When we are engaged in a large creative work, it can be difficult to keep our balance. We, too, can be swept away by the force of what is moving through us. It is for this reason that as artists we must take care to be self-protective. A novel or symphony, a photographic series or musical, all have an undertow. It can be tempt-
THE SOUND OF PAPER
ing to surrender to this turbulent inner life and allow ourselves to be washed downriver. It is wiser to keep our footing, to keep the structure of daily life, the company of friends, and the diversion of hobbies. Keeping our grid in place allows us to make art a priority while still retaining a sense of perspective. Like the Rio, art is powerful even in its most quiet mode. Legends abound of artists' tumult in the creative rapids. It is for this reason we fear the power of our creativity. We have heard too many tales of creativity gone awry, of artists pushed to the brink of madness.
Creativity is energy. Energy can be safely grounded, asked to flow within our lives and within the boundaries we have set for it. Creativity can be as marvelous as electricity, illuminating the darkness around us. How do we ground our creativeness, and why do we ground it? Let's begin with the why. We are out to accomplish a body of work, not merely one piece. This means we must take the long view. Just as a marathon runner considers his running career as a whole, training and pacing himself accordingly, so we must approach our art at a temperate rate. Hemingway wrote five hundred words a day. He stopped when he was ahead, when he knew where he would pick up the next morning. His work as a writer was work to him. He was punctual, and, until his alcoholism got in the way, he was prolific. T. S. Eliot worked in a bank. Virginia Woolf ran a printing press. Raymond Chandler sold insurance. William Carlos Williams was a doctor. None of these day jobs interfered with the making of art. Rather, they gave structure and richness to their artists' lives. A wise artist is a temperate one, refusing to succumb to the temptation to binge creatively.
It is the slow, steady output of work that amasses into a body of work. Just as the Rio created that gorge a rivulet at a time, so, too,
we make novels a page at a time. Very often, when we say, "I would love to undertake X, if only I had the time," we are imagining a blissfully distractionless epoch in which we are free to simply create. Experience shows, however, that such freedom is actually not freedom at all. Artists thrive on structure. Given too much time and space, our consciousness flows across the floodplain like a river overrunning its banks. Most writers cannot write all day. Most painters find they have only a few highly productive hours. Setting up a creative grid that allots time for family and recreation as well as work ensures that we will have the richness of temperament to execute rich work.
The Artists' Tribe
KEEPING OUR FOOTING
Try this: In order for our artist to thrive, it requires careful grounding. The Bronte sisters had their needlework, T. S. Eliot had his daily job at the bank. Virginia Woolf ran a printing press with her husband, Leonard. Each of these artists remained carefully in touch with the current of daily life. All of us know certain activities that bring us relief and grounding. Take pen in hand. Number from 1 to 10. List ten activities, from mending to laundry to the making of fudge, that you find grounding. Select and execute one grounding activity. If you are in the throes of a creative project and working "full tilt," select and execute two or more activities.
Taos is an agrarian valley. Three cultures coexist within its mountainous arms. First are the Native Americans, perched lightly on the land; their pueblo is the oldest continuously inhabited dwelling on the continent of North America. Native American lands are given over to horses and cattle. They are typically not irrigated. There is little need. For thousands of years, the land has done well without such tamings. Second, Hispanic culture, which for three centuries now has made the valley its home. Land-proud and prone to agriculture, the Hispanics built an irrigation system made from acequias—ditches—that crisscross the valley floor. With the Hispanic influence came sheep, orchards, cultivated fields, and gardens. Finally, the Anglos discovered Taos one hundred fifty years ago, coming first as traders and later as an influx of artists, drawn by the light.
