Going It Alone

Is group think a better way to create ideas, thoughts, images, patterns, songs and the written word?  Do artists create alone or by committee? Is Artificial Intelligence the answer? Does that special formula associated with creativity only call for isolated wanderings inside one’s head to find that image or thought. Then you pull, yank, cajole or force it out into the open in one of a bajillion forms or formats?

Is ‘creativity by consensus’ group think and/or ‘following the herd’ a real thing? I would argue it is not. I would suggest that creating in isolation, going inside one’s head, into the zone is the way most art is created. In my own songbook, the great musical collaborators were two artists work-ing together but still doing their own thing.

Several folks, whom I respect a lot, would strongly disagree. They argue that one must be open to ideas, suggestions, attitudes and ever popular trends if one is to succeed in telling their story. In the case of a script reading for a play, the creators of the work should be open to suggestions as long it is understood that the final say always rests with the playwright and director. Ultimately, it is up to the creator (whoever that may be) who gave birth to the project to have the last say.

The vast majority of creative works of art; be it novels, plays, movies, art, song, etc. have one creator, one visionary, one story-teller. A host of others may collaborate on the final product but its true birth mother or father is its true parent. That doesn’t ignore or denigrate the immense help that beta readers, editors, and other collaborators can add to the final product.

I read a fascinating book recently about the production of the Fleetwood Mac album ‘Rumours.’ The band consisted of four musically brilliant musicians, who together, melded their different approaches to rhythm and rhyme and cadence into each song and together created an award-winning album.

The magic here was in their individual ‘point of view’ approach to the music. For example, if you give ten directors a movie script, each will come up with a different movie in their mind. In the case of ‘Rumours,’ those four different points of view found a commonality or theme that the four musicians could agree upon. Each held to their own vision of the song but was willing to compromise for a fabulous final product.

It's simply another argument that in most cases there is one creator of a song, novel, play, movie. Certainly, collaboration is often a key here. But ultimately the core idea was (probably) the result of one person’s thought process, imagination, etc. AI can help or hinder here depending on how it is used or misused.

Bob Dylan is renowned for his original folk songs in the early 60s. The truth is that Dylan was a master at taking old 1700 and 1800 English, Scottish, and early Americana music and adapting it to his own particular style. The folk tradition is rife with examples of songs being adapted, changed, and revised for another artist.

Pablo Picasso is famously associated with the saying: “Good artists copy, great artists steal.”

The idea behind this line is that true creativity doesn’t come from simply imitating others, but from deeply absorbing influences, transforming them, and making them one’s own.

That said, there’s some nuance:

• Picasso is often credited with this quote, but there’s debate about whether he actually said it.
• Some scholars trace the phrase to earlier sources. For instance, the poet T.S. Eliot wrote in 1920:
  “Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal.”
• Picasso did, however, speak openly about borrowing, transforming, and reimagining other artists’ work. He once said:
  “When there’s anything to steal, I steal.”

So, while the exact wording may be questionable, the sentiment—that great artists take inspiration and transform it into something uniquely theirs—is strongly tied to Picasso’s philosophy and practice.  (Thanks to ChatGPT for that clarification.)

So, by that standard, Bob Dylan is a master thief and brilliant at it. I should be so talented.

Malcolm Gladwell in both his books ‘Outliers’ and ‘The Tipping Point’ touches on some of the seemingly serendipitous side notes that make such a difference in the creative process. It’s the little things like practice and dedication and focus that separate the actors from the ushers. And there’s a phrase for that: ‘Hiding the brush strokes.’

It always looks so easy because the media wants us to believe it is. House flippers flip and make a fortune overnight. Writers pen the great American novel without breaking a sweat. Movie directors create a one of-a-kind film just as planned and songwriters simply pen a classic on a whim. We want to believe that a playwright’s magic on Broadway was a simple journey from pen to stage.

Few of us truly understand the panic, fear, exhilaration, heartbreak, and hope that goes into creating a work of art. We don’t want to hear about the years spent toiling in the graveyard of broken dreams, spent efforts and abject failures before something, if anything, ever happens from all that soul-crushing effort. It’s all made to look so easy.  We seldom, if ever, hear about the many miles traveled before success is reached. Instead, every artist is presented as an overnight success.

