This Moment Is Mine

If there is an ultimate take-away I try to impart to Humanities students, it is this: be a creator. Make creating a daily practice. The tools do not matter. The subject does not matter, nor the product itself. The act itself is what matters, because to be a creator is to be a participant in your world. To be creator is to be an observer of your world. To be creator is to be a wanderer of your world. A wonder-er of your world.

Or, as the street artist Swoon says:

There’s that feeling you get when you see something that you don’t understand the origin of: wonderment. It brings about a kind of innocence, and I love that. I love to witness it. I love to be a part of making those moments happen.

Which brings me to a problem I encountered about six years ago. I did not create much. I messed around with some visual projects once in awhile. But I did not have a routine or a practice that I returned to regularly. This produced an overwhelming dissonance. I felt fraudulent. Here I was, cajoling and imploring students to create, to take chances, to challenge themselves.

What about me?

My first outlet was learning guitar. Music has always been a big part of my life, and it depressed me that I did not play an instrument. So this seemed like a natural starting point. It was incredible. For all of the frustration — and, oh my, was there frustration — I loved the growing number of chords I mastered, the growing catalogue of songs I could play.

Now, I value the way playing guitar helps me to hear music differently, to appreciate it more deeply. As much as I was in awe of songwriters like Elliott Smith and Steve Earle before learning guitar, being able to play made me aware of their songcraft, the way they connect chords in surprising and resonant ways. Additionally, guitar offers me an out. If I play for 45 minutes, it is 45 minutes without a screen. It is 45 minutes during which my focus narrows even while my mind roams.

I wanted other outlets, though. In particular, I wanted something visual. Ultimately, I decided on woodblock printing. I have always been attracted to its aesthetics—the use of negative space, the simultaneous starkness and richness of black ink, the bold lines, the simplicity of the materials that belies a complexity of technique.

Like this print.

“Cacophonous Voices,” Alex Gillies

The artist conveys a dynamic story with wood, ink, and paper. I find myself a bit lost in the details, considering, for example, the way he renders the hair. Or the bracelet on the left wrist. Or the creases on the jacket. When I look at this piece, I think, “I want to do this.”

I want to do this. How many of these moments do I have when looking at art, listening to music, watching a film? I want to do this.

Often, I follow that declarative statement with the question “can I do this?” And, way too often, I have answered that question by saying, “no, of course I can’t.” I think many people have the same looping inner monologue. Where does this “no” come from? For me, it arises from a sense that what I might create would pale in comparison to what I have seen others do, as if somehow my work will be judged and mocked by the world. I know. This is ludicrous. First of all, I can share or not share as I see fit. Second, even if I choose to share, very few people will see my work. Third, getting eyes on my work is not even the point. The point is to feel engaged. To do something with intention and attention. To surprise myself by what I might be capable of. To find enjoyment and to seek a vision.

To turn the “no, of course I can’t” into “yes, I can. And will.”

So that is what I have done over the last two years. With the help of a great colleague, friend, and mentor, I have started to make art. To make prints. The work is slow and challenging. There have been some successes, but far more blunders, frustrations, and failures. However, when I turn the kitchen island into the production studio, when I roll the ink on to the carved block, place the paper down, rub the baren across its surface, and peel it back. . .

It is for me.

Decide. Execute. Assess. Redo: A Daily Art Challenge

For the second year in a row, I undertook an art challenge for the month of April. In case you were unaware, April is #NationalPoetryMonth. Perhaps you are thinking, “that sounds like a month designed for and observed by English/Language Arts teachers.” I’m pretty certain that is what some of my students were thinking.

Although this post is not meant to be a defense of poetry, I will say this: good poetry amazes me. It stuns me. It wakes me. Like a perfectly executed 3 chord riff, a poem relies on so little — a sharply worded observation and an attention to language that can otherwise seem so commonplace. And it relies on so much — the desire by poets to take an active interest in our world and share what they see, what they think they know, and what they know they don’t know, with the rest of us. Like any other art, when a poet makes it click. . .magic.

Back to my self-imposed challenge. I decided that for each day of April I would use Snapchat to illustrate a bit of a poem. And that’s about it. While I allowed myself to import images from my camera roll, I decided I would only use the editing tools available within the app: filters, cut-outs, drawing, and text. No outside photo editors. I think I stuck to it. The only other major requirement was to post by midnight. I think the closest I got was 11ish, which was close enough to make me worry. I also knew I had to make room on each post for the poet’s name and date. I know I forgot that last one a few times.

Pretty quickly I discovered a few of things:

1. Restrictions are useful. I guess this was less of a discovery than a reminder. I remember watching The Five Obstructions some years back. Lars Von Trier challenges Jorgen Leth to remake one of Leth’s film. Each time, Von Trier gives him obstructions to the creative process. The problem-solving Leth employs is pretty spectacular. It was probably the first time I understood how limits can bolster creative thinking. I am also a big fan of On Kawara's Today Series, in which the Japanese conceptual artist attempted to paint each day's date every day. He painted each canvas according to some pretty strict guidelines for size, color, and lettering. Furthermore, if he failed to finish a canvas by midnight, he threw out it away. When I have watched and read about both of these art experiments, I have tried to imagine how it would feel to create under such a regimen. While my project is small by comparison, it still gave me insight into how and why an artist would choose to limit their options.

2. Setting out to make something everyday greatly impacts your schedule. This must seem obvious, but it was powerful nevertheless. Since each one could take me anywhere from 45 minutes — 2 hours, I found myself looking at downtime quite differently. A free fifteen minutes before a class? Work on my #poemsnap for that day. Ten minutes of waiting for my daughter’s track practice to end? Work on my #poemsnap for that day. My wife needs five minutes before we watch The Americans? #Poemsnap time.

Recently I have heard interviews and read articles that make a case for boredom. At issue is the way so many of us use our devices to fill in moments of boredom with distraction. According to these interviews and articles, when we give in to the distractions offered by our devices, we are robbing ourselves of time to be bored, which is time to crank up the imagination. This might have particularly insidious effects for younger people. My project gave me something to do in these moments: I was either working on the snap or reading poetry and finding voices that were new to me. It kept me invigorated and distractions became unnecessary. It focused my attention.

   

3. It is exciting to get it right. And scary. It was so satisfying to (almost) perfectly execute an illustration that captures a mood, an idea, a feeling of some lines of poetry. But it was also daunting because as soon as I posted the snap, I immediately started to think about the next day: the poem, the imagery, the shape of the text. Recently, I watched an episode of the documentary series, Abstract, that focused on the graphic artist Christoph Niemann. In it, he talks about the anxiety caused by success: can it be followed? Will there be another idea? Will he reveal himself to be a fraud? Niemann calls these "lucky moments" when he has "won the lottery." Of course, I am not comparing my #snapchatart to Niemann’s deadlines for New Yorker covers. But I grasped his point. As the month progressed, I was aware of not wanting to copy myself, of not replaying the same moves. It was rough.

I drew these hands on my iPhone screen!

If there is one other thing I loved about the project, it was spending so much time being intentional. I think this could be one of the greatest benefits of creative work. If I make thousands of decisions a day, which research suggests, most of them are done without much thought. Perhaps whole days go by without some overarching theme or reason. Or intention. But throughout April, I had a reason for each day. And when I was creating each snap, I was living intentionally. Decision upon decision. Execute. Assess. Perhaps redo. And then make more conscious decisions.

The scale of the work might be small, but the consequences, as it turns out, are massive.

Here is a link to the entire album.