For the most part, the three cultures coexist harmoniously, or perhaps, I should say, coexist with guarded rigidity. As the poorest, the Native Americans also consider themselves the purest. Intermarriage is frowned upon, and Native Americans largely keep to themselves. Like their reservation, they are open only so far. Hispanics, too, consider it "slumming" to date an Anglo. Where the Hispanics built gracious low-lying adobe homes, carefully bar-bered and tended, the Anglos have built homes that intrude on the landscape. Odd-angled and ungainly, sometimes made from tires,
Coke bottles, and other recycled commodities, the Anglo homes often resemble the UFOs said to frequent New Mexico.
As artists, we live as a separate culture, embedded in the America of the mass media but separate from it. For us, the paycheck is not what says "Job well done." The power to buy is not what constitutes our power. Our worth is not quantified in fiscal terms. As artists, we are engaged in the process of self-actualization, and it is our success or failure at producing a body of work that determines our stature. The greater American society teaches us to believe that money is what matters. As artists, we find value in beauty instead. A single poppy, fiery orange with a black center; a cactus, its hot-pink flowers pinched hard and dry by the drought; a stand of Russian olives glinting silver in the light; the dark power of the Rio Grande, its shores studded by flower-bedizened crosses marking the spots where lives were lost. These sights bring richness to our lives. These sights enrich our art. Thirty miles south of Taos, the tiny town of Velarde is synonymous with good fruit. Apples, apricots, and cherries are the crops there, and yes, they are delicious. As artists, we must have an appetite for life. We must partner with life's abundance. Living side by side with a culture that tells us our worth is our net worth, we must hold to a different standard, knowing in our bones that as we embrace life, life embraces us.
Ours is the first generation to have our concepts of artists brought to us by the press, and the press is focused on money. We read of actors' astronomical salaries, their huge homes, square footage included, and their conspicuous consumption of cars and clothes. The media eye is trained on the trappings of celebrity. In the pages of People magazine, we do not visit just any screenwriter, we visit Joe Eszterhas in the wake of his three-million-dollar script
sale. We read of Demi Moore, not for her acting talent, but for her high-flying lifestyle, the coterie of assistants required by her and her former husband, Bruce Willis. Everything and everyone boils down to money. And in this financial focus, art and artistry are lost. As artists, we live within the society depicted, but we live apart from it as well. Unlike our culture, we cannot fixate on price tag or finished product. To do so is to deny ourselves the dignity of process. Just as the inhabitants of Taos Valley are charged with husbanding the lands in their care, so, too, we are charged with husbanding our lives. Too much drama, too little sleep, too great an emphasis on "things," and we lose our capacity to savor the sweetness of the everyday. We must strive to live within our culture, much as the inhabitants of Taos Valley do, noting our similarities but able to live differently.
Odd Couples
THE ARTISTS' TRIBE
Try this: Many of us have secret talismans that symbolize to us our freedom from, or within, convention. A woman writer I know always wears red lingerie: No one sees it, but she knows it's there. A portrait artist cherishes a set of red long Johns. She wears them on cold days in the studio. A quilter believes yellow is the color of creativity, and the room where she works on her crafts is a sunny yellow-gold. Our artist needs and deserves our acknowledgment. There must be some secret festive and private signal of its importance. Make yourself an artist's altar. A window ledge or bookcase shelf is space enough. The important part is that it be consecrated to your artist and contain items
and totems that speak to your creative imagination.
My household includes two Arabian horses, Jack Merlin and Beethoven. Jack is a showy chestnut with a blaze and four white stockings and a flaxen mane and tail. At eighteen years of age, he looks eight, handsome and full of himself, a real playboy. "Jack likes to be the center of attention," a trainer once observed. "He's a ham." By contrast, Beethoven, named for his dark, prominent eyes, is a shy, retiring gray. Where Jack seeks attention, Beethoven avoids it, preferring to watch quietly from the corner of his stall. An odd pair, they are quietly compatible, trotting out together into the New Mexico sunlight, coats glistening.
