I read a post last month on Slow Muse that linked to a video of a TED talk by author Elizabeth Gilbert. I highly recommend it (and if you don’t know the TED talks, please browse among the many fascinating offerings, all under 20 minutes). Not only is Gilbert an engaging speaker, but she touches on a subject close to the heart of many artists, whether they think about it much or not: the nature of creation.
Gilbert’s main point is that we have been afflicted, since the Renaissance, with an individualistic conception of the “genius” of creativity, which replaced the Greek and Roman notion of “genius” as something of the place or subject—at any rate, outside the artist—that spoke through the artist. The modern idea lays a heavy psychological burden on the artist, who is deemed solely responsible for whatever art he or she produces, or fails to produce. Gilbert would like to rehabilitate the older view.
Though generally a skeptic in such things, I have sympathy for Gilbert’s position. Many, scientists as well as artists, have attested to the varied and mysterious apparent sources of what is felt as inspiration. I personally suspect that the presence we might call the Muse owes much to our own unconscious, workings unknown, but which must impinge on our actions and conscious thoughts. However, I won’t follow that line of argument here, because I think there’s an alternate understanding that goes beyond the individual.
I believe our cognition is not only embodied–intimately dependent on our physical selves–but in equal measure entangled with the world. Our minds develop in interaction with what’s out there; if the world were different, so would be our thinking, our very ways of thinking. To me this means that even the most conscious and intentional creation is actually a collaboration between the artist and the world as experienced by the artist. For example, on a superficial yet practical level, photographers know that the position of the sun, say, or the fleeting composition of a street scene, can make a great difference in a picture. Those who persevere, who are there and aware when the moment comes, deserve real credit. But full credit, when much remains out of their control? Other artists may be less dependent on detailed cooperation of the elements, yet a similar argument applies. That part we can’t take credit for: perhaps that is what we should call the Muse, the genius of that time and place.
When I’m out photographing, it’s not rare for me to get ideas of what to picture that I find exciting. Typically, I’m much less impressed on seeing the results later. Mostly what I think may be good turns out mediocre. On occasion, the perfunctory images are seen to have a spark after all.
What is your experience of inspiration, or lack of inspiration, and how do you account for it?
Steve,
I haven’t checked out the TED video yet, but the idea as expressed sounds, well, “sound.” Solid, true, real.
In something I read recently, the author made the distinction between the “personal” and the “individual” — individual and individualism belong to the category of coming entirely from within, whereas personal was an integration of internal and external. He claimed that irony comes from the personal, an interesting idea as he was also saying that a sense of irony is essential to a free society.
To acknowledge that what we know is not entirely from within nor entirely within our control is not only, it seems to me, humbling in a good way, but also freeing. You can’t expect to get photographs that make us gasp every time, and it isn’t a matter of technique or your artist’s eye. Time and light and circumstance also act upon the subject matter and will have their way at times, even against your will.
I pontificate — sorry. But I am painting a map of Beatty Nevada, somewhat in the strain of the map of Basin Montana that I did a year ago. It’s “June’s Map of Beatty Nevada, March 2009.” I know that this is a map of what Beatty has produced within me — done as much by the town, in March of 2009, with the accompanying wind and skies and big trucks and trailer houses –as with anything within myself. I am the artist, but not the art. I am subjective, but not the subject. I am my own world, but not the only world.
Whew! that’s even worse as pontification. Well, it’s only my first cup of coffee. It’s the coffee’s fault, not my own, right?
Great topic, Steve.
Some people say it is good to focus on one type of creative endeavor. For some reason, I tend to do very varied kinds of things — art, sometimes writing fiction, music. I only do some of these things well, but I get a lot of inspiration from all of them. I suspect that we have “inspiration muscles” in our brains, so to speak, and it is important to keep them in shape. If photography, or making ceramics, whatever you do, stops being inspiring, I think it is vital to do something else on the side (with no professional aspirations, just for the heck of it) simply to keep excited and stay in tune with the feeling of inspiration itself.
The so-called muse (or muse-finding potential) must be inside of the artist, because it is the artist’s ability to be inspired that allows him or her to “find” a muse in the outside world. Someone else looking or listening to the so-called muse would perceive nothing special.
What fun to listen to Gilbert. So far, I have only heard part of it because of it stopped playing midway through 2x.
