The Gift of Inspiration- a short story I wrote

 

"Art is not what you see, it's what you make others see."

-Edgar Degas

This is a repost of a blog post in Steve Emig: The White Bear blog, from August 11, 2019.

 This story was written yesterday.  I am a homeless man, and I slept in a parking lot last night, after writing this.  You never know what potential is lying hidden in the people you see each day...

The Gift of Inspiration

"There's a story that has been lost to time," the old man doing chalk drawings on the sidewalk said.  He went on, I just listened, as he drew a big yellow box, with a red ribbon, with his chalk.  "It's the best gift of all in here," he continued, "the gift of inspiration."

The chalk artist talked as he continued to draw...

"It happened back in the days of old, medieval times when knights and castles and walled cities were the way of things.  A stranger walked through the gates of a city one afternoon, he had only a small satchel, an odd bag over his shoulder, and a sleeping roll of blankets was tied to a strap slung over the other shoulder.  He stopped in the city center, and bought some food from the merchants there."

"He began to talk to the people of the city, and told them he had traveled far and wide, and had seen many things.  A few people were fascinated by his stories.  One thing led to another, and he was invited to the king's court that night, by a nobleman.  The stranger accepted, and met the nobleman later, and was escorted to the dinner.  By the end of the meal itself, before the dancing commenced, the nobleman began to feel a bit uneasy.  It was customary in that city to offer a gift to the king, as a token of appreciation for the privilege of dining in the great hall.  The nobleman pulled the stranger aside, and told him of the custom, offering to have a servant go to his house and find a suitable gift.  The stranger simply said, 'Don't worry, I have something to give.'"  

"As the king and queen took to their thrones, and the fine people of the city offered lavish gifts of silks, spices, gold, and other treasures, the stranger finally was presented to the king.  'Your majesty, I am a humble traveler, I have been to many lands, and I bring you something no other king even knows exists.' The stranger reached into his satchel and pulled out a small earthenware jar.  'In a land, far, far to the East, on an island only a few have set foot upon, there lives a lone wizard.  Having heard of this wise one, I traveled to his island, and spent many days searching for the cave he calls home.  I finally found him, and spent many weeks learning from him.'"

"'When it came time for me to leave, the wizard gave me this jar.  He told me that I would find the city that was ready for the greatest of all gifts.  I believe I have found that city, your majesty, and it is your city the wise wizard spoke of.  You see, in this jar is a fine dust,  like very fine sand, which the wizard spent many many years creating.  This magic dust... is the gift of inspiration itself.'"

The chalk artist finished drawing the big yellow box with a red ribbon, and he began to draw a huge castle, in the middle of a walled city.  Without looking up, he continued his story.

"The king looked dubious, but intrigued.  'The wizard told me that when I found the right city, which I would know in my heart, that I was to sprinkle a tiny bit of this magic dust, on the head of each of its residents, with each new moon, such as we have tonight.  The wizard said the dust would inspire the people of that town to new ideas, to create works of art, new delicacies to be eaten, and new forms of music and dance, incredible plays will be performed, and great architecture will arise, and other crafts such as the world has never seen.  This gift of inspiration would make the city the most prosperous in the land.'"

"'I am a humble traveler, your majesty, I have little in physical goods to offer, but I can offer your city this gift of inspiration, if you will accept it.'  The king did not think long, and quickly ordered his subjects to form a line to have the odd stranger administer a pinch of dust onto the head of each person.  Then the drinking and dancing began, and first the king and queen, and then the others, talked with the mysterious stranger, listening to his tales of far off places, of strange people and odd customs.  Before long a few people began sharing ideas that had long been kept to themselves." 

"The next day, after hearing several nobles felt "quite inspired," the king had all the townsfolk line up in the city square, and had the stranger tell of the magic dust, and sprinkle a pinch on each person, even the children.  The stranger was given a house to live in, and the job of wandering the city to see how the inspiration was taking hold.  He began to talk to the people of the town every day, listening to new ideas of all kinds, and encouraging them, helping them gather supplies, or begin a project they'd imagined long before, but never had the nerve to try.  A new kind of energy, not one that can be seen, but can definitely be felt and experienced, arose in the city."

"It began the second day when a woman brought a new cake to the town square, a flavor she had never baked before, and with exquisitely decorated icing.  Several townspeople tried it, marveled at the new taste, and went home to try new ideas of their own.  By the time the next new moon came around, many new sweets, a couple of new beers, and several new stews had been created.  The tanner had crafted some amazing bags of leather, finely tooled designs upon them, designs he'd thought of years before.  Much to the surprise of everyone, the town mortician, known mostly for his very quiet demeanor, and for carving tombstones and preparing the dead for funerals, began to carve into the stone of the city's outer wall.  In a month, in the time not devoted to his normal duties, he had carved most of a relief of the city's founding king on a horse.  The carving was incredible in its detail and nuance, and was on the wall next to the city's gate.  Travelers and townsfolk alike remarked at its beauty."

