Stoking the Creative Fires: 9 Ways to Rekindle Passion and Imagination (Burnout, Creativity, Flow, Motivation, for Fans of The Artist's Way): Cousineau, Phil: 9781573242998: Amazon.com: Books

Stoking the Creative Fires

9 WAYS TO REKINDLE PASSION AND IMAGINATION

By Phil Cousineau

Red Wheel/Weiser, LLC

Copyright © 2008 Phil Cousineau
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-57324-299-8

Contents

AcknowledgmentsA Fable about FireIntroduction: The Creative JourneyPart I: InspirationChapter 1: Fires of the ImaginationChapter 2: Celebrating ReverieChapter 3: Seizing the MomentChapter 4: Seeking GuidancePart II: PerspirationChapter 5: Creative SpaceChapter 6: Deep FocusChapter 7: Burn-outPart III: RealizationChapter 8: Real WorkChapter 9: Cool FireChapter 10: Passing the TorchEpilogRecommended Reading and Viewing

CHAPTER 1

Fires of the Imagination

The artist must create a spark before he can make a fire and before art is bornthe artist must be ready to be consumed by the fire of his own creation.

—Auguste Rodin

Inspiration is a flash of fire in the human soul. Consider the marvel: theinrush of spirit, the flash of an idea, the flame of insight, the spark ofimagination. It's the Aha, Eureka, and Hallelujah moment all rolled into one.Inspiration is a message-in-a-bottle from the distant shore, a window into theother world, a tap of the muse's finger, the grace of the gods. It comes whenyou least expect it, when your defenses are down and your vulnerability up. Itarrives in a dream, a conversation, a brainstorm—and leaves without warning.

Inspiration is John Coltrane emerging out of a fourday silence with Love Supremestreaming through his soul. It's Pierre Bonnard running to the easel afterseeing his wife bathed in golden light in their bathtub. It's Paul McCartneydrifting off to sleep one night with the words "everyone lives in a yellowsubmarine" floating through his head. It's the New Yorker cartoon with the lightbulb flashing over the head of the starry-eyed inventor.

Inspiration can also feel like a sudden possession. The mass hypnosis that cameover Michelangelo and a group of fellow sculptors in Rome the day the Greeksculpture Laocoon was lifted out of the ground is illustrative of this fantasticaspect of inspiration, because it immediately compelled the entire group to drawit.

Sometimes softly, sometimes violently, sometimes sweetly, inspiration swoopsdown and compels us to express ourselves, the devil be damned. Suddenly, we'removed to speak our minds, like the ecstatic Chinese poet Li Po, who believed hewas divinely inspired to write his travel poems and drinking songs; or JaneAusten, who was determined to write even after being banished to a tiny desk inthe cramped hallways of the family home; or Rembrandt, who resorted to paintingdozens of self-portraits when he ran out of money for models.

If inspired, the creative spirit takes wing, soars, surprises, blazes withradiance. "The glow of inspiration warms us," Ovid wrote 2000 years ago, "and itis a holy rapture." Allen Ginsberg said, "I write poetry because the Englishword inspiration comes from Latin, spiritus, breath, and I want to breathefreely." "Who knows where it came from?" French philosopher Maurice Merleau-Pontyadmits, "My own words take me by surprise and teach me what to think."Singer Ani DiFranco sighs, "I have no idea where it comes from. It isn't fair."

Inspiration: it's fascinating, enchanting, angrifying, exasperating, andelusive. If you try to pin it down, it squirms like Proteus, the Greek god ofshapeshifting. It mocks your attempts to capture it with ropes of theory,keeping its secrets by slip-sliding away from you. If you deny it altogether andtry to will your work into being without it, the work is recognized as"uninspired"—possibly the worst critique you can receive, because it insinuatesyou're mechanical, soulless. On the other hand, trying to force yourself to "beinspired" is like trying to think more clearly by squinting.

What you can do is be ready when the moment comes to work. You can be receptive,ready, and audacious.