Ignoring the harsh reality that in real life there are no guarantees and nothing is owed. Those with grit get it. Those lacking that ‘something within’ keep dreaming and hoping then wonder why nothing ever happens. Without real effort and sacrifice and usually some failure nothing is accomplished.

George Lucas went through hell to get his first feature ‘THX 1138’ produced. When it crashed as a commercial failure, he wrote another movie initially called ‘Friday Night in Modesto’ and finally produced it as ‘American Graffiti.’ Even that success didn’t guarantee any support for his next feature about space ships and large furry sidekicks.

My art is the written word. My mediums are primarily novels, plays and movies. Each presents its own unique set of challenges and opportunities for story-telling. Through good fortune and lucky breaks, I’ve had three plays produced by the Second Act Players in Rosemount. Two more were produced in California. Each was a wonderful learning experience and another opportunity to express myself.

I teach in my workshop on ‘How to Get Started as a Writer’ that the key to writing is to write. I make the point right up front that there are no guarantees and no promises. I can only point the way for my audience. I remind them that there are three things needed to become a writer.

Desire…but they won’t know if they have it unless they give it a try.

Perseverance…they won’t know if they have it unless they try.

Talent…they won’t know if they have it unless they give it a try.

The key here is to write something every day, almost every day or whenever they can. If they do that, they will begin to feel a passion that gets them out of bed each morning. They will have begun traveling on that long road to becoming a writer. That’s called showing your brush strokes.

As with any kind of art, nothing is guaranteed or comes easy. That’s life. But what a gift it is to create something, anything, that’s been swirling around in your brain for oh so long. Let’s face it, there is no better way to live your life than to do whatever it is you love to do.

Isn’t that what life is all about?

Hiding the Brush Strokes

It always looks so easy because the media wants us to believe it is. House flippers flip and make a fortune overnight. Writers pen the great American novel without breaking a sweat, directors create a one of-a-kind film just as planned and songwriters simply pen a classic on a whim. We want to believe that a playwright’s magic on Broadway was a simple journey from pen to stage.

Few of us truly understand the panic, fear, exhilaration, heartbreak and hope that goes into creating a work of art. We don’t want to hear about the years spent toiling in the graveyard of broken dreams, spent efforts and abject failures before something, if anything, ever happens from all that soul-crushing effort. It’s all made to look so easy.  We seldom, if ever, hear about the many miles traveled before success is reached. Instead every artist is presented as an overnight success.

It’s called “hiding the brush strokes.” Ignoring the harsh reality that in real life there are no guarantees and nothing is owed. Those with grit get it. Those lacking that ‘something within’ keep dreaming and hoping then wonder why nothing ever happens. Without real effort and sacrifice and usually some failure nothing is accomplished.

Dustin Hoffman spent ten years toiling in off-Broadway plays before ‘The Graduate’ launched his storybook career. George Lucas went through hell to get his first feature ‘THX 1138’ produced. When it crashed as a commercial failure, he wrote another movie initially called ‘Friday Night in Modesto’ and finally produced it as ‘American Graffiti.’ Even that success didn’t guarantee any support for his next feature about space ships and large furry sidekicks.

Dinkytown Scholar Coffee Shop

Bob Dylan paid his dues in Dinky town and Greenwich Village before a planted review by Robert Sheldon rocketed his career into the folkie stratosphere. The Beatles spent two years toiling in the graveyard of Hamburg’s strip clubs and dive bars before Brian Epstein plucked them out of the ‘Cellar’ and made them stars.

Closer to home and more personal, the examples are all around me.

I’ve seen Sharon start with her welding and metal art classes several years ago then recently expand to alcohol ink painting. From there she has experimented with acrylic paints and a host of other mediums and techniques to constantly challenge herself.

She is taking classes here and there to share ideas, glean tips and advice from the professionals. She is constantly learning, improving and growing her art.

After several years, she now has some of her select painting on display and for sale at a design store in Minneapolis. A small step but a start.