The old man with the chalk expertly drew a relief of a mounted rider, on the wall of the city he was drawing on the sidewalk in front of me.  Still never looking up, he continued his story.

"On the evening of the second new moon, the king held a great party for the nobles, and again the mysterious traveler was invited.  The king lifted his bejeweled cup and spoke, 'A toast, to our new friend and hopefully longtime resident, the great traveler, who has been drawn to our fine city to bestow the great gift of inspiration itself.'  Cups rose and clinked around the great hall.  Sips were taken.  The king told of new delicacies he had tried, of his pleasure seeing the great carving on the city wall, and the new works of beauty the city's craftsmen and women had created.  The king ordered the noblemen and noblewomen to line up once again, to receive a pinch of the magic dust on the top of their heads from the jar the mysterious stranger held, and kept safe in his new home.  The next day, again, the king and his court had the townspeople line up in the town square, even the children, to receive a pinch of the magic dust upon their heads by the traveler."

"That month two new cheeses of exquisite flavor were created by the cheese maker, and sweet rolls, and more leather works, and a fine sword by the blacksmith.  The carvings by the quiet mortician continued on the outer wall.  More people had more ideas, and shared them with others, and began to encourage each other.  The king and queen, their court, and all the townspeople still managed their to do their normal duties.   But each found time to do other, more creative activities, as well.  The mysterious traveler was now a cherished friend to all, and wandered the town each day, lending a helping hand here and there, encouraging those trying one new thing or another, and laughing, eating, and drinking with the townspeople."

"A few days later, a wagon drawn by two horses entered the city gates.  It was the wide ranging home to a traveling merchant who came to the area every two or three months.  He parked his wagon, and, with his wife, walked into the town square to find the local craftspeople he had known for many years.  He immediately noticed something was different.  The people seemed more friendly, and their was more laughter in the air and less bitterness.  As he wandered the local shops, he was amazed by all the new items, beautiful items, wonderful beers, and tasty new treats, the town had to offer.  A small stage had been erected in the town square, for performing plays and music.  The king had ordered the people not to talk of the precious gift of inspiration, for their city was the chosen one, and they wanted to keep it that way.  So the craftspeople of the own simply said, "Oh, I had this idea for a long time, and just decided to give it a try," when asked about a new creation. The wandering merchant bought and traded many wonderful things to carry with him and sell in other towns.  A couple of weeks later, the same thing happened with another of the wandering merchants of the region."

"And so it went, day after day, week after week, month after month, in the walled city that once seemed no different than any of the other walled cities throughout the land.  But bit by bit, traveler by traveler, word began to spread about the one city with the carving on its protective wall, and the wonderful and interesting things the people of that city produced.  People from cities close by began to travel there more often, to listen to the music, to buy the delicacies, and to trade.  As time passed, people from across the region, then people from across the country, visited the city with the growing stone carving and the exquisite works of crafts and arts and culinary delights.  Within a few years, even back in those times when people and news traveled rather slow, people from far away lands sought out the city, now famous in many, many lands for its creativity and great works.  The city prospered in good times and in bad, and people far and wide wondered what its great secret was.  That secret, of course, was that on each new moon, each new beginning of that cycle in the night sky, the mysterious traveler sprinkled a tiny bit of dust on the top of the head of each of the townspeople, even all the children.  He bestowed on them the concoction of the great wizard, on that small island, far away.  The traveler gave them inspiration."

The old man doing the chalk drawing on the sidewalk had drawn the walled city, with many towers, next to his chalk drawing of the big yellow box, wrapped with a red ribbon.  The detail in the quickly drawn picture was amazing.  Without raising his head, his story continued.

"In time the walled city grew to be the dominant city in the whole region.  The city grew.  The great outer wall, now completely covered with incredible relief sculptures, was expanded.  Brave and incredible new architecture was built in the new area, and huge beautiful gardens were planted and tended to.  The most talented people from many other lands flocked to the city, to learn from its people, now masters of many types of art and craft, and always innovators of new things.  Each new person was taken aside, and told quietly about the mysterious stranger, and asked to keep the magic dust, the gift of inspiration, quiet.  Since the small earthenware jar holding the gift of inspiration was a great secret, eventually everyone knew about it.  The magic dust became a legend, and like most legends that travel from their source, it wasn't believed, it became a joke to tell in other cities.  The joke protected the small jar that never seemed to run out of magic dust."

"The king of the city, a sturdy and noble middle aged man when the mysterious traveler first arrived, grew old as his city expanded and flourished.  Some thirty years after the arrival of the traveler, the now old and wise king grew ill.  The townspeople new his time as there king was nearing an end.  One night, knowing he had only a few days of breath left in him, the king called for the mysterious traveler, now an old friend and counselor, to visit him.  The king told his servants to leave them alone to talk."

