“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
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
