by Joseph Gordon Cleveland
I've had the fortunate pleasure of cultivating more than a few creative talents as the made entrée into the industry. It is common for them to ask me, "What inspires you?" Out of a sense of responsibility, and laziness, I respond succinctly: "Who gives a fuck what inspires me? How exactly will that help you? Unless your objective is to rip off my work, in which case I may as well put this cigarette out in your eye and call it inspiration. Don't ask me what inspires me, go find some yourself."
Though more cerebral than concrete, and most certainly convoluted, that which follows is how I generally advise them, and how I would advise you, to do just that.
* * * * * * *
Inspiration and Being Inspired are not exactly one and the same. The former is the result, the realization, a precious commodity. The latter is a process of persistence, a state of being and doing. Being Inspired begets Inspiration. The difference between the two is more practical than it is grammatical.
Inspiration, the result, is most often romanticized as some otherworldly occurrence: a serendipitous flash of heightened creativity or productivity that fades, inexplicably, as quickly as it came. We are left to retrace our steps in search of its golden embers, supposing we'll find it along the way in some locked box that we can just jimmy open. A panacea! Priscilla's Jitterbug Perfume! Like love lost, the memory of inspiration lingers, grows from its root in truth into a myth of opportunity lost, some bitter ballade of could, would, should. Frankly, I find this cliché not only insufferably facile but also terribly, terribly misleading.
As I see it, Inspiration comes only as the result of Being Inspired, which is, essentially, an exercise. It is not an ephemeral miracle over which we have no influence. It is the realization of a cultivated mind that is consciously and subconsciously curious, actively expanding, and always cognizant. It requires, first and foremost, a method. A commitment.
Compare, for example, the sweet naïveté of a child experiencing his/her first instance of inspiration: that unstudied predilection to explore creative whims to their end, or until he/she simply grows tired or bored of them. This variety of inspiration does not dissipate--it endlessly duplicates, because it expands as it explores. A sudden shift in attention and a child's sails are full with some new crosswind. Most will follow wherever that crosswind may take them, because they haven't yet been trained not to, haven't yet been trained to mistrust that which they cannot control or do not understand. I do not mean to imply children have the upper hand, or that this form of frenetic inspiration is lost along with our innocence. Rather, the example is meant to illustrate the difference between children and adults, the extent to which we gradually lose touch with our creative consciousness and its many, if mercurial, gifts.
As we age, our experience deepens, broadens--we evolve, in the strictest sense of the definition: reacting to our environment, to experience, to hurt, to, for many, the responsibilities of adulthood and the numbing minutiae of modern life. In short, we adapt to survive. As children, we were open, unaware of the au courant postmodern cynicism, not yet 'wise to the world and its ways.' As adults, we have engineered elaborate mechanisms to protect ourselves, erected invisible walls that are incredibly strong, and stubborn. This fortifying of emotional armor seems to happen to all of us, though undoubtedly to different degrees.
For creatives, generally endowed with heightened sensitivities and reliant upon intuitive intelligence, these walls can be Inspiration’s death knell. It is a simple truth: they reject as much as they protect. In keeping the world from ourselves, we keep ourselves from the world. For some creatives, even these walls are insufficient, and they retreat further still, reacting to their self-imposed isolation by subverting reality altogether, manufacturing an alternate astral plane in its stead. I am guilty of this myself sometimes, like Aleksandr Luzhin wondering at his opponent's imminent and unpredictable next move, wondering at when he will face his checkmate.
But to live within these walls means that all a creative can hope for in life is a prolonged, beautiful wilt: to die, quietly. Save for a few notable exceptions stretched out over centuries of time, most artists who spent their life in self-imposed solitude suffered that sad fate, and often times, suicide. For some, there may be a certain dignity to that sort of life, but few people would venture to characterize it as being inspired. I couldn't.
To tear down these walls, or perhaps see beyond them, is the necessity of the method: Inspiration doesn't happen because you hope for it, it requires a diligent consciousness of your purview and its prejudices, and it also requires that you allow yourself to venture beyond that purview and experience the world you may have written off in your mature malaise. To be clear, you must seek it out. It will not land in your lap.
Above all, this method requires you to be active, as a listener and an observer, and not simply a passive fixture waiting for the next miracle to come your way. You must open your eyes, not so that you may get to your destination, but more importantly to survey the landscape and to define detours you could and perhaps should take. And you must then force yourself to take them, however uncomfortable that notion may make you. Cultivate the intent to take the road less travelled.