"The weak king smiled, 'My city has flourished since your arrival, my friend, and I am very grateful for that.'  The traveler nodded.  'My days are now few, and I must ask you the question I have wished to ask all these years.  What is the magic dust, the gift of inspiration, actually made of?'  The traveler smiled, and sat on the chair next to the king's bed.

"The traveler began, 'As a young man, I got in a lot of trouble.  I lived on a small farm outside a walled town, much like any other.  I was a precocious child with far too much energy, and lots of ideas I thought were wonderful.  But no one wanted to hear them.  No one encouraged me to try out my ideas.  In fact family and friends alike told me to shut up, keep my ideas to myself, and do what I was told, and to do no more than I was told.  They were not bad people, but people raised to work hard, and to focus on the simple things, and to live as their ancestors had lived.  They did not like new ideas, they liked things to remain they way they were."

"But something inside of me told me there must be more to life.  I sensed there must be some reason I had all these ideas.  In my little bit of free time from doing my chores, I went to a bend in the nearby river, where there was a big sandbar, and a fallen tree on the edge of the sandbar.  I sat there and I dreamed of going to a place, a place I imagined was far, far away, a place where ideas were welcomed and appreciated.  A place where new things were tried, and great things were created.  I knew that place must exist somewhere."

"In those years as a growing child, yearning to roam far beyond my town's walls, I found myself drawn to the merchants, the roaming minstrels, and the travelers of all kinds, telling tales of other places, different people, and far off lands.  Finally, shortly after my 14th birthday, I packed a few things, and I ran away from my town.  I set out to find that far off land I dreamed of, that land where new ideas were welcomed, and innovation was an everyday thing.  I sought that place with great buildings, and works of art, and beautiful music, and even more beautiful women dancing each night."

"But I was a young man with no money, so I began to work for a traveling merchant, and then another, and then another.  With him and his wife, I traveled from town to town, city to city, and began to meet many people.  One day we came to a great port city, and I saw a huge ship in the harbor, like nothing I had every seen before.  I asked one of the workers about the great ship, and in talking with him, he told me the captain needed a new cabin boy.  So I left the merchant life, and I took to the seas, working under a wise old salt, a great ship captain, and I traveled the world."

"In each port, I went ashore with the older men, and I drank ale and danced with women, and learned different customs and different languages.  I learned the ways of the sailors, and I moved up in jobs on the crew of the ship.  I worked my way around the world as a sailor.  Some told me I might make a great captain some day.  But in my heart, I knew I was looking for that one place.  I was looking for that place where ideas flowed like wine at a wedding party, and everyone did great and wonderful things as a matter of course."

The old man with the chalk, drawing on the wide city sidewalk in front of me, deftly drew a great three masted sailing ship.  Without looking up, he continued his story.

"The stranger continued telling the king his story.  'But I never found that place.  I saw great buildings, fine paintings, sculptures created by master artists.  I ate great foods at times, and meager sea rations at others.  I worked hard, always ready to head up to the crow's nest of the ship, so I would be the first to see the place I dreamed of as a child.  But the more lands I visited, the more I realized that people are nearly the same everywhere.  They look a bit different, they eat different foods, and have different cultures.  But they all sound nearly they same when they laugh, they all look much the same when dancing, and tell very similar stories over a pint of ale.  The all make similar gibberish when playing with a small baby.  The all ache much the same over a broken heart, or grieve the same over a lost loved one.'"

"'I also noticed, everywhere I went, the people all had ideas that they told me, a stranger, a traveler, but were afraid to tell their family and friends.  Many of these ideas were really good ones, but they were afraid to fail, afraid to look like a fool around the people they grew up with.  Like me, as a child, everyone had good ideas they were afraid to try.  One night, thinking about this common thing I'd noticed in people around the world, I bought a small earthenware jar from a street merchant, it was filled with a sweet custard that was baked into a velvety crust in the jar.  I walked with my jar out along the waterfront, to a quiet, secluded beach, made of the most fine sand I'd ever seen.  As I sat on the beach, watching the sun slowly drop towards the horizon, a local craftsman wandered by, collecting pieces of driftwood and shells.  I'd seen his work, he made these amazing little sculptures of mythical creatures, dragons and sea serpents, in the marketplace.  Throughout that city, I saw his works on shelves and in window ledges.  He was a favorite artist of the city, but I had seen his creations in other cities, and even on the desk of the great sea captain I first sailed with.  Everyone talked about how he took ordinary objects, a piece of old fishing net, a branch from some driftwood, a bit of seashell, and a few other cast off objects, and made something incredibly beautiful out of those things."