Stephen King's On Writing is one of the best nononsense guides to the creativeprocess in years. In it, he writes: "Let's get one thing clear right now, shallwe? There is no Idea Dump, no Story Central, no Island of the BuriedBestsellers; good ideas seem to come from literally nowhere, sailing at youright out of the empty sky ... Your job isn't to find these ideas but torecognize them when they show up."

So inspiration may be an unpredictable friend, as inscrutable as an oracle andfickle as a weathervane. But if you're serious about your own creativity, youhave no choice but to try to make it ... well ... scrutable, to salvage awonderful old word. What you can do is improve the odds that your spirit will bemoved by being alert to whatever form inspiration may take.

The recurring theme reflected in my own various passions—from the arts, topolitics, to the spiritual life, to architecture, to baseball—is the ardentbelief that the sparks of inspiration are everywhere. If I remain open to thewild fire they portend and don't hide behind the shutters of cynicism, sooner orlater, one will ignite. In some still-elusive way, inspiration has to be botheverywhere and everywhen, because it isn't a luxury for me. It's not a hobby;it's my life. Everything has to fit, sooner or later, into my insatiable desireto be creative or it feels like my life is backfiring.

For me, this means that I find inspiration in the rainbow flight of wild parrotsover our house in San Francisco, the bells tolling from the church down thehill, the laughter of nursery-school kids walking in the rain, the lived-in faceof an old Filipino newspaper seller, and the chance 1930s postcard stuck intoone of my father's books. If I'm stuck, I look far and wide for the fires thatwill kindle my inspiration. My life revolves around this constant search. If I'mnot on fire, I'm not inspired, and I can't work. If I force it, the work alwayssounds as if it's written in someone else's voice.

When asked what inspires me, I say, "Whatever sets my soul on fire." That meanstravel, books, art, music, photographs, nature, or café conversation. Often asnot, it's the ordinary wonders that do it—the sandal-maker, the mail carrier, ora cantoneiro, a sidewalk tile-setter I met in Lisbon years ago who felt he'dbeen given a gift from God in his ability to lay tile in beautiful, swirlingblack-and-white patterns. As I knelt to watch him work, I saw a glint in his eyethat revealed devotion to his craft and gratitude for the gift he'd been given.That inner light has shone on in me till this day.

To immerse myself in the extraordinary, I seek out the paintings of Bonnard, thesymphonies of Mahler, the sculptures of Henry Moore, the nature essays of AnnieDillard, the plays of Eugene O'Neill, the poetry of Philip Levine, the songs ofVan Morrison, the slick lines of a '64 Mustang, and the lilt in my son's voicewhen he says, "Pop." And I can't live without my daily dose of creative fire.Without it, I become neurotic—or grumpy, as my son tells me. But at least I knowI'm not alone in this fierce desire. Seven hundred years ago Rumi told hisfollowers: "Make friends with your burning." Fifty years ago, jazz great MilesDavis was so lit up by Charlie Parker's he cried out, "I want his fire!"

However, caveat lector. Reader, beware. There are at least two kinds ofinspiration. The first lifts your spirit, as spirituals and sunsets do. It makesyou feel good, which isn't bad. But the second lifts your spirit and then flingsyou like a flaming arrow, full of passion and resolve to set the world on fire.This is the duende, the dark song in the gypsy soul, the black light thatenflames the canvas, the spark that enlarges the heart. This is the blood surgethat can be detected in the poems of Federico Lorca, the paintings of EdvardMunch, and the dances of Martha Graham. And it's combustible.

In this sense, inspiration is a gift from the back of beyond—a revelation ofwhat separates us from all other species. We are moved to create, not out ofbrute instinct or biological necessity, but because we feel something so deeplywe must respond, however carefully. Tchaikovsky describes this formidable force,in a letter dated from Florence, Italy, February 17 (March 1) 1878:

If that condition of mind and soul which we call inspiration lasted long withoutintermission, no artist could survive it. The strings would break and theinstrument be shattered into fragments. It is already a great thing if the mainideas and general outline of a work come without any racking of brains, as theresult of that supernatural and inexplicable force we call inspiration.