Ever the educator, Sharon has shared that same philosophy of discipline and perseverance with our grandchildren. Very quickly, they’ve become attentive students of Nana and have begun exploring various artistic mediums themselves.

The Colorado Kids' Gallery

3rd Place in his age category at the MN State Fair

    

1st Place in her age category at the MN State Fair

My art is the written word. My mediums are primarily novels, plays and movies. Each presents its own unique set of challenges and opportunities for story-telling. Through good fortune and lucky breaks, I’ve had two plays produced by the Second Act Players in Rosemount. Each was a wonderful learning experience and another opportunity to express myself.

But there were ten self-published books, an Investment Guide and numerous treatments before those two initial plays paved the way for more playwriting opportunities.

I teach in my workshop on ‘How to Get Started as a Writer’ that the key to writing is to write. I make the point right up front that there are no guarantees and no promises. I can only point the way for my audience. I remind them that there are three things needed to become a writer.

Desire…but they won’t know if they have it unless they give it a try.

Perseverance…they won’t know if they have it unless they try.

Talent…they won’t know if they have it unless they give it a try.

The key here is to write something every day, almost every day or whenever they can. If they do that they will begin to feel a passion that gets them out of bed each morning. They will have begun traveling on that long road to becoming a writer. That’s called showing your brush strokes.

As with any kind of art, nothing is guaranteed or comes easy. That’s life. But what a gift it is to create something, anything, that’s been swirling around in your brain for oh so long.

Let’s face it, there is no better way to live than to do whatever it is you love to do. Isn’t that what life is all about.

It's All Theater

Hotel Kitano

 It’s 5:00 in the morning and I’m sequestered in a local Starbucks on Park Avenue half a block from my hotel in New York City. While most of the world is still sleep, I’m on assignment constructing my next play ‘The Last Sentinel.’ Aside from better tailoring, there is little to differentiate this bleary-eyed crowd meandering in from the same caffeinated patrons back in Palm Springs. If you focus on their eyes, they all have a story to tell. Some can be translated quite easily and others only guessed at  - but the stories are there none-the-less.

Philly Bridge

Yesterday afternoon we rolled up two hundred and twelve miles of Amtrak coach from Annapolis to Penn Station. It’s another whirlwind capture of three Broadway plays in three days plus other assorted ‘have to see’ ventures before we slip back out of town again.

Amtrak

Amtrak always provides a fascinating glimpse into another slice of Americana in its coaches, on the station platforms and through the backside of each city we pass by. East coast rail travel has a long tradition among these folks. For this Midwesterner and born-again Californian, it’s a comfortable cocoon from which to watch another tribe in all its colorful attire and rituals pass by.

Perusing a ‘New York Times’ pilfered from the hotel front desk, I see that the director of the FBI has just been fired. I read column after column and can only conclude that the D.C. theater season is in full swing. Patriots and pontificators alike all shout and push for their place on the printed page.

It would seem the news nowadays, true or otherwise; has been rarified, objectified, idolized, and criticized. No one can see that most of it should all be mummified. On page after page, the circus continues with empty headlines, fake news and accusations meant only to bait more reaction from readers and writers alike.

I think it all began to change back in the Seventies when the national television networks moved their news bureaus over to the Entertainment division. Their budgets were slashed and expenses put under a microscope. Cost-cutting became the norm.

Ever since then rating seem to dominate the news cycle and serious journalism has taken a backseat to anything else that garners ratings even if it is in lieu of meaningful information. Tough questions have taken a backseat to puffery and grandstanding on both the host and guest’s part.

At this stage of the game, only reality-adverse diehards still believe the character actors pretending to be our representatives on the hill. It seems so many of those clowns are reading from scripts that leave out common sense, social decorum and a concern for the common woman and man. I will give those politicians credit though. I watched incredibly talented actors on three different Broadway stages and I think many of the players in Washington could give those professionals a run for their money.

Avenue Q Playbill

Avenue Q Poster

Case in point, we saw a delightful play the first evening. It was a funny, sometimes crass, very insightful performance of Avenue Q. ‘Avenue Q’ was a musical about self-discovery with a rousing cast of irreverent, comical characters, puppets included.