"'As he walked by, I asked him how he learned to make his amazing little sculptures.  The man smiled, he sat down on the beach beside me, as the sun sank a bit above the horizon.  He told me that his uncle gave him a small knife as a kid, and taught him how to whittle little figures out of scraps of wood.  So he began to whittle in all of his spare time.  A couple of years later, still a very young boy, there was a girl he had a crush on who got very ill.  He'd always been afraid to tell her how he felt.  The word got around that she might die.  Not knowing what else to do, he found a scrap of wood, and he began to carve a dove out of it, the little girl's favorite bird.  He found some scraps of cloth, a bit of wax, and other odds and ends, and melted the wax, and added on here and there, and he made her a dove.  Then, sheepishly, he went to her house, into her room, where the family was gathered around, and he silently handed her his homemade dove.  The sculptor said her eyes lit up, and she smiled a glowing smile.  It was the first time she'd smiled in days.  He said he felt a feeling, a true, good, incredible feeling, that he'd never known before.  The girl weakly waved him towards her, and gave him a kiss on the cheek.  The sculptor's eyes teared up as he told me.'"

The old man with the chalk outlined a beautiful dove with a few masterful strokes, and then set to color it in.  Eyes still to his work, continued his story.

"'What happened then?' The traveler asked the sculptor.  The sculptor took a breath, trying to hold back his tears, 'Then she took a shallow, coughing breath, and she died.  She died smiling, holding my dove.  I started crying, and I ran from the room,' the sculptor said.  After a couple of minutes, still crying outside the house, I felt a soft hand on my shoulder.  I turned to see the girl's grandmother.  She said, "I know you liked her for quite a while, why did you never tell her, or give her a gift before now?"  The sculptor said, "I was afraid.  I was afraid she would laugh at me, or make fun of me, or tell me to never talk to her again."  The grandmother continued, "What you did for my sick granddaughter was wonderful, and the little dove you made was beautiful.  You should never feel bad for creating a gift to help someone.  That was the first time she's smiled in many days."  The grandmother grabbed his chin, pulled his face to look at hers, and said, "From now on, whenever you feel the need to make something beautiful, for any reason, I give you permission to go ahead and do it, to go ahead and make it, whatever it is.  My granddaughter has passed on, but her spirit, and that smile, will be with you always.  I think you will go on to make many other people smile with the things you create."   The sculptor could no longer hold back the tears, they streamed down his cheeks.  "The girl's grandmother gave me permission to make the things I think need to be made, and I've been making them ever since."  He got up, picked up his driftwood and shells, and walked off down the beach, wiping his eyes.'"

"The traveler continued his story to the king.  'At that moment, the setting sun just touched the horizon, and suddenly I knew why I never found the city where new thoughts and ideas were welcomed, and where everyone made incredible things.  I never found that city,' the mysterious traveler told the king, 'because in every town and city everywhere, there were people with ideas, but most of them were afraid to try.  No one ever gave them permission.  I realized it was the same everywhere.'"

"The traveler continued.  'I wiped my eyes and watched the most beautiful sunset, sitting on an incredible beach of fine sand, eating a rich, custard dish, in my little earthenware jar.  I didn't think life could be much more pleasurable than that moment.  It was inspiring.  I knew what I must do.  I washed out my jar when I was done eating, and I filled it with the fine sand from the beach that inspired me.  I got hired on the next ship leaving the port.  I began traveling again.  Eventually I made my way here.'"

"The mysterious traveler turned to the king.  The king smiled, and in a weak voice, he spoke, 'I had a feeling there was no wizard, but the magic you created with that sand and your little jar, it worked. My city... our city... has thrived, I thank you for that."  The king reached out and took the traveler's hand and shook it in deep appreciation.  They were both silent for a few moments."

The old man drawing with the chalk began to draw a fire, and I thought maybe he was drawing the fire of creative energy itself.  Still facing his work, he continued his story

"Then the king spoke again.  "I have another question, one that's bothered me these many years.  How is it that your little jar never ran out of the sand from that beach that inspired you?"  The traveler got up, and walked to the window, the kings room was high in the castle, and looked out over the city, and the lands beyond the wall.  The traveler looked out the window for a moment, then he spoke, 'There's a small beach, a sandbar really, about a mile down the river, I've been going there to sit and think now and then, since I came here.  It's quiet and beautiful, and it reminds me of that beach far away, where I talked to the sculptor.  When the sand in the jar got a little bit low, I picked up a handful on the sandbar by the river, put it in my pocket, and filled the jar back up when no one was looking, so it never ran out.'"

"'You fooled me and my people for thirty years now,' the king laughed.  'I didn't really fool them,' the traveler said, still looking out the window, towards the sandbar down the river, 'I simply told them an engaging story, and I gave them permission to be who they had always been capable of being, who they always wanted to be, that's all.'  'What wonderful magic,' the king laughed, 'It is you who is really the great wizard.  Again, I thank you.'  The traveler turned towards his friend, the king, and nodded.'"

