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.
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
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.
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| 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.
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