In short, try everything you possibly can.
* * * * * * *
If you made it this far, I'll offer you one consolation prize: Adrienne Rich. Her volumes of poetry inspire me each and every time I open them.
Though more cerebral than concrete, and most certainly convoluted, that which follows is how I generally advise them, and how I would advise you, to do just that.
* * * * * * *
Inspiration, the result, is most often romanticized as some otherworldly occurrence: a serendipitous flash of heightened creativity or productivity that fades, inexplicably, as quickly as it came. We are left to retrace our steps in search of its golden embers, supposing we'll find it along the way in some locked box that we can just jimmy open. A panacea! Priscilla's Jitterbug Perfume! Like love lost, the memory of inspiration lingers, grows from its root in truth into a myth of opportunity lost, some bitter ballade of could, would, should. Frankly, I find this cliché not only insufferably facile but also terribly, terribly misleading.
As I see it, Inspiration comes only as the result of Being Inspired, which is, essentially, an exercise. It is not an ephemeral miracle over which we have no influence. It is the realization of a cultivated mind that is consciously and subconsciously curious, actively expanding, and always cognizant. It requires, first and foremost, a method. A commitment.
Compare, for example, the sweet naïveté of a child experiencing his/her first instance of inspiration: that unstudied predilection to explore creative whims to their end, or until he/she simply grows tired or bored of them. This variety of inspiration does not dissipate--it endlessly duplicates, because it expands as it explores. A sudden shift in attention and a child's sails are full with some new crosswind. Most will follow wherever that crosswind may take them, because they haven't yet been trained not to, haven't yet been trained to mistrust that which they cannot control or do not understand. I do not mean to imply children have the upper hand, or that this form of frenetic inspiration is lost along with our innocence. Rather, the example is meant to illustrate the difference between children and adults, the extent to which we gradually lose touch with our creative consciousness and its many, if mercurial, gifts.
As we age, our experience deepens, broadens--we evolve, in the strictest sense of the definition: reacting to our environment, to experience, to hurt, to, for many, the responsibilities of adulthood and the numbing minutiae of modern life. In short, we adapt to survive. As children, we were open, unaware of the au courant postmodern cynicism, not yet 'wise to the world and its ways.' As adults, we have engineered elaborate mechanisms to protect ourselves, erected invisible walls that are incredibly strong, and stubborn. This fortifying of emotional armor seems to happen to all of us, though undoubtedly to different degrees.
For creatives, generally endowed with heightened sensitivities and reliant upon intuitive intelligence, these walls can be Inspiration’s death knell. It is a simple truth: they reject as much as they protect. In keeping the world from ourselves, we keep ourselves from the world. For some creatives, even these walls are insufficient, and they retreat further still, reacting to their self-imposed isolation by subverting reality altogether, manufacturing an alternate astral plane in its stead. I am guilty of this myself sometimes, like Aleksandr Luzhin wondering at his opponent's imminent and unpredictable next move, wondering at when he will face his checkmate.
But to live within these walls means that all a creative can hope for in life is a prolonged, beautiful wilt: to die, quietly. Save for a few notable exceptions stretched out over centuries of time, most artists who spent their life in self-imposed solitude suffered that sad fate, and often times, suicide. For some, there may be a certain dignity to that sort of life, but few people would venture to characterize it as being inspired. I couldn't.
To tear down these walls, or perhaps see beyond them, is the necessity of the method: Inspiration doesn't happen because you hope for it, it requires a diligent consciousness of your purview and its prejudices, and it also requires that you allow yourself to venture beyond that purview and experience the world you may have written off in your mature malaise. To be clear, you must seek it out. It will not land in your lap.
Above all, this method requires you to be active, as a listener and an observer, and not simply a passive fixture waiting for the next miracle to come your way. You must open your eyes, not so that you may get to your destination, but more importantly to survey the landscape and to define detours you could and perhaps should take. And you must then force yourself to take them, however uncomfortable that notion may make you. Cultivate the intent to take the road less travelled.
In short, try everything you possibly can.
* * * * * * *
If you made it this far, I'll offer you one consolation prize: Adrienne Rich. Her volumes of poetry inspire me each and every time I open them.