"There was a small farm right by that sandbar on the river,' the king began again, "long, long ago, when I was a young prince, and my father was king.  I knew the farmer well, he had a peach tree there that seemed to grow the juiciest peaches anywhere, and he always gave me plenty when they were in season.'  The traveler continued to stare out the river as the king spoke.  'The farmer was a good man, I talked to him often when he came to town, when I had more time for such things.  One night, during a fierce thunderstorm, a bolt of lightning struck the big, old oak tree outside his cottage, and the tree fell on the house, catching it on fire.  It burned all night.  Since the farm was set apart from the others, we didn't realize what happened until a hunter walked by the next morning, and found the smoldering ruins.  The house burned to the ground in an intense fire.  The man and his wife were both inside, but we found very little of them.  The farmer had a young boy, too, about 12 years old.  He must have completely burned up in the fire, we found no trace of him.  It was a terrible tragedy.  For years afterwards, I would go to that place when the peach tree was full of ripe fruit, and I would say a prayer for that farmer.'"

The mysterious traveler smiled, and turned back towards the king.  He walked across the room to the bedside, and once again sat in the chair.  'Yes, that was a terrible tragedy.  The boy was 14, by the way, not 12, and he didn't die in the fire.  I ran away.  There was something I needed to find.  When I finally found it, I came back home and shared it.'  The king's mouth dropped open in surprise, and then he smiled.  The mysterious traveler smiled back."

The man doing the chalk drawing on the city sidewalk stopped drawing, finishing his drawing of the huge castle, the great walled city, and the cottage on fire, exactly when his story finished.  He turned, looked up to me and smiled.  "You, like everyone, have ideas you think need to become reality.  You have my permission, go make them happen."

-Steve Emig
The White Bear
8/10/2019

This basic story, in one form or another, has been in my head for 20 years or so.  The time finally came to write it down. Creativity is like that.  The best works have a way of coming into existence just when they are most needed.  We don't really create the art.  We artists and writers are really a sort of midwives, we shepherd the work from the unseen world into the tangible world, where it can be shared.

Planting flowers in Hell: poetry, other arts, and the gift and dedication of creativity

My favorite bands are mostly punk bands, the music I listen to most often, are bands like Social Distortion, The Descendents, and Face to Face, and several others.  But when I'm in a creative mood, actually working on creative projects, I listen to this entire concert of the Lilith Fair in 1997.  I've watched and listened to this dozens and dozens of times.  This is one of the best documentaries on creativity I know.  

"Writing's so bizarre.  I think that's why it's so fulfilling.  It's like you're... you're making something out of nothing."

-Shawn Colvin, Lillith Fair, 1997 documentary (above)

To be able to reach into the void, to literally stretch your soul out into that other dimension, and bring out something new, something you think the world needs, to breathe life into it, and set that creative piece on its journey into the physical world, that is the work of an artist.  And that work requires every bit as much dedication as that of a doctor, or a soldier, to do it well, and do it consistently.  An artist, a poet of life, may not fight battles with guns, but we are always fighting battles. 

While in North Carolina, three years ago, living in a tent in the woods, and drawing my Sharpie art day after day, fighting the darkness of the deep shadows of the worst aspects of Old Southern Culture, it seemed like I was planting flowers in Hell.  I wondered if it was all worthwhile many times, like when I was hunkered down, under a tarp, inside my tent, as a Carolina thunderstorm raged around me, thinking about drawing at the library the next day.  One day I realized, if you plant enough flowers in Hell, it doesn't feel like Hell anymore.  That is our work as artists. 

To keep trying, keep creating, to build our technical skills, and learn our own creative process, to bring new things, new creative works, new ideas, into the world.  That is our job.  If you dedicate yourself to that over the long term, you eventually build up the drive to keep going no matter what forces of the evil parts of the everyday human world throw at you, or our own fears and personal demons we may be wrestling with. 

 That is our job.  We light matches in the darkness and create new lights to share and pass around and light new paths.  To do that, we must be sensitive to the creative sparks and the nuances, but also build a toughness to break past the doubters and haters.  At this point, if you put me in front of a firing squad, condemned to die a moment later by the executioners' guns, I'd write a haiku on the spot and recite it, as my last work in this world.  

You pull the trigger

Sending lead death to end me

A poem comes, I win

Sometimes it takes that level of dogged dedication to be an artist.  History would forget the names of the firing squad members, and the leader who told them to shoot.  But that poem, that haiku would be written down and remembered, I guarantee it.  

Yes, sometimes it takes that level of dedication to your creative work to be an artist.  Most of the time it does not, thankfully.  But there is a dedication to being a poet, a painter, a sculptor, a songwriter, a musician, a dancer, a content creator, a director, a producer, an inventor, a graphic designer, whatever.  You may not face the firing squad for your creative work, but you face days of creating crap, you face your insecurities, your personal bad habits, your doubts, your mom's doubts, your dad's doubts, everybody's doubts.  You face moments, even days, where it doesn't seem to be working.  

And then... that spark comes, from somewhere.  That next right idea that you need to create.  But the spark is the just that, the spark, it is not the poem, the song, the play, the finished work.  Then comes the dedication that you've built over time, the work to take that creative spark and form it with your technical skills, into the piece of art to share with others.  

