Tag Archives: slice of life

Creative Dichotomy

Creative Dichotomy

Make art from the beautiful and the ugly;

From the joyful events of life and from the circumstances marked by sorrow.

Make art to evoke laughter and to break someone’s heart;

To provide fun for celebration and provide solemnities for mourning.

Make art to teach and inform, and to prick the conscience;

To elevate the humble and bring down the proud,

To encourage and to chastise.

Make art to provoke anger and rebellion;

To reflect and critique, to warn and admonish.

Make art to give voice to the voiceless and to silence the mouthpieces.

Make art to reflect and embrace the ordinary and the extraordinary.

Create Useless Beauty

Create Useless Beauty

Take a gander around the natural world and you will see a remarkable diversity. Even in the depths of the oceans where the creatures are nightmare fodder there is incredible diversity and beauty.

I’ve had the phrase “useless beauty” stuck in my head since I read Franky Schaeffer’s book, Addicted To Mediocrity (*) as a teenager. In reference to the diversity and beauty of nature he cited the jellyfish as an example. It exists within the ecosystem simply because it is. It exists because the creator designed it to be there. Therefore, it is beautiful.

What I mean by “create useless beauty” is this:

Create a piece of art because it has no other function than to beautify your presence, illuminate your thoughts, elevate your attitude, satisfy your creativity, to please only yourself.

Create a piece of art you can throw away or give away

Create a piece of art you can leave behind on a park bench or a cafeteria table.

The Beatles sang, “I heard the news today, oh boy.”

Every day we are surrounded by examples of the negativity, despair, the depths of depravity mankind can conjure and inflict upon one another on a daily basis.

However it does not take much searching to find the beauty of humanity in a shared experience of creativity.

And it begins with each of us creating useless beauty.

  • Write a short story scribbled on a Post It Note
  • Draw a random sketch on the back of a serviette
  • Record a hastily composed melody on your phone
  • Learn a favourite song, record it and post it to your blog or youtube
  • Fold an origami flower or a crane or a boat
  • Draw marginalia in the borders of the book you’re reading
  • Deface magazine pictures with a permanent marker
  • Take a picture a day (of the same spot, of something interesting you see about your day, but please don’t make it a selfie unless you’re making a documentary about yourself)
  • Decorate your office desk (or someone else’s desk).
  • Make a model aeroplane like you did when you were a kid.
  • Bake a cake (packet mix cakes are perfectly acceptable)

Make it something you would willingly give away, throw away or delete (don’t throw away the cake, eat it. Better yet, share it with others over a cup of tea).

Creativity is about communication.

Communicate first with yourself then communicate with others.

Practice random acts of creativity.

Create useless beauty.

(*) For those of you who have read “Addicted to Mediocrity” I realise I am taking a different angle to what Schaeffer was proposing, that of excellence in the arts. I believe in excellence in the arts, but I also believe in creativity as an integral part of the human experience. Excellence comes through refinement and dedication, learning and education in the arts. Schaeffer is addressing a cultural issue; I am addressing the need for creativity to be an important expression of our humanity.

The Fence Between My Fingers

I peer between the fractured fingers of the old paling fence, the common connection of our backyards. The weathered wood splays out with lichen fingernails and mossy knuckles.

Putting my foot on the bottom rail I push up. I can just loop my fingers over the top and my lips move closer to the splintered wood, riddled with deepening cracks of age and ants in their travels. I hear it creak as it takes my added weight. The fence bears it like I’m in my father’s arms, leaning against the strain.

I imagine your hair smells like the jasmine and the wisteria crowning the fence; tangled threads and strands of green shot through with sprigs of white flowers and clusters of purple reminding me of grapes.

I peer into your backyard catching slatted snippets of sight. Squinting one eye I can see the clothesline turning slowly in the breeze. And I wonder which t-shirt belongs to you; there is a new one on the line I don’t recognise. Maybe you have some new undies too. Mum bought me Superman undies and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle ones.

