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

At the Festival

I push through the Personnel Only gate at 5:30 and walk over to Gary’s photography exhibit. Grabbing the dust rag, I spruce up the display. I’m straightening the big sign that says Joshua Tree National Park, when a man comes up behind me.

“Is this the Alabama Hills?” he asks.

“No,” I say, pointing to the sign. “Joshua Tree National Park.”

“Oh,” he says. “Sure looks like the Alabama Hills.” He shrugs and turns away.

So begins another night at the Laguna Beach Festival of Arts.

It’s Thursday - soft jazz, wine and chocolate night. Out on the grass people eat picnic dinners at tables with checkered tablecloths. A cool breeze rustles the tablecloths as the late afternoon sun glows on surrounding walls of art. While picnickers talk softly, a trio plays “The Girl from Ipanema”.

Last night the band played the Star Spangled Banner while we all stood at attention, hands to hearts.

I get a sausage flatbread pizza at Gina’s and sit on the concrete planter wall behind Gary’s booth to eat it. Bill the security guard plops down next to me and starts talking. Tonight I hear about how he used to work at Home Depot where they treated the lumber with a poisonous powder and cut it with a power saw and people inhaled the dust and got sick. On any given night he might tell you about his daughter in law school, his wife’s job search, living in Michigan or another job he used to have. He’s had a lot of jobs.

“Gotta see if those folks want to buy a print,” I tell Bill, even though the people are already walking past Gary’s exhibit. I jump up and leave Bill on the wall.

Across the way from Gary’s desert pictures are Elizabeth’s pastels and Margo’s photos. Cynthia’s prints are behind me. Carol’s pottery is around the corner and Mitch’s Colorado photographs are just past Gary’s on the same wall. I sit at one end; Mitch’s chair is way at the other end. So far I’m the only one here tonight.

People come in tour buses. Men in polo shirts with binoculars around their necks carry blankets and jackets to keep warm during the pageant later. Bald men with white beards and potbellies sport Hawaiian shirts, shorts, socks and sandals. Their wives wear white cotton pants, colorful blouses and New Balance walking shoes. Some have canes. Some are in wheel chairs and seem concerned about how they’re going to maneuver through the narrow passage between my chair and Cynthia’s table.

Margo arrives and says she feels like a sale tonight. We all wish for sales, but that’s not everything. It’s also about connecting with people. Elizabeth likes when someone feels her soul in her art. She has trouble parting with her creations, pieces of her soul.

A teenage boy with a serious camera around his neck studies Gary’s photos for a long time. Other people walk by with only a quick glance toward the desert photos. One of them is a lady in aqua head to toe – aqua sandals, slacks, shirt, purse, jewelry. We have no aqua pictures, so she probably isn’t interested in stopping at our booth.

It’s funny the way people look at art. They stand up close to Gary’s photos, examining them carefully. I’m not sure what they are looking for. Some people turn their backs on Gary’s pictures and look at Elizabeth’s. Others turn their backs on Elizabeth’s and look at Gary’s. If people are drawn to Mitch’s colorful photos, they’re not interested in Gary’s black and whites. And vice versa.

Margo takes pictures of people in mid air, falling onto a trampoline. The backgrounds are dark and the falling subjects are lit from above with a single light. To view her art, people tend to lean sideways, usually to the right. Margo sets up a camera in her booth and takes a video of all the people leaning sideways to look at her mid-air people. She has a wry smile as she watches the people looking at her work.

We decide we could give each other’s spiel.

“They’re falling onto a trampoline,” I’d say.

“Joshua Tree National Park,” she’d say.

“Taken in a studio, lighted from above,” I’d say.

“High dynamic range digital photography,” she’d say.

Lots of the women carry big black purses slung over their shoulders, and when it’s crowded and their backs are to the artwork, I suck in my breath and hope the purses don’t scratch the glass. The women don’t notice where their purses are. Carol’s husband, Wes, holds his breath, too, because one swing of a big black purse could send Carol’s teacups crashing to the concrete.

A thirtysomething man is talking intently to Margo. I think they must be good friends, but when he leaves she says she has no idea who he is. She’s glad he’s gone.

A woman in a sparkly leopard print top and matching ballet slippers wants to know how she can buy one of Elizabeth’s pictures. I direct her to the Sales Booth. Elizabeth will be happy to have the sale, but there goes another bit of her soul.

Mitch arrives, sits in his chair and assumes a stern lifeguard face.

“Where were these pictures taken?” asks a man whose shirt says United We Stand and has an American flag on the sleeve. He should have been here last night for the Star Spangled Banner.

“Joshua Tree National Park,” I say.

“Did you put those round rocks there?” he asks.

“No, that’s just they way they are.”

“How big are they?”

“Huge.” I stand up and circle my arms above my head, though I have no idea how big the rocks really are.

Margo’s got some interested people now. She’s telling them about the trampoline and the studio and the single light above. Maybe this is her sale.

A trio of women pulls out the print of “Desert Surreal” featuring a lone tree caught between two boulders. They prop the print up against the wall and stare at it. This looks promising, so I mosey over there.