Some pieces of art may be instant hits, going viral in your genre' to be admired and to inspire many people in a short amount of time.  Other pieces may not receive much initial excitement at all.  They may sit out there in the world, seemingly unnoticed, for months or years.  But in that time, in their place, those pieces inspire one person here, and another there.  And years later someone thanks you for creating that piece or work you'd long forgotten about.  It did have a purpose, it was needed in the world at the time you created it.  Maybe that "failure" ultimately inspired entire new people and new ideas while you went on, busy elsewhere.  You never know.  

There is a reason we are driven to create something.  Sometimes it's just for our own survival.  Sometimes we just need to get out of our everyday mindset and goof around, and make something to keep our own spirits up.  Sometimes we create a gift for someone dear to us, to help them through a dark time.  Sometimes we create a piece of art that speaks to many, many people.  Sometimes we may create something that seems like no big deal at the time, but it sparks a whole new genre' of creativity in other people.  Sometimes we may create a work that speaks to our times, and helps drive a major, needed,  a change in society itself.  

We never know, as artists what effect a certain piece will have.  Our job is to actually live life, and to learn and grow as artists, to dedicate ourselves to doing the best work we can, as we journey through life.  Our job is to learn our own creative process, to follow our our weird path, to build our technical skills, and to drop everything and create that next piece of work when the spark hits us.  

The world of humans needs our work, even if it may not seem like it at the time.  The world needs us, as artists, no many how many mean and seemingly evil people (most of whom are blocked artists themselves) may try to destroy us.  The world needs new creative pieces of work, new ideas, of all kinds, constantly.  The world needs you to create.  Do your best to hold up your end of the bargain.  Keep creating.

Become

You must risk

If you're to succeed

From when we grow

Sometimes we bleed

Each must climb

Over the fence

For the only cage

Is ignorance

Each Jedi Knight

And Shaolin monk

Evolved from

A lowly punk

Don't get caught

In the world's throws

We must become

Our own heroes

 

-The White Bear 

(aka me, Steve Emig)

A couple of memes I made a while back, on the idea of creativity...

 

The Importance of Creative Scenes

Me getting creative on my freestyle bike, underneath the Huntington Beach Pier, 1987.  Apparently I was too broke to get a haircut at the time. 

 

We've all heard of cities that have a good music scene or a great art scene.  But what does that mean really?  What is a scene?  While a lot people like to go see a live band in a bar or club, or check out a gallery of local artists, do these things really matter much?  Aren't art and music scenes just place where artists, musicians, hippies, weirdos, and other people who don't want to really work hang out?  As a kid growing up in the 1970's and 1980's, that was what I heard about art and music scenes.  

My own interest in what I now call "creative scenes" began in October of 1982.  I was in my junior year in high school in Boise, Idaho, and my family lived in a trailer park outside of town, that we called Blue Valley.  We weren't diehard trailer trash, my parents moved there to save money for a year or two, so they could buy a house in town.  Unlike most of their financial plans, that plan ultimately worked.  

But, over the summer of 1982 in Blue Valley, us teenage guys in the park got more and more into BMX riding, since there wasn't much else to do.  That fall, someone heard there was actually a BMX track in Boise.  Four of us packed into a Ford Pinto, with 3 bikes, to go check it out.  Scott, Rocky, and Brian all won trophies in their first races, while I watched and coached.  We were hooked.  The next weekend, we packed the whole posse, 9 or 10 of us, with all our bikes, into my dad's Ford van, and headed to the Fort Boise BMX track.  It was the last race of the season.  That day, something weird happened.  Us trailer park kids, with cheap, crappy, bargain store bikes, in blue jeans and T-shirts, with paper plate number plates, all raced really well, for our first or second races.  Every one of us went home with a trophy, most for 1st or 2nd place in our class.  The Boise track locals, on $400-$500, high end BMX racing bikes, in their fancy racing leathers, couldn't figure out who we were, where we all came from, or why we were all so damn fast, for newbies.  

For us in Blue Valley, over several months, BMX was our thing.  We had been going out to our little jumps on the edge of the desert, and trying to out ride each other, day after day after day.  I later realized, we had developed a BMX bike scene.  We were a small group of people, with one dominating common interest, who got together, (daily, in our case) to push each other to get better.  That's what I now call a "creative scene."  We weren't making art or music, but we were learning jumping tricks on our bikes, and trying to invent a trick or two.  Not super creative, but somewhat creative.  We raced each other, practiced carving through turns, and speed rolling jumps.  But mostly we tried to jump for style better than all the other guys. At that time BMX racing was a sport, only 12 years old, and BMX trick riding, an offshoot, was just morphing into a sport of its own, called BMX freestyle.  

