Where My Soul Finds Its Space

While explaining his musical influences in the 2009 documentary It Might Get Loud, Jack White says the following about old Blues artists

Why Blue's artists?

For White, men like Robert Johnson, Son House and Blind Willie Johnson spoke honestly about the struggle people face everyday. There were no soft edges or production flourishes. Instead, these "anti-establishment" musicians presented their art with all roughness and imperfections in tact. Although White does not say as much, clearly what he hears is more than a song, it is a philosophy for living: Regardless of the obstacles, the uncertainties, and the pain that life might present, a person still has a voice.

So I wonder, what good does a song, or, for that matter, a painting or poem, offer in the midst of struggle. What does a singular, even isolated voice resolve? One answer is that for the world, probably nothing. But for the individual, the importance of creating is in the act itself. "No, I will not be passive," the creator says the creator. Or, in the case of White and House, the creator sings.

Same for Joe Strummer.  

The former Clash frontman played with a mix of honesty and intensity. His music carries with it the sound of a late night, of toil, coffee, cigarettes, a pen and a notebook. I have no idea if these things accompanied his creative process or what time he found most conducive for creating. But I listen to a song like "Long Shadow," and the tone is undeniable:

Yes, the lyrics demand action: “I’ll tell you one thing that I know/ You don’t face your demons down/ You gotta grab ‘em, Jack/ And pin ‘em to the ground.” But it goes beyond words. Strummer’s hoarse voice, tinged with weariness, sharpens on “grab ‘em” and “pin ‘em,” as he implores himself and the listener to grapple with the demons: those things that terrorize and destroy a belief in oneself. Joe Strummer, Jack White, Son House: all three share a relentlessness, an “attitude,” as White calls it in the film, that precludes passivity.

And now I wonder if I have access to any of this. I am a father, a husband, a teacher. Am I creator? Can I be a creator? Actually, that is the wrong question. Of course I can be a creator. Perhaps the bigger question is, “how do I carve out time and space to be a creator?” Or maybe, “in what ways would being a creator benefit me?”

In his New Yorker article, “Creativity Creep,” writer Joshua Rothman provides a brief history of the 19th Century view of imagination. As he explains it, poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge believed there were two types of imagination. The first one is “practical” and allows us to “understand the world.” The second, however, “cares about it and brings it to life.” As he goes on to argue, this imagination makes it possible to “[assert] your presence amidst the much larger world. . .and [find] significance in that wider world.” It is such a wide world, after all, and one that does not acknowledge or even know that I exist. This might sound depressing.

Gabriel Orozco

But consider Gabriel Orozco’s definition of art. As he walks the streets of Paris, snapping pictures of his surroundings, he explains that he “wants to be intimate with the world and produce signs of intimacy for others” (Art21). Orozco’s work shows major museums and galleries throughout the Americas, Europe, and Asia. However, I think he would be creating even if nobody saw his work. As his wife says of the Mexican born artist, he has insatiable “curiosity and wonder about the world.” While he might be making artworks (products) bought by collectors, he is not an example of “the implicit conflation of the production of things with the living of a creative life” (Rothman) anymore than Son House or Joe Strummer. Each is a creator first, seeking a way to engage their worlds by shining light into the dark, often overlooked spaces.

My Manifesto

I too want this richness and complexity. I want to experience moments when time slows and time disappears, leaving me alone with the materials that I encounter and that I manipulate with my hands. To rip off Langston Hughes, I want my soul, the who that I am, to “grow deep” in the presence of what others have made and in the knowledge that I also have tried.

A Lingering Moment: Sharing Happiness in Into The Wild

Towards the end of Into The Wild, Sean Penn's 2007 adaptation of of John Krakuer's book by the same name, Chris McCandless is alone, in an abandoned bus in the Alaskan wilderness, starving to death. Mustering all of his waning energy, he writes a final message in the white space of a book he is reading: "Happiness is only real when shared."