New York Traffic

We rode an average of four cabs a day and I usually ended up riding shotgun in those little yellow bullets. Trying to communicate with the cabbies, many of whom spoke little to poor English, usually came down to hand gestures or pointing to an ad or brochure as our next destination. Their driving skills were beyond reproach and ability to face off with other vehicles a constant challenge. The problem for me was sitting in front with only a dashboard and tin fender between my knees and all the other bumper cars. Most of the time I felt like a kamikaze co-pilot without a helmet.

Come From Away

‘Come From Away’ was an amazing musical which drew its inspiration from a tragic event in U.S. history. In the aftermath of 9/11, 38 planes with 6,579 passengers were stranded in Gander, Newfoundland when U.S. airspace was unexpectedly closed to all air traffic. The play focuses on how the locals opened their hearts and homes, hosting this international community of strangers.

Joel and I

We had dinner with one of the lead actors before the play and then met him backstage afterwards to mingle with the entire cast.

Old elevated railroad - New York

The High Line, also known as the High Line Park, is an almost two-mile park built on an elevated section of a disused New York Central Railroad spur called the West Side Line.

Inspired by the Promenade Plantee in Paris, the High Line has been redesigned and planted as an aerial greenway and rails-to-trails park. The park runs from the Lower West Side of Manhattan through the Meatpacking District, through Chelsea, to the northern edge of the West Side yards. Real estate development has gone crazy on both sides of the elevated park which gets over five million visitors annually.

Beautiful Playbill

Our last play was’ Beautiful.’  ‘Beautiful’ (The Carole King Musical) is the true story of Carole King’s remarkable rise to stardom, from being part of a hit songwriting team with her husband, to her relationship with fellow writers and singers, to becoming one of the most successful solo acts in popular music history.

Riding back to Annapolis in the fading light of day brought back sharp memories of my midnight bus ride from Saint Paul to Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, and two years of military service. I tried to capture those same emotions and feelings in my book ‘Love in the A Shau.’

Annapolis MD Harbor

Annapolis harbor provided a welcome respite from the harried, hurried days in New York. The whole east coast exploration was a cornucopia of conflicting sights and sounds, emotions and attitudes and mayhem amid direction. It was an escape into a different way of life and only served to reinforce my comfort level back home. An interesting glimpse into professional theater and a storytelling standard I’d like to strive for. Here’s hoping.

Off-Off-Broadway

I rolled into town as a journeyman scribe and left a more intrepid visitor. A country rube goes to the big city…well, not quite…but not that far off either.

New York City had never held much appeal for me. Despite the romance of ‘West Side Story’ and numerous ‘it’s a lovely summer in the city’ songs, The Big Apple has never held much sway over my affections…until now.

I’m not a fan of big cities in general although a few stand out from the rest. These cities have captured my imagination with their history, location and that strange indefinable vibe you feel upon stepping onto the tarmac or exiting the train station. Singapore, London, Hong Kong, Amsterdam and Copenhagen have all had a special way with me. Several have played an integral part in several novels and screenplays of mine.

Now I can add ‘Gotham City’ to my list of urban retreats. I don’t know if it was the old lady with whiskers, the somber yet respectful respite that is the World Trade Center Memorial or T-Rex on the way home. It could also have been those pesky ‘Jersey Boys’ or the lilting melody of ‘Amazing Grace’ that changed the equation for me. Whatever it was that recaptured my imagination has me already mulling over another future venture into mid-town mayhem.

The last time I rode into New York City it was on a tired old Greyhound bus coming down from Boston. It was a bright and sunny day but there were storm clouds on the horizon and a chill in the air. It was a different time and a different place.

One of the first things I remember back then was passing a young guy on the street, probably a model, dressed in his blue shirt, tweed or herringbone sport coat and pressed blue jeans. I had no idea one could dress like that and still look so cool. Welcome to the land of anything goes. Yet despite the coolness of the place I still felt like a country rube lost in that vast urban wilderness.

Fast forward a lifetime of travel and it was with some excitement that I agreed to a quick week-end foray up from Annapolis for a couple of Broadway plays in the Big Apple. There were a lot more miles on this old chassis of mine now. So I would be coming into town with a different perspective. It was one short weekend on the east coast and away from the reality of Sharon’s Mom’s failing health back home.