As I got more into freestyle in 1983 and 1984, a sport born in Southern California, I began to hear of small groups of freestylers around the country, and later in Canada and the U.K.  The BMX magazines sometimes covered these little scenes, or sometimes kids got letters published in the magazines, about their local group of riders. BMX freestyle was about doing learning tricks on BMX bikes, and inventing our own tricks, and it was highly creative, as well as a physical "sport."  

As BMX freestyle grew, it seemed to pop up in small groups, in different places around the country.  Freestyle didn't grow evenly across the U.S., town by town, city by city.  After the original riders, like Bob Haro, Bob Morales, R.L. Osborn and Mike Buff, in the South Bay area near Los Angeles, groups of freestylers popped up in San Francisco, San Diego, Kansas City, Austin, New York City, and obscure places likeYork, Pennsylvania, Elgin, Illinois, small towns in New England, and the three of us in Boise, as well as couple dozen other places.  

One or two riders would see a factory team trick show, get hooked on the idea of BMX freestyle, and get a couple other people into it, and start their own trick team.  That trick team would do shows and spread the word of this weird little sport in their area, drawing more riders in.  I didn't realize it then, but along with trying to eventually become a pro BMX freestyler, by riding daily, I was also witnessing how a creative scene grows from a couple dozen people, to a worldwide sport and industry.  BMX freestyle was also a part of the larger action sports movement, spawned mostly by surfing and motocross, and including skateboarding, snowboarding, rock climbing, mountain biking, wake boarding, and other new sports.  Our weird little sport, credited to one person, Bob Haro, is now worldwide, on TV, the internet, and social media, part of the X-Games, and will demo in the next summer Olympics.  None of that was planned in the early 1980's, it just happened organically.  It started with high school age kids having fun on bikes. 

That's what "creative scenes" do, at times.  They start with one or two people, with some new idea involving some form or creativity.  It can be a new style of art.  The Impressionists, were a scene in their day, taking painting in a new direction.  It can be music.  It can be entrepreneurial, spawning a new business, or even a new industry.  It can be technology.  Steve Wozniak and Steve Jobs, creating the first Apple Computer to share with the local Homebrew Club, in San Jose, in the 1970's, that was both a technological scene (computer enthusiasts), and soon after, an entrepreneurial scene, Apple Computers (now simply Apple).  These scenes just kind of happen, and it's hard to engineer one to grow into a worldwide movement or industry.  Research centers in major companies and universities are attempts to create creative scenes, usually around technology of some sort, but with major business potential.  These centers of innovation come up with a lot of ideas, but most don't take off and go very far. Some do, and spawn new products, businesses, and industries.

The best scenes, judged by overall influence on society, just seem to happen, and they seldom happen where major corporations want them to.  Jobs and Wozniak borrowed ideas from corporations that were trying to create major technological breakthroughs, and then created the personal computer revolution in a garage, a few miles from highly funded research centers.  

Creative scenes don't have to spawn major businesses to be highly successful, influential, and beneficial to society.  The Beat Poets didn't become billionaires, but their initial small poetry scenes influenced a huge part of their generation, as did the Acid Rock bands and Hippie culture of San Francisco's Haight/ Ashbury District in the late 1960's.  Whether that was mostly a good influence or a bad influence,depends on who you ask.  A lot of great art, music, and things like meditation became popular as a result.  But then, hallucinogenic drugs became popular, also.  

Some creative scenes just give local creative types a place to try ideas, experiment, and become more creative people in general. Those scenes are incredibly important in the overall scheme of things.  Those are the "nursery" scenes where a lot of people, often afraid to try new ideas, find out, "Hey, I can make something interesting."  The kids who have good creative scenes, some organized, others totally unorganized, gain some confidence, and begin to get better at bring creative in general.  Often great creative people had little known scenes they were a part of early in life, that sowed the seed of using creativity on a regular basis.  Those seeds often blossom years later, in art, music, or other creative endeavors.   

Other creative scenes take root in a part of a city or town, and then attract more creative people, of various kinds.  Some creative scenes become legendary places in their genre's.  Think of Hollywood (a mile form me, as I write this), a major creative scene for movies, TV, and music.  Broadway in New York City is a legendary creative scene for live theater.  New Orleans is a famous creative scene for its culinary and music roots.  Nashville is the major creative scene for country music, and now all kinds of music.  Austin, Texas became a creative scene for music, followed later by art, movies, and high technology. When it comes to the business end of things, the world's most famous creative scene (and creator of billionaires) is the San Jose, California area, aka Silicon Valley, for computer related high technology.  

In the 1990's, as computer technology, and other tech began to take off exponentially, it became apparent that these new high tech businesses clustered in a few areas.  Silicon Valley/San Francisco Bay Area, Boston, Seattle, Los Angeles, Austin were the standouts.  The Raleigh Research Triangle (Raleigh/Durham/Cary) in North Carolina was the first major high tech campus area.  But Silicon Valley, and the others listed, sprang up faster and larger.  Dozens of other cities were trying to create and build high tech centers, but the best start-ups kept gravitating to these, and a few other cities.  