Of course, the tragedy of the moment is that McCandless is debilitated completely and on the brink of death. In fact, this one action takes colossal effort. In that moment, it is clear what Penn wants me to consider, for it is the same thing McCandless must be contemplating. At key points in his travels he found happiness: when playing guitar with Tracy; working on leather with Ron; hanging out in the bar with Wayne. Only on the brink of losing it forever does McCandless realize what he had but has now lost.

The scene lingers because it makes me interrogate my own life, my own actions. It is beyond cliche to say that "don't take life for granted" and "treasure those around you." So I won't say it. Still, watching this scene, it is hard to shake the questions: do I give enough of myself to those I love? Do I accept without conditions those I love? Do I realize how much of my own happiness comes from those I love? I want to say yes. But what is my evidence?

In English, we have been reading essays by Ralph Waldo Emerson and Henry David Thoreau. The fact that Into The Wild raises these questions about love and happiness points to something that might be missing from "Self-Reliance" and "Civil Disobedience." We are social animals. Yes, I want to believe in myself. Yes, I want to learn to "watch for the light that flashes"(Emerson, "Self-Reliance") across my mind. Yes, I want to "devote myself to. . .contemplations" without exploiting others (Thoreau, "Civil Disobedience). But what else? In these essays, both thinkers emphasize a person's solitary nature, especially as she pursues her interests. For most of the film, McCandless is a perfect representation of this. There is something romantic and alluring about the spectacular way he breaks from his family and the institutions that have shaped his life. When he is lecturing his parents about "things," abandoning his car in New Mexico, and kayaking down the Colorado, I can imagine that light flashing in McCandless's mind and his utter devotion to it.

Ultimately, this devotion makes the end of the film that much more powerful. In the last moment, I find that McCandless's scratchy, hard-fought realization undermines so much about Emerson and Thoreau's insistence on self-reliance. Of course I want to believe in myself.  But I also want to be confident that those I love are secure in their knowledge that I am there for them. That my happiness and theirs depends on us, not I.

How do I balance both of these impulses? That's a good question.

20% Time: Discovery Update 1

This week, as I have researched for sources regarding my project, "how to write a song," I found a blog post on Bob Dylan's thoughts about songwriting. The post draws from a Dylan's interview with Paul Zollo, for his book Songwriters on Songwriting.

In short, Dylan offers his opinions on the best conditions for songwriting, his mental approach, and whether songwriting is a viable pursuit for others. Here are some choice statements:

• The best songs to me — my best songs — are songs which were written very quickly. Yeah, very, very quickly. Just about as much time as it takes to write it down is about as long as it takes to write it.

• First of all, there’s two kinds of thoughts in your mind: there’s good thoughts and evil thoughts. Both come through your mind. Some people are more loaded down with one than another. Nevertheless, they come through. And you have to be able to sort them out. . .You must get rid of all that baggage. You ought to be able to sort out those thoughts, because they don’t mean anything, they’re just pulling you around, too. 

• The world don’t need any more songs… As a matter of fact, if nobody wrote any songs from this day on, the world ain’t gonna suffer for it. Nobody cares. There’s enough songs for people to listen to, if they want to listen to songs. For every man, woman and child on earth, they could be sent, probably, each of them, a hundred songs, and never be repeated. There’s enough songs. Unless someone’s gonna come along with a pure heart and has something to say. That’s a different story.

I already knew that Dylan is an opinionated guy, and his thoughts in this interview bear it out. I am surprised by his comment regarding the quick nature of songwriting. I have yet to read what other songwriters say; however, I have read insights by other artists regarding their creative processes. Most of them talk about the laborious nature of making something. In our culture, there is a sense that art is a result of a moment of inspiration. While inspiration could be important for locating an idea, artists typically describe the creative process as work. Dylan seems to undermine this when he says that the "best songs are. . .written very quickly." I don't think I could possibly work this way. In my limited experience creating, I need time to reflect and play with possibilities. Perhaps he means the ideas come quickly, but crafting takes more time.