We landed at Penn station and immediately got swept up in the street scenes of characters and chaos that define the city.

‘Jersey Boys’ entertained us that first evening. As we pushed through the crowds on Eighth Avenue I was reminded of the epic battle back in the ‘60s between city planner Robert Moses and urban pioneer Jane Jacobs. I had devoured her now classic book ‘The Life and Death of American Cities.’ I was in the heart of that battle still being fought and reality would come in the form of an old woman with whiskers.

The next morning found me sitting at a Starbucks overlooking the circus that is Times Square. Garbage had piled up from the night before. There were painted illusions on the side of a tour bus. Tourists were wandering about pushing past the nattily-dressed business man in his bright pink tennis shoes. The city was coming alive.

I was squeezed in next to a Chinese tourist on one side and a French couple arguing over my shoulder. The old homeless woman was close enough to rub elbows with me. She was nursing her cold cup of coffee and mumbling to herself. She had no place to go and a seat at the counter was as good as it got.

She began by telling me that “They don’t have nutmeg here anymore” and thus began a half hour lecture on herbs, vitamins, supplements and other medicinal medicines. A life-long New Yorker she had spent her better years working the work. Now she was trying to stay warm in a crowded Starbucks at 7:00 in the morning.

Her parents were Ukrainian Jews who had escaped the holocaust and landed in New York City after the war. The old woman had lost half her hearing and half her sight but her observations of life were spot on. She repeated herself a lot yet her knowledge of alternative medicines was clear as day. It was a lesson for me in the foibles of quick judgement calls on my part and the simple honesty in that old woman’s Canterbury Tales.

For that brief half hour it was one human being sharing her vast knowledge with another. She could recount old radio shows on nutrition, the best places to buy supplements in New York City and the evils of some vitamins. It was a lesson in urban survival replete with the old woman’s secrets for a long and eventful life. I was her student and she the teacher. There was a lot to learn from a life of hard living. I got her a refill and then had to leave. As I walked out the door she turned to the Chinese tourist and had engaged her as I disappeared into the teaming masses outside.

World Trade Center Memorial

A walking tour of the World Trade Center Memorial was a somber reminder of lives lost and the worth of each minute. I remember being eyes-locked on my TV that morning not believing what I was seeing. Now I was at that site and struck by the beauty which had transformed that old site of unmitigated horror.

After a harrowing ride back to midtown, I became an expert in the game of cabby chicken. It’s a glorified game of stare-down and fender bumping. My driver wasn’t about to lose to some other cabby or impertinent truck driver. Then his ears perked up when we heard the thunderous roar of an ambulance right behind us. He pulled over and as the flash of colors rushed by he cut in behind it along with two other cabs. It was a flat-out ‘balls to the walls’ race down Eighth Avenue as a river of traffic parted ways and we plowed ahead.

We made it up three blocks before he had to make a split-second decision whether to hold his place in line or miss the tourist that had just stepped off the curb. “Can’t clip a nip” he shouted as he slammed on his brakes and we watched the Japanese man leap back to the sidewalk. We lost our place drafting the ambulance and were relegated to crawling the rest of the way home.

Lunch was at a Paris Bistro before ‘Amazing Grace.’ We were listening to two Belgium college students debating something we couldn’t decipher.

Then the Amtrak back to Annapolis, Maryland.

T-Rex had just come back from Comic-Con 2015. He was over-lubricated even before he stumbled down the aisle and aimed for a seat next to us. Fighting his ‘damn tail’ that kept getting in the way he landed with a heavy thud. He was loud and boisterous and very funny as any reptile can be. He couldn’t get a good picture of himself but managed to capture us…his audience.

 

On the way back to crab town I reviewed my mental notes from the plays I’d seen. When or if I return is still in question. But the old lady with whiskers and cabby with nerves of steel got my mind to wandering.

I’d like to go back to that laboratory of lost lives and denizen of dark dreams. I want to mix with the masses and overhear their tales of hope and dreams and desperation. There are universal stories there that need to be told and I’d like to think I’m the man to write them.