’s chair. There was a two-page spread on stars with baby bumps. Karen closed the magazine and looked at her watch again. She was going to be late for her tutoring appointment. Her student would be waiting for her if she didn’t get called in soon.

Tiffany came out, made her next appointment with Sally and left. Karen looked up at Sally expectantly.

“My turn?” Karen asked. Her heart was starting to race again.

“Yep. C’mon back,” Sally said.

* * *

Karen looked around the library. The Teen section bordered the Children’s section and a menagerie of huge stuffed animals sat atop the bookshelves. From where she sat she could see a tiger, a panda bear and two gorillas, one bigger than the other. The bigger gorilla’s floppy right arm rested on the little one’s shoulder. They all looked a little worse for wear, like children at story time had snuggled up to them, rubbing the fur as they listened to the librarian read. Karen imagined pre-schoolers gathered around on the floor with the big stuffed animals the librarians had moved down from their shelves for the occasion. She imagined her own children hugging the animals at story time. The flutter in her chest and the lump in her throat surprised Karen.

“It isn’t time to worry yet,” the doctor had said. “You’re young and healthy and there’s plenty of time. Just relax. It will happen when it’s meant to happen.” He had patted her hand and once again given her a kind smile.

She swallowed hard, sat up straight and looked back at the clock – 4:15. Where was that boy? Was she going to be stood up again? She couldn’t see the door from the Teen section, but she stared at it anyway, tapping her pencil on the table, waiting for Josh to get there.

Copyright 2011 by Liz Zuercher