On a different note, I need to keep in mind that his statement that, "the world don't need any more songs." It is wonderfully ironic, since I  am working on a project to create another song. Then again, I don't think he necessarily has somebody like me in mind. In any case, I think this could work as a hilarious line in a song.

Here's a question for further research: what role does inspiration play in songwriting?

Popova, Maria. "Bob Dylan on Sacrifice, the Unconscious Mind, and How to Cultivate the Perfect Environment for Creative Work." Web log post. Brainpickings. N.p., n.d. Web. 3 Oct. 2015.

Make It Matter: Hands-on in the English classroom

As a teacher, part of the cycle of the year includes revisiting certain ideas, statements, and questions. Sometimes students ask if it gets boring talking about the same books, the same essays, the same films. While I try to bring in fresh material as much as possible, the fact remains that I have a long term relationship with some content.

Is this a problem? Not necessarily. In fact, I count among the benefits of teaching the certainty that I get to grapple with particular works of art and literature over time. I am not static. As I get older, as my own kids grow, as I add to my range of experiences, my ideas about teaching and learning progress. And, inevitably, my relationship to art, including those pieces I know best, deepens.

In the last week, I have greeted back into my room two individuals: the 19th Century writer, philosopher, and naturalist, Henry David Thoreau; and the 21st Century multimedia artist, Gabriel Orozco. This year, more so than in the past, I saw a connection best exemplified by the following statements:

Engagement. That's what both men want. I want it, too. But not just for me. In the classroom, it is the goal: to help students gain entry into the worlds created by these artists and thinkers, to help them consider potential meanings, to help them understand how the ideas and questions raised by these individuals may apply to their own lives. Perhaps this is the biggest challenge I face as a teacher: to find that edge or in-road that makes students want to care, want to try, want to engage. I know it is the most exciting part of my job.

But how do I achieve this? Wow, that is a big, important question. As such, I have no easy answer. However, here are three certainties:

Value what they are interested in and wonder about, and give them opportunity to pursue these things in class. It's about choice. This year, I have embarked on a 20% Time project with some students. We are early in the process, but many of the students are excited by the possibilities. But I need to find ways to incorporate the 20% concept in smaller ways as well. As an English teacher, one way I can do this is by giving students more freedom regarding writing. Instead of essay topics that lead to formulaic, thesis-driven essay analyzing literature, students need opportunities to "essay," in the traditional sense of the word: to explore.

Give them opportunity to be makers/creators in class. With the growing popularity of the maker movement, I want to find ways to bring this ethos into the English classroom. However, it is not always apparent how to do so. Of course, writing is craft. Writing is making. But another way is to open up moments for students to engage in visual crafting. For example, I recently gave students 30 minutes to work on the poem, The Writer. When I say "work on," I don't mean annotating lines, looking for symbols, and answering questions regarding overall meaning. This came later. First, though, students manipulated the poem in a variety of ways in their mindbooks (a blank-paged sketchbook).

Why spend this time in class? Here are three reasons:

1. Deep focus. It’s interesting to see how intently people work at cutting, gluing, and designing the layout for this basic page. I think the focus is deeper than if we just moved straight to a conversation. In fact, many students display deeper focus and attention during these times than at any other point.
2. Play time. How often during their days do students have time to experiment with materials? I don’t think it happens very often for many of them. Ultimately, this connects with #1--we need times of quiet. Whether they are reflecting on what they are making or on the poem too, students benefit from an opportunity to interact in this different way.
3. Engagement. It’s just my speculation, but I do think some of them reread the poem more and consider it more as they are cutting it up. The text is not just visual material, but it has meaning as well. In follow-up conversation, some students echoed this idea. The rich conversation we had after this exercise bears this out.

Actually, here is one more reason to make time for this kind of work in the English classroom--it can be fun to create in these ways. And one more--it can be satisfying to see one's vision come to life in a visual way.

Taken together, all of this brings me back to my original point. We must find ways to make it matter.