Jack has been in my family for many years now. At the moment he belongs to Emma Lively, my musical collaborator, a young rider whom Jack is teaching. Beethoven joined the family just last summer, plucked from a roadside pen under a purple-lettered sign: "Horses for sale." If it works well to have matched Jack, an experienced horse, with an inexperienced rider, it works equally well to match Beethoven, an inexperienced horse, with a veteran. Today was a schooling day: walk, trot, canter, reverse, walk, serpentine, halt. For Emma and for Beethoven it is all new, all fresh and exciting. For me and Jack it is old hat.
Artists love other artists, and odd-couple pairings, young with old, are common. For the older artist, the young protege is a glimpse in the rearview mirror. For the younger artist, the grizzled
veteran holds the promise of the future. Linked by their love of art and their love of each other, Stieglitz and Georgia O'Keeffe were one such pair, Georgia O'Keeffe and Juan Hamilton another.
Artists are often great teachers. Through the centuries, artists have routinely apprenticed other artists. We do it still, often within the university system, in creative writing programs. An older artist shares experience, strength, and hope. A younger artist brings enthusiasm, ardor, and stamina. The combination is unbeatable. When I was in film school, my mentor was Jack Whitehead, an aged Hitchcock cinematographer. In my forties, my theatrical mentor was John Newland, then in his seventies. From both these men I learned artistic standards and the value of the Nike slogan "Just do it." For many artists, mentors are found in books. Biographies are valuable; autobiographies are invaluable. It is wonderful to learn straight from the horse's mouth, just as Jack teaches young Beethoven trail manners. Very often, as I watch Jack proudly carry Emma around the ring, I am reminded of John Newland and the pride he took in showing me the ropes.
Artists are generous with other artists, but a part of that generosity is enlightened self-interest. When we share our enthusiasms, they grow stronger. A painter talking to a painter about the painting life reinforces the idea that such a life is possible and positive. Rilke wrote his Letters to a Young Poet because, as Italo Calvino tells us, "the ear calls forth the story." We do not know how much we have to share, how much we have learned—and earned—until we are asked to share it. It is a simple pleasure, teaching. As artists, it comes to us naturally. After all, what is art itself but the naming of our experience? What does art do? Certainly, it teaches. Twelve-step programs often warn, "You have to
give it away to keep it." And certainly, the act of giving away our knowledge makes it again fresh in our mind. I often joke, only half kidding, that I teach creative unblocking in order to stay unblocked myself.
The ride is over. Jack and Beethoven are unsaddled, and sweaty enough to merit a quick shower. As the elder, Jack goes first, modeling for the younger horse how to stay still, snorting, as the icy spray needles his hide. Beethoven watches, round-eyed. "Surely I can't be expected to behave through that," his manner says. And yet, when it is his turn, he stays still, snorting, imitating Jack, looking to the older horse for reassurance and encouragement.
Containment
ODD COUPLES
Try this: Artists have long apprenticed other artists. The sharing of a veteran artist's experience, strength, and hope is how we pass on our spiritual lineage. Most of us have made the acquaintance of one or more younger artists who deserve our encouragement and mentoring. Again, "You have to give it away to keep it," and the same may be said of our creative excitement and enthusiasm. Take phone in hand. Contact one deserving artist for a coffee date. You may wish to schedule such dates at regular intervals. I meet with one younger artist every week.
In early morning, the dirt roads of northern New Mexico are bordered by clear blue bursts of chicory. A romantic blue, a lavender blue, chicory blooms bravely in the cool morning air, and by midafternoon, when the sky is a blue anvil pulsing with heat, the chicory has folded its blossoms like tiny praying hands and closed in upon itself. We can all take a creative lesson from its containment.
It is well and good to say we should be strong enough as artists to withstand the blistering heat of criticism. In my experience, artists are strong, but, like the chicory, we are also delicate. At the height of his career, John Steinbeck won the Nobel Prize for Literature. He had given us such classics as Cannery Row and Hie Grapes of Wrath. Surely his stature as a brilliant novelist would seem assured, and yet, days after his Nobel ceremony, The New York Times ran a scathing critique suggesting he did not deserve the lofty prize. A man at the height of his creative powers, Steinbeck was unable to shrug it off. In fact, he was unable even over time to recuperate from the blow. In the three decades remaining of his life, he never wrote fiction again.