There’s your bike leaning against the house. And you’re riding without training wheels now.

The fence is biting into my fingers and I let go, dropping back to the grass. But I look through the slatted wall again, my nose pressed into the fence. Your back door opens and I run back to mine afraid you might see me.

I wonder if you sometimes look into my backyard.

Contrails

Contrails

Jack wound down the car window and felt the gush of summer air strike his face. His hands held onto the sill as he edged his nose closer to the invisible barrier between the interior and exterior of the car.

In the winter he would press his hands to the glass and bring his nose closer, but not quite touching, so he could watch the condensation form around his fingers. Taking a deep breath he experimented with different exhalations, from close, pursed lips to wide, open mouth and watched it condense on the glass and evaporate.

The summer wind grabbed at his hair and ruffled it with wild abandon. Jack was forced to squint into the force of the wind as he approached the event horizon of the windowsill. He observed the muted scenery through half-closed eyelashes, frequently blinking to push irritants out. The tears trickled out of the corner of his eyes and he felt them dry in the warm air.

“You ok back there, buddy?” his father asked from the front seat.

“Yeah, Dad.” Jack withdrew his face and let the wind continue to rush past.

Across the sky a miniscule spot moved, tearing the blue, leaving a scar of white. Jack followed the scar backwards until it grew broader and broke up, absorbed by the blue.

“Dad, are they clouds coming from the back of the plane?”

“Sort of. They’re called contrails.”

“What are they?”

“Contrails are clouds formed by the exhaust from the engines or from the change in air pressure.”

Jack looked back at the receding white scar, raised his hand, squinted through one eye and held the aeroplane between thumb and forefinger. Dropping his grip on the plane Jack extended his hand out of the window and let the wind catch in the cup of his hand. His arm rose and fell, a weightless object supported by the movement of air.

Resting his elbow on the will he expanded his fingers, letting star systems slip through. The landscape formed a blurred universe, his fingers in focus, in sharp relief against the smudged greens interrupted by splashes of red, blue, white and black cars.

From the tips of his fingers he imagined contrails, forming slowly and drifting into the quiet pocket of air behind his hand before spun like spider’s silk into the slipstream behind the car.

“What’cha doing, Jack?”

“Learning to fly.”

And The Kettle’s Whistle Went Unattended

A cold torrent shudders from the tap into the cauldron-like bowels of the kettle. He clanks it down on the stove and presses the ignition switch, hearing the click, click, click, WHOOOSH as prelude and prologue to conversation. The flames tickle the kettle’s underbelly as an anticipatory act, fostering his nervousness while he waits.

He dispenses one, two, three teaspoons of leaves into the round-bellied glass pot. On the bench two cups sit side-by-side, their handles turned inward, barely touching.

The kettle whistles and he pours a question. Silently she lets it draw. He pours the milk, stopping when she nods and stirs the words again. She adds sugar to both cups, two for him and one for her, and posits a question of her own.

The tendrils of steam rush headlong into each other, tripping over one another and caught in tangles, melding into one breath.

Lest they burn their lips the conversation is spoken in sips. As the beverage tempers and cools, deeper thoughts are expressed in longer draughts. Drained almost to the dregs, remainders of words stain the bottom of each cup. An unfinished conversation threatens to evaporate as each hand holds the cup for the last whispers of disseminating heat.

She ignites the flame knowing it simmers close to the boil.

They depart while the kettle’s whistle remains unattended.

The Mirror

The Mirror

I will stand in front of the mirror

And stare at my reflection.

It will talk of things that are

Of necessity, at once always true.

I will talk of things that are

Of necessity, of course, never true.

The Mirror

Inspired by a quote from Bas Jan Ader, Dutch performance and conceptual artist, when reading James Roy’s blog, “Head Vs Desk.”

Expressing What’s Inside You Creatively

Some say there is a novel in every one of us, trying to get out, waiting to be written.

I say that’s wrong.

