REMIND ME AGAIN WHY WE DO THIS STUFF
Fool that I am, I once participated in a message board discussion about the nature of creativity. One of the more forceful debaters was of the firm opinion that creativity essentially concerns the rearrangement of what’s there already. Shuffle things up and see how it turns out, like dipping into a Scrabble bag and morphing up new words if you can’t create something that’s already in the dictionary. And that didn’t feel right to me, since it’s such a contradiction of my experience in being creative.
Sure, there are occasions when the rearrangement of elements is an adequate description of what’s going on. One episode of some soap operas is much like another for instance. A good percentage of blues music could be constructed by taking well-worn twelve bar chunks and being miserable on a topic de jour over the top. And there’s no denying that where some copywriting work is concerned, what I’m doing owes more to craft than inspiration. So yes, some fraction of what’s called creative can be done by rote, interestingly.
That rearrangement argument can be taken quite a way. Brian Eno’s experiments in generative music, where software allows users to pick parameters for the sounds generated, are as convincing as some ambient electronica I’ve heard. That makes music an emergent property, in the same way that flocks of birds flying together generate amazing patterns by following just a few simple rules. No need for any group consciousness, just keep Charlie on your left, and aim for Portugal unless any obstacles come up, in which case wheel clockwise by 30 degrees. The ultimate example is DNA, available in just the four flavours, cycled in humungous strings of interacting spirals to produce every organism you’ve ever met or eaten.
All very well, but that random mixing theory doesn’t get across what it feels like to want to do something creative at all. It doesn’t explain the impetus to make something new. And it doesn’t explain the power of what we create to move, to inspire, to change our individual and social worlds for the better. Yet those are, sometimes at least, the reasons that people are driven to create in the first place. And that, I believe, is where we need to look in order to lift the lid on creativity, if that’s something that interests us.
Paradoxically, creativity often starts as a purposeless activity – doodling in a notebook, tinkling a keyboard, making shapes in clay – that becomes imbued during the creative process with real profundity, for the artist at least, and with some works maybe an audience too. Let’s not get too hung up on the word profundity, if only because it ignores another aspect of creativity, what it feels like to play. Again, if this stuff was just random, would we get so hooked into it? Well, that depends what you think play is.
One summer at junior school, we mock-battled for control of a mound of earth in the school grounds. It was an activity that was my entire focus for the time the fad lasted, and taught me stuff about the beginnings of teamwork, group dynamics, leadership. More than that, I felt energised and inspired by what we were doing together, more so than whatever Miss Theed was doing with us in the classroom at the time.
Sure, that was to do with learning mammalian pack hierarchies and so on, stuff every generation learns anew. The ‘new’ in there is a clue. The search for novelty is an important drive. Neophilia drives human culture forward, while the urge for homeostasis keeps things the same. And what applies to society applies to the individual. Seeking difference, whether in exploring what’s already there, or making stuff that’s new, is an evolutionary trait.
Putting it like that has a certain stick-up-its-ass quality about it though. Which is why I was fascinated to read a brilliant interview with musician Jon Brion on his creative processes. It touches on his film soundtrack work – his brilliant scores can be found on Punch-Drunk Love and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind among others – and his work as a producer with artists including Fiona Apple and Aimee Mann. There’s a lot of substantial and articulate thinking there about composition and improvisation, very relevant to non-musicians as well as those who are musically adept, and I found it through The Onion’s website at http://www.avclub.com/content/interview/jon_brion.
Paul Watson said,
January 25, 2008 @ 11:13 pm
ou know, on one level I completely agree with your debating partner. As an artist who works a lot in collage, rearrangement of what’s already there is accurate as a very dry description of what I do. And the same applies – although maybe not as obviously – to other artforms, whether they be painting, sculpture, writing, or music.
The problem, however, is that your forceful debater’s use of uninspiring negative language makes the artistic process sound dull and uninteresting – the opposite of how you actually experience the creative process, and this leads to the rejection of their argument. It’s like explaining sex as being the exchange of bodily fluids enabling procreation. Accurate but utterly failing to capture the emotion.
I’m no wordsmith, but to me artwork of any kind is the thrill of a unexpected and illuminating juxtaposition, whether it be between fields of colour in a painting, a mouthful of words twisted into a startling new phrase, the surprise harmony created by neighbouring notes in a song, or, in the words of the Surrealists’ darling Isidore Ducasse (aka le Comte de Lautréamont), “the chance encounter of an umbrella and a sewing machine on an operating table.”.
If, like your antagonist, you choose to phrase this in a negative manner, then you take the joy out of the creative process – in the same way that you can over-analyse a work of art until it’s been drained of all the passion that drew you to it in the first place. But to me, getting the things that are around you every day – whether they be words, notes, or images – to collaborate with each other in an inspiring new way is a wonderful thing. The art is in the juxtaposition, not the elements.
Cat Vincent said,
January 25, 2008 @ 11:18 pm
Oh yes. Thanks for that one.
I’m passing it onto my-wife-the-artist, who has a blog on creativity, the practical side of being a fine artist in the modern world and other stuff – called Up All Night Again. You might find it interesting.
http://kirstyhall.co.uk/blog/
Fingers crossed that this post won’t be spam-tagged!
Adrian Reynolds said,
January 26, 2008 @ 8:28 am
Paul –
rearranging what’s already there is fine as a model for much of collage-based approaches, plus formulaic arts such as the blues, but I’m not convinced it works as an explanation for writing. Yes, there’s a level at which it can be described as the rearrangement of the same 26 letters (as Richard Bandler says, ‘What a rip off!’). And it’s possible to use methods such as cut-up to increase the collage effect. Or you can view the business of transforming life experiences and influences into script or prose as a form of collage. But that still doesn’t get what it’s like subjectively to tackle a piece of longform writing. Or even shortform sometimes; I’ve written poems that have (and here’s the linguistic clue…) ‘come from nowhere’ in part or whole, and that’s an experience that owes nothing to rearrangement, but is more akin to direct perception or even transmission. Same applies to some concepts for bigger pieces.