Professor Richard Florida, then at Carnegie Mellon University in Pittsburgh, dove into the research on this phenomenon, trying to figure out why high tech firms clustered in certain areas.  After all, the rise of the internet, and personal computers, meant people could work from most anywhere.  After several years, he wrote The Rise of the Creative Class, in 2002, sharing his initial  findings (here's a speech from then).  While there were many reasons for this clustering, the underlying theme was that tech people were highly creative people, and creative people liked to be around other creative people.  The high tech workers creating the new technology liked to set up in cities that had good art and music scenes, and other groups of highly creative people, already living there.  They also liked to live in places that were tolerant of weird and unusual people.  Computer nerds really were mostly serious nerds then, and they'd been picked on enough.  So they migrated to places tolerant of all kinds of people.  That explains Austin, Texas as a tech hub, their city motto is "Keep Austin Weird."  

So while creative scenes can happen anywhere, and most live as small local scenes, some scenes spark a new idea that takes off in art, music, technology, or some other area.  Places with solid creative scenes in one area, often attract more creative people from other facets of the creative spectrum.  And these areas attracted tech workers, and still do.  So our most innovative cities and areas, that are now a huge part of the U.S. economy, and centers for most of our innovation, often started with tiny art or music scenes, decades ago.  Over years, they attracted other creative people, and became "scenes of creative scenes," inter-meshed with each other.  Some of these cities eventually became the tech hubs where most of the United States economy is now centered.  There are both good and bad aspects to this arc of creative scenes into known "creative cities", and into tech hubs.  Ask the old time locals in San Francisco, Seattle, or Austin about real estate prices, the Yuppie invasions, and often homelessness issues, as well. 

My point here is that a group of weird, screwball, seeming degenerates can be the seed of a great place for innovation in many different areas, and that can ultimately grow into major business ventures at times.  It's for this reason, and my fascination with Creative Scenes since that BMX race in October of 1982, that I'm focusing most of my time and energy on this concept in the coming months, and maybe years. 

We have a ton of major issues to work out in society right now, and creativity itself, new ideas and new solutions, are needed.  A handful of people, who just start doing creative things on a regular basis, usually come up with these new ideas that ultimately transform society in a meaningful way first in neighborhoods, then towns and cities, and then across regions and nations.  Those little creative scenes, the ones that will transform our lives in the next 10-20-30 years, could be happening ANYWHERE right now.  

While forcing creative scenes rarely seems to have good results.  Creative  scenes CAN be nutured as they grow.  Our country needs that right now.  Pretty much everywhere.  I'll have lots more insights and ideas on art, writing, creativity, and creative scenes, in coming blog posts on this blog.

A talk about original thinkers that's actually interesting to original thinkers

I was taking a break from a writing project this morning, and wanted to listen to "something smart."  So I searched Ted Talks.  Plenty of  "smart" in TED talks, and a fair amount of dumb, too, in some cases.  This was the first one that popped up, the algorithm's pick from my recent searches.  Actually the first one that popped up was a TED Talk called, "Let's Talk About Porn."  I'm like, "I haven't looked up any porn recently, this algorithm must be female, she's bringing up shit from a while back."  But Porn didn't sound like a topic I wanted to hear a Ted Talk about right now.  So I looked at  the videos in the side bar, and this one was first. 

Initially, I wanted to skip it, thinking, "I'm already an original thinker."  I spent my childhood thinking up all kinds of amazing ideas, and then not acting on any of them.  Classic daydreamer with low self-esteem.  Then, I got into BMX freestyle at age 16, and a couple of years later, had this idea to start a zine.  It seemed an interesting enough idea, that I stuck with it, and actually published my first BMX freestyle zine.  It really sucked.  But I met a bunch of really good freestylers in the San Francisco Bay Area because of it.  They thought it was halfway decent.  So I made another one the next month.  And the next month.  M zines got better, I did 11 issues, got written up in FREESTYLIN' magazine, and then hired to work at BMX Action and FREESTYLIN' magazines.  The first zine, one of the first ideas I actually stuck with, changed the course of my life... for the better. 

I became a part of the BMX industry, and was suddenly surrounded by guys who had lots of cool ideas, and then acted on some of those ideas.  BMX, and especially BMX freestyle, was super entrepreneurial in those early days.  I met Bob Osborn, Scot Breithaupt, R.L. Osborn, Bob Morales, Bob Haro, Don Hoffman, Chris Moeller, Rick Moliterno, Spike Jonze, Brad McDonald, Steve Crandall, and many others.  Being around people like that, acting on my ideas became a natural thing after a while.

My point is, despite my lack of financial success, I've done a lot of cool shit over the years.  A TED Talk about "original thinkers," didn't seem all that interesting at first.  But I gave it a shot.  This is actually a really great talk, and this guy's really funny, and a good speaker, as well.  Check it out.