This isn't just shoveling smoke. It has everything to do with striving toexpress something—not off the top of your head, but from your fiery depths.Olympic gymnast Mary Lou Retton put it this way: "Each of us has a fire in ourhearts for something. It's our goal in life to find it and keep it lit." Thisgoes for superb athletes, great artists, and also for rice farmers in thePhilippines, brick-layers in Guatemala, teachers in Buffalo, and nurses in theScottish Highlands. They can all teach you something about how to stoke thefires even under the harshest circumstances.

I'm trying to tell you something important here. The creative urge matters.Stories matter. Images matter. It matters that you were born with a genius, aguiding spirit, a daimon that may know more about your destiny than you do. Itmatters that there's an abyss between human hearts that can be bridged with ink,paint, stone, and music. It matters which words you use to bridge that chasm."Stories," "sparks," "fires," "genius," "daimon," "heart" are all sacred wordsin my vocabulary, because they do just that. But words aren't enough. You needsomething more, a spur that quickens you into action, a trigger that makes thephoenix in you rise from its ashes. You must make these words and desires move;you need to move beyond inspiration until it becomes something else.

The great Oregon poet William Stafford speaks of a mythic thread of destinywoven by the Three Fates: "There's a thread you follow. It goes among / Thingsthat change. But it doesn't change ..." When in doubt about what you'resupposed to be doing with your fierce heart, think about this thread. Is it yourfaith in the divine, your love of family, your vocation as a creative artist orentrepreneur? In this book, I will try to convince you to hold onto that threadas you enter the dark labyrinth of your incomplete work, no matter what yourmotivation.

HOLD ONTO THE THREAD

This much I know. The creative journey is a search for the deeply real. It's afiery attempt to make real some idea, some vision that is uncomfortably unrealuntil it's created. The search for inspiration, like Stafford's mythic thread,is neverending. The thread is the force that makes you real—if you don't let goof it. Your work will never be real—realized—until you are.

Here is a very real description of inspiration given by ten-year-old NilaDevaney, from Arcata, California:

Inspiration is foolish. He doesn't lie, but he only begins the truth. He is theone who starts the picture and completes the world. Without inspiration, therewould not be you. Inspiration is like a candle: the flame of everything, thestart of everything. Every time inspiration walks into a new neighborhood, heimmediately makes friends with the kids.

Ah, from the mouths of babes.

I'm fascinated by those of any age and talent whose spirit has been awakened bythis depth of awe and wonder. But I also know that, at the end of the day, it'sup to me to pick up the pen or the camera. Over the years, I've learned torespect the deceptively simple wisdom behind folk stories about creativity—likethe wonderful legend from China in which an old king gold-plates his bathtub andcommands his finest craftsmen to carve upon it fine sayings from the old sages.Each morning during his bath, the king meditates on these sayings, which hecalled the Five Excellent Practices, in order to rule as wisely as possible.

The next three chapters explore the first three stages on the creative journey:celebrating the waking dream of reverie, having the courage to seize the moment,and seeking the wisdom of those who can help you make what you once onlyimagined. Each chapter offers a handful of "excellent practices" or exercisesyou can use to activate your imagination and stir the creative fire smolderinginside you. As Yogi Berra described baseball practice, "There are deep depthsthere." The Roman writer Pliny the Elder cites Cicero as the origin of one of myfavorite expressions:

Whilst they as Homer's Iliad in a nut, A world of wonders in one closet shut.

The verse refers to an ancient practice in which scribes copied Homer's greatepic in script so tiny all 17,000 verses could fit inside a walnut shell.Soldiers could then carry the book into battle for inspiration, as Alexander isbelieved to have done when he marched to India.