“It’s a great photo,” I say.

“Yes,” says the middle lady in a dreamy voice. She caresses the print, sighs and puts it back. They are gone before I realize I’ve forgotten to give them one of Gary’s cards. I’ve fallen down on the job. No sale for me tonight.

A young couple wants to play pool with the boulders in “The Billiard Table”. We all laugh and wonder how big the pool cue would have to be.

A lady all in gauzy white says she just went camping in Joshua Tree. “Amazing place. Amazing photos,” she says and smiles as she walks away.

A peal of laughter erupts behind me and I turn to see a whole tour group sitting on the concrete planter wall. They’re having a good time at the Festival.

Margo’s people don’t buy and the guy who was hitting on her is back.

“Don’t you want my phone number?” he says.

“No,” she replies.

He keeps on talking, leaning toward her, hanging on the side of her chair. When people walk up to her booth, she slips out of the chair and turns her back on him.

A middle-aged couple turns the corner behind my chair and stops to look at Gary’s photos.

“Rocks,” the man says.

“Yes,” his wife says.

“Rocks and sky,” he says.

“Yes,” she says and they move on to Margo’s booth where they both lean to the right.

At the other end Mitch is smiling now, because a woman with a big belly, a pearly necklace and a USC tote bag likes his photos. He retrieves the skinny little sales box he has tucked under the shelf and writes up the sale. The lady has two chins and a really nice smile. Her mother has white hair, a white pantsuit and a purse in primary colors with rhinestones. She’s smiling, too.

It’s almost 8:30, almost time to go. Before I leave, I put out more business cards, straighten the pictures and tidy up the prints in the bin. A couple, chewing gum in unison, approaches the wall and together they stick their noses within inches of the bottom two photos.

“It’s the Alabama Hills, right?” he says

One more time I say, “Joshua Tree National Park.”

“Ah,” they both say. “Beautiful work.”

On that note I call it a night.

What They Didn't Get

Beads of shattered glass pool by the front door of Gary’s digital photography studio, the door's metal frame still dead-bolted in place. As Gary sits across an empty desk from me clutching the brand new iPad that has become his constant companion, his shoulders slump, and his eyes well up.

“This is the only computer I have left,” he says.

Silent, we both stare at the little iPad. I imagine the thieves smashing the glass and crawling in under the door’s metal cross bar, just like the sheriff’s deputy did a little a while ago. I picture them grabbing the computer on my desk, the one that was only three months old and held all our customer records. I see them turning the corner into Gary’s office and thinking they’d discovered burglar heaven – two professional level computers, two flat panel cinema displays, a backpack open on the floor with two professional digital cameras, multiple lenses and a box full of high priced camera accessories. Upstairs, they snatch the laptop. Mere minutes elapse as they clean out the place, pass the loot out the door, load it up and take off.

Here’s what they didn’t get, though.

They didn’t get the backup drives with all our customer information, customer images and Gary’s own award-winning photographs. And they didn’t get the most expensive camera in the place. It doesn’t look very high tech. They must not have seen the value there.

They also didn’t see the true value of that stolen equipment, what it meant to Gary. They didn’t see the hours he spent learning all the nuances of the cameras and lenses and computers, or even more hours fine-tuning his techniques. They didn’t know about all the times he raced to the beach when the clouds were just right in search of a spectacular Pacific sunset, sometimes only to see the clouds dissipate into a flat gray sky. They didn’t see him come home drenched when he’d been so intent on taking a photo of some rocks and seaweed that he hadn’t seen the wave coming at his back. They didn’t see him smiling anyway, because he’d gotten a great shot.

They didn’t see the solo trips to the desert in snowstorms, chilling wind or biting hail. They didn’t see him wake before dawn to reach a favorite pile of rocks in time to capture the glow of rising sunlight on multi-hued geologic layers. They didn’t see him sink up to his knee in muck as he hiked to a remote outcropping of granite, or slide down a hill just barely holding on to his camera. They didn’t see him at the computer unaware of the time, applying his artist’s eye and technical expertise to raw images, transforming them into works of art.

They didn’t know all that when they took his cameras and computers, his art supplies. And, really, they didn’t care, did they? They were after things and they got what they came for. They didn’t get how not having those tools would turn an artist’s life upside down.

As we sit there, people come by from the other nearby offices. They come in ones or twos, solemn as if going to a funeral, and they stand outside the shattered door looking at the destruction. They all say they’re so sorry. They share their own stories. The man from the dental lab tells about his place being robbed and vandalized six months before. Someone tells about her house being broken into. They stare at the puddle and spatter of glass and shake their heads as if it had happened to them. They hurt for us. And they’re angry.

The woman from the Catholic Charities office two doors down sets her jaw and crosses her arms over her chest, fuming quietly for some time.

“Jerks,” she finally says. “What jerks.” And she walks back to her office.

People we don’t even know become like family in this moment. We all share a sense of having been wounded, and we look to each other for the salve of human decency.

The thieves didn’t get that either.

Copyright 2010 by Liz Zuercher