Reading up on Genius, using Wikipedia, I learned that Schopenhauer believed it to be associated with will, in the sense of discipline, echoing what Steve said: “Those who persevere, who are there and aware when the moment comes, deserve real credit”.
Continuing with Steve’s thought…”That part we can’t take credit for: perhaps that is what we should call the Muse, the genius of that time and place.”
The guiding Spirit or Muse won’t be able to do much if the artist does not listen.
P.S. just read karl’s comment, also focusing on the ‘listening’.
Steve:
Thanks for introducing us to Elizabeth Gilbert – she possesses a remarkable thoughtfulness, clarity and wit. Her feeling, that inspiration is another, is something that I certainly share. Now I can sit down with a clean sheet and dig ideas out of my mind as a deliberate activity. But so often things show up unannounced – suddenly they’re just there. I was reading something totally unrelated when I said to myself: “The beaver beaved its last.” As it appears, inspiration can be insipid, as Gilbert intimated and this quote illustrates. But a musishness seems to be out there somewhere, ready to put in its two cents without warning.
Take the Beatles, please. Paul M. woke up with the entire melody for “Yesterday” in his head. It then took months to match this melody to suitable words. Many songs on a Beatles album will be inspired in the sense we’re using, but any number will be the result of a grinding out process where creative lethargy faces a looming deadline.
But muses do not always speak in full sentences.
June,
Those terms make sense to me: the person goes beyond the individual, and is in relation to others and other things.
I look forward to your map of Beatty. I’m still reading Weschler’s conversations with Hockney, and I’m reminded of Hockney’s re-exploration of his domestic space in recording by Polaroid his moving about the house and yard, then assembling the photos into a space-time collage.
Karl,
I like your thought that the ability to be inspired must be developed and exercised.
Birgit,
I hope you can manage to hear the whole talk; I think the second half is better. Possibly it would work better from the TED link.
Listening as well as doing. My Zen lesson for the day.
Jay,
Your beaver thought seems more about respiration than inspiration, whereas the grinding out is all about perspiration. Thanks for adding your note of levitation!
I like your thought that the ability to be inspired must be developed and exercised.
Steve,
I like it too. I never had this idea before your post yesterday. I guess you are a good muse!
Good post Steve and good comments too. It’s an interesting topic worthy of exploration. I’m not sure I am qualified to answer your question though because unlike an artist who may have a “need” to create their art, in order to pay the bills etc, I make photos with no motive and for no purpose (well that’s probably off the mark a little but for the purpose of this question it’s close enough). I imagine that this would make a difference. Perhaps I am wrong. In any case, I carry a camera with me most times and I shoot what catches my eye. I’ve come to the conclusion that I probably don’t really make the images but rather happen to be in the right place at the right time. In other words I consider myself lucky when I take an image that works. So I don’t see it as inspiration so much as good fortune. Maybe it’s the same thing.
Anyway as for the second part to you question: “how do you account for it?”. I was reading today that Amy Winehouse was unable to come up with any material for her new album since she had cleaned up her life. I kinda get that. Without fully understanding art or inspiration, it makes sense to me that inspiration would come from the life we live. So it could be said that inspiration comes from without but since life is personal it can also be said to come from within. Again though, this may be the same thing.
I should finish off as there is a high likelyhood that I am not making much sense but allow me to add one more thing. On a personal note, of all my images, my favourites are, without exception, the ones that are made without any thought whatsoever. Where seeing happens and before the mind can butt in with its filters, labels, beliefs and limitations, the shot has been captured. So maybe inspiration is all around but we miss it due to all the noise that comes from the mind.
June:
Didn’t know you were doing a map of Beatty. Have you taken a Google Earth scan of that neck of the desert? I’ve been known to leave a dent in the window with my nose as I fly over that area – it’s so godawfully intriguing. Hundreds of millions of years are exposed in a tectonic and eroded jumble. And the colors…
The Gilbert lecture is great. Do do it.
Karl:
I too am caught by your idea of the exercised inspiration, but I am unable to visualize how such preparation is undertaken. Would da Vinci’s staring at the cracks in a wall be an example? Inspiration is 95% perspiration could apply here.
Steve:
The point is that the beaver came to my mind unbidden. If I accord it the status of an inspiration, then I have to throw it in the to-do pile. And heaven knows, that pile keeps growing. So better to send it along. Bye beaver. Don’t let the door pinch your tail on the way out.