I need to write a final reflection piece on a project I did for class tomorrow morning.
I have been asked to talk about MY creative process.
Now, the concept of 'my' creative process seems to be a rather strange one. Maybe because I am just recently beginning to own my creativity.
How often do you hear people say, "Me? Oh, no. I'm not creative."
Maybe you say that yourself.
I do.
Or, at least I used to.
As often as we hear that line we hear the same response:
"everyone is creative".
And maybe we scoff at that idea; shrug our shoulders and roll our eyes.
But we are.
Each of us is infinitely creative.
It's in our nature. It's in the design.
And if we ignore it, we ignore a fundamental part of ourselves.
My father doesn't look like an artist.
He doesn't hang art on the walls - unless county maps count as such.
He couldn't pick out a Jackson Pollock painting from an Andy Warhol.
I doubt he's ever stepped foot in a gallery. And he probably never will.
He leaves the house most mornings by 5 am with a thermos of coffee and a strict plan for his day.
He wears Carharts and his hands are calloused.
He works with dirt and concrete and steel. With wood and granite and glue.
My dad is a contractor. A carpenter. A builder.
The furthest thing from a self-proclaimed artist.
But his work - and his joy - reeks of the creative.
I've watched him place pieces of slate on countertops with precision, rearranging them for hours until the movement of the rock is pleasing to the eye.
I've marvelled at his ability for creative design, to use what could be seen as a problem, instead for opportunity.
I've witnessed him pour himself into projects, working lengthy days to complete something with his hands. And I've seen his face beam when he's finished.
There is something of him woven into his work.
In those times and places - I see who he really is.
The creative process allows us this. It gives us a sense of who we are. Of who we're meant to be.
And it's the process that teaches us that, not the thing that we can see at the end of it.
My creative process is frustrating.
Maddening at times.
But it is the most life-giving thing I know.
It most always includes a half-formed, fuzzy idea, which I have yet to make any sense of.
And then more thoughts of that nature come at me before I've made sense of the first.
I usually have some ambiguous idea of what I want to do.
But nothing is concrete and no outcome is guaranteed.
One minute I am inspired.
The next I want to throw the whole thing out the window. Then light it on fire.
Yep.
That's how it goes.
But I can't leave it alone.
The ideas floating about in my head, they won't quiet themselves.
They want to be entertained and brought into existence.
But the forming takes a lot of work.
A l-o-t of work.
And risk.
Risk that maybe what you create will look like nothing to the people that see it.
Maybe your work will be totally misunderstood.
Totally unimpressive.
But you have to quiet all of those worries if you want to get down and do the work of creating.
You have to commit to it even when you cannot see it in it's entirety.
You have to carry it forward to the next step and then to the next.
You have to ease up control in the places where it wants to takes it's own turn.
My creative process is:
a practice.
a devotion.
a call to surrender expectation
to be vulnerable
and allow openness to create the thing that is asking to be created.
In the end,
it matters less about what we have to hang on the wall, and more about the parts of ourselves that we visit in the process.
The process speaks. The process is the prize.
I have been asked to talk about MY creative process.
Now, the concept of 'my' creative process seems to be a rather strange one. Maybe because I am just recently beginning to own my creativity.
How often do you hear people say, "Me? Oh, no. I'm not creative."
Maybe you say that yourself.
I do.
Or, at least I used to.
As often as we hear that line we hear the same response:
"everyone is creative".
And maybe we scoff at that idea; shrug our shoulders and roll our eyes.
But we are.
Each of us is infinitely creative.
It's in our nature. It's in the design.
And if we ignore it, we ignore a fundamental part of ourselves.
My father doesn't look like an artist.
He doesn't hang art on the walls - unless county maps count as such.
He couldn't pick out a Jackson Pollock painting from an Andy Warhol.
I doubt he's ever stepped foot in a gallery. And he probably never will.
He leaves the house most mornings by 5 am with a thermos of coffee and a strict plan for his day.
He wears Carharts and his hands are calloused.
He works with dirt and concrete and steel. With wood and granite and glue.
My dad is a contractor. A carpenter. A builder.
The furthest thing from a self-proclaimed artist.
But his work - and his joy - reeks of the creative.
I've watched him place pieces of slate on countertops with precision, rearranging them for hours until the movement of the rock is pleasing to the eye.
I've marvelled at his ability for creative design, to use what could be seen as a problem, instead for opportunity.
I've witnessed him pour himself into projects, working lengthy days to complete something with his hands. And I've seen his face beam when he's finished.
There is something of him woven into his work.
In those times and places - I see who he really is.
The creative process allows us this. It gives us a sense of who we are. Of who we're meant to be.
And it's the process that teaches us that, not the thing that we can see at the end of it.
My creative process is frustrating.
Maddening at times.
But it is the most life-giving thing I know.
It most always includes a half-formed, fuzzy idea, which I have yet to make any sense of.
And then more thoughts of that nature come at me before I've made sense of the first.
I usually have some ambiguous idea of what I want to do.
But nothing is concrete and no outcome is guaranteed.
One minute I am inspired.
The next I want to throw the whole thing out the window. Then light it on fire.
Yep.
That's how it goes.
But I can't leave it alone.
The ideas floating about in my head, they won't quiet themselves.
They want to be entertained and brought into existence.
But the forming takes a lot of work.
A l-o-t of work.
And risk.
Risk that maybe what you create will look like nothing to the people that see it.
Maybe your work will be totally misunderstood.
Totally unimpressive.
But you have to quiet all of those worries if you want to get down and do the work of creating.
You have to commit to it even when you cannot see it in it's entirety.
You have to carry it forward to the next step and then to the next.
You have to ease up control in the places where it wants to takes it's own turn.
My creative process is:
a practice.
a devotion.
a call to surrender expectation
to be vulnerable
and allow openness to create the thing that is asking to be created.
In the end,
it matters less about what we have to hang on the wall, and more about the parts of ourselves that we visit in the process.
The process speaks. The process is the prize.