"Writers are delicate," clucks famed writing teacher Natalie Goldberg. I would say all artists are. Like the chicory, we are deep-rooted but shy, unable to easily withstand the blazing glare of publicity. The wise artist is the artist who has developed stratagems for public periods. Filmmaker George Lucas would open a film and
promptly retreat to Hawaii, beyond the glare of the media. For most artists, in order to withstand publicity, a well-rooted before, during, and after life is a necessity. Our friendships must encompass those who understand that both success and failure bring burdens. A hostile review can provoke feelings of "Who did I think I was? Who was I kidding?" A glowing review can provoke remarkably similar feelings. "It was just a fluke, I'm just fooling everybody. They'll find me out sooner or later." We cannot afford to have an identity moored solely in our press persona.
American culture tends to think of fame as the great panacea. It is widely assumed that famous people are beyond ordinary human pain. For this reason, few people can empathize with the deep pain caused by a bad review. "At least they're writing about you," the thinking goes. It is widely assumed that what they write matters less than that they write. By the same token, a review that praises an artist to the stratosphere may be perceived not as fear-inducing but as ego-inducing. Well-meaning friends may even decide to "take us down a few notches, for our own good." These friends do not understand what Goldberg calls our "delicacy." This lack of understanding cost us decades of Steinbeck's work. What might he have produced if he had not been frightened out of the game?
Make no mistake: As art in America has become a commercial concern, fame in America has become a high-risk celebrity sweepstakes. A known artist is a brand name and is always on public display. For this reason, our private lives must be kept private and deeply nurturing. We cannot afford friends who will use our fame against us, dining out on the intimate details of our life. Like the chicory that dozes in the glare of the hot sun, our friends must learn to practice "zip the lip" when pressed for gossip. Whether
our fame comes from a school play we've produced or a nationally distributed, well-reviewed film, the glare of the spotlight is unsettling. We may react like the thistle, loud and showy in our defensive posturing. We may react like the chicory, silent and withdrawn. The one thing that is certain is that react we will, because we are delicate and sensitive to changes in our environment.
Waiting for Fame
CONTAINMENT
Try this: In order for us to practice containment, most of us have to practice it. Artists are openhearted, and discretion is not our first instinct. Take a blank sheet of pape
r. Draw a medium-size circle. Inside that circle, place the topics and projects around which you must practice a protective discretion. Also inside that circle, place the names of those chosen and trustworthy few with whom you can share your most fragile brainchildren. Outside the circle, place the names of those with whom you must practice containment and vigilance.
Deep blue-gray clouds gather on the horizon. The mountains bulk black clouds against them. Slate streamers reach from the clouds to the earth—a distant rain. It is one of the idiosyncrasies of Taos Valley that it may rain to the north and stay dry as a bone to the south, or rain to the south and stay dry to the north. All eyes are trained to the horizon, hoping, always hoping, the rain will visit here.
In a creative career, waiting for fame to hit is like waiting for rain in a drought. It keeps us squinting toward the horizon, jealous of our luckier neighbors and dissatisfied with our own condition. Our culture invites us to think of art in terms of product, and one of the by-products of the "product" we produce is fame. Fame is different from recognition for a job well done. Fame is like empty calories—there's no nutrition in it. Our culture encourages an addiction to fame. Fame is marketed as a cure-all. We are taught by the media to believe that once we are famous, our lives will be blessed. A quick glimpse at the tabloids is all that is required to disabuse us of this notion. Clearly, the rich and famous are beset by human woes as much as we are, and added to those woes are the woes of being rich and famous. When we are focused on fame instead of on our work, we begin to ask the wrong questions. "Will this be my breakthrough project?" we ask, instead of "Is this project worthy?"
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