FIRES OF THE IMAGINATION IN A NUTSHELL

Your imagination holds news of eternity. Inspiration comes and goes, creativityis the result of practice. There is a gold thread from your soul to your realwork. Hold onto it for dear life. There is a force within you that breathesdivine fire and brings your work to life. Honor it at all costs. Give ussomething the world's never seen before: you.

CHAPTER 2

Celebrating Reverie

Psychically speaking, we are created by our reverie—created and limited by ourreverie—for it is the reverie which delineates the furthest limits of the mind ...We have not experienced something until we have dreamed it.

—Gaston Bachelard, Poetics of Reverie

March 1986. Late Saturday night, sipping cappuccino in the old Café Figaro inL.A. I picked up a newspaper and turned to the movie section. My eyes fell upona curious photograph. It was unmistakably a portrait of Napoleon—but it wascarved out of a grain of rice and inserted into the eye of a needle.

After giving the image the old "once-over-twice," I learned from the captionthat it was the work of a Soviet-Armenian émigré, a "micro-miniature sculptor,"by the name of Hagop Sandaldjian, whose first exhibition was opening that nightat a local gallery. I couldn't resist the sly wink of synchronicity. This I hadto see for myself.

Later that night, I found myself eyeing the strangely amusing photographs ofSandaldjian's creations on the gallery wall. The exhibition catalogue describedthe artist as a virtuoso viola player and an ergonomics expert who had learnedhis miniscule art from a fellow Slavic musician. When he came to America in theseventies, he settled in L.A., but had difficulty finding steady work.Eventually, he began to create what one critic described as his "unimaginablyminute worlds within the eye of a needle."

When my turn came to lean over and peer into one of the microscopes, I feltmyself falling, as if down a slippery slope of metal tubing. At first, I sawnothing but the gauzy reflection of the inside of my own eyelid. Then thegallery walls seemed to close in; my head felt like smoke and my hands likeashes. I groped for the focus knob and twisted it until the image of Napoleonstanding on a pedestal appeared, his hand thrust inside his black overcoat.Dazzled, I moved on to the next microscope. This one revealed a grain of rice onwhich was spelled out in Arabic: "There is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is hisProphet." Next came rice grains featuring Mount Ararat, reputed home of Noah'sArk, and an image of Donald Duck made from the dust of crushed diamonds andrubies.

The Lilliputian artwork took my breath away, which is no throwaway phrase.Japanese calligraphers are known to wait for the moment between heartbeatsbefore putting brush to paper. Sandaldjian cultivated the same discipline,waiting for the nanosecond between his pulses before cutting into the delicaterice grains—a length of time that's been deftly named the "creative pause" byMagda Proskauer, a teacher of breathing techniques.

While gazing in amused awe at Sandaldjian's creation of a miniscule left-handedbaseball hitter with a red cap, I overheard a professorial man say that thosewho'd witnessed the artist at work claim they couldn't tell when his handsmoved. He appeared to be in a reverie, lost in a wondrous world of his ownmaking. Looking up from the microscope, I had the sense of swooping back into mybody, a sense that I'd encountered the work of someone who'd reached into theholy fire of the creative spirit. As Bill Cosby says, "I only told you thatstory to tell you this one."

Driving back to my hotel in Westwood, I was overcome by the reeling sense thattransportive art always provides me. I felt as if I'd been gone for a long time,in a strange land. No doubt about it, the planet is bulging with artwork. Butnuminous art is rare, like the long-lost bronze statue of a victoriouscharioteer hauled up from the bottom of the Mediterranean. When we encounterwhat's been conceived in fire, the flames spread and we're set ablaze by therevelation of another world. We're inspired, but not out of fawning admiration.We're moved by the enchantment, the effort that moves us to what St. Theresecalled "the tenderness that moves words to action," and the emotion that bringsus close to whatever is divine in life.
(Continues...)Excerpted from Stoking the Creative Fires by Phil Cousineau. Copyright © 2008 Phil Cousineau. Excerpted by permission of Red Wheel/Weiser, LLC.
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