Not everyone is a writer, nor is everyone a musician, nor is everyone an artist.

But…

I say there’s a story within every one of us.

That story can be expressed:

  • as a novel
  • in a poem
  • through photography
  • in film
  • in music
  • via singing
  • performing a dance
  • with paint and brushes on a canvas
  • by creating a sculpture
  • cooking new meals
  • by designing a garden
  • creating a website
  • giving someone a new look with a haircut
  • on a fashion catwalk
  • in politics
  • in philosophy
  • in a scientific environment
  • through the skills of oratory…

The possibilities are endless.

You need to know your story.

You need to know how to best express your story.

Tell your story…

…your way.

 

 

Folded Peace – A Poem

Folded Peace

Folded Peace

Were I to fold one thousand pages

Into one thousand cranes

Will I have erased enough

Print onto my fingers

That I may wash it away?

 

I fold despair into wings

 

Each page I fold

Is a prayer for peace

A flock tied like a kite’s tail

To let serenity slipstream

Over a tattered fringe of feathers

 

And give flight to hope

Create Because It Counts

We create not for fame.

Not for money.

Not for recognition.

Not for glory.

Not for the praise of others.

We create because it counts.

This principle came out of an article on pianist James Rhoades, “Find What You Love and Let It Kill You” from The Guardian newspaper in the UK.

Create because it counts.

James put himself through an extreme, almost ascetic regime: “no income for five years, six hours a day of intense practice, monthly four-day long lessons with a brilliant and psychopathic teacher in Verona, a hunger for something that was so necessary it cost me my marriage, nine months in a mental hospital, most of my dignity and about 35lbs in weight.”

I do not connect with the extremism (yet I can see the validity in it if you want to take something as far as you can go) but I do connect with the emotional response he has when he has put in the time and practice to learn and master a new piece of music; I apply it to writing.

“And yet. The indescribable reward of taking a bunch of ink on paper from the shelf … Tubing it home, setting the score, pencil, coffee and ashtray on the piano and emerging a few days, weeks or months later able to perform something … A piece of music that will always baffle the greatest minds in the world, that simply cannot be made sense of, that is still living and floating in the ether and will do so for yet more centuries to come. That is extraordinary. And I did that. I do it, to my continual astonishment, all the time.”

This is what counts: the emotional connection in creating, and in mastering a skill.

It is about the experience of joy in any creative endeavour. The joy in folding an origami crane for the first time; completing a short story; learning a new chord for guitar; finishing a water colour painting.

Doing it because it brings you a sense of completeness and wholeness as a person.

We do not have to go to the same extremities as James but his encouragement goes further to explore the “What if’s…?”

What if we used our time more wisely? Spent less time wasted on social media and engage in a creative activity? Spent a little bit of money to start a creative pastime like painting or photography? Knit? Crochet? Took our phone, shot some footage and made a short film? Used our time to engage with others in a writers’ circle? Wrote the story or novel we have been aching to tell for decades?

What if…?

So many possibilities. So many options.

And we create because it counts for something.

It counts for the children whose father draws a new picture on their lunch bag EVERY SINGLE DAY.

It counts for the short story writer, novelist or picture book writer creating worlds for others to inhabit.

It counts for the musician sitting in a cafe playing her guitar to six people.

It counts for the grandmother making a quilt as an heirloom for her grandchild.

It counts for the child who discovers the joy of the world through the lens of a camera and documents his journey to and from school every day.

It counts for the dancer at the bar, perfecting a pirouette.

It counts because we need stories and art and music and film and theatre and dance.

Creativity liberates your spirit. It enriches who you are, and the people who engage with your work.

Creativity is a mentality of giving; giving to yourself and others.

Creativity costs in terms of commitment, of sacrifice, of dedication.

You create because it counts.

Tempest’s Questions – A Poem

Tempest’s Questions

Tempest's Questions

In the darkness

of the tempest

twixt Faith and Doubt

who dares wake the

sleeper in the prow?