This week, finding myself hungry to read something that would stimulate my mind and spirit, I pulled Pedagogy of the Oppressed by Paulo Freire off the shelf.
In grad school, I had this book as required reading for a comparative education class. But one seldom has time to give readings the slow, close read they deserve in grad school. Paulo Friere is a writer whose every sentence is so packed with meaning it demands reflection and meditation. We spent only one or two classes discussing him, but I felt like I could have spent an entire semester discussing nothing but Freire’s ideas.
Central to Freire’s educational theory was the role of dialogue in the educational process. Education that transforms, Freire believed, could not be a one-sided impartation of information from the superior to the inferior. Rather the teacher must approach as a learner, and the student must also become a teacher. For this interaction to take place dialogue is essential. This dialogue, if genuine (and only if genuine), would have a humanizing effect on both the teacher-student and the student-teacher. He wrote:
As we attempt to analyze dialogue as a human phenomenon, we discover something which is the essence of dialogue itself: the word. But the word is more than just an instrument which makes dialogue possible; accordingly, we must seek its constitutive elements. Within the word we find two dimensions, reflection and action, in such radical interaction that if one is sacrificed – even in part – the other immediately suffers. There is no true word that is not at the same time a praxis. Thus to speak a true word is to transform the world.
By contrast “an unauthentic word” is one that that neglects either reflection or action, thus is “one which is unable to transform reality.” “Human existence,” Freire declares, “cannot be silent.” And to attempt to silence another is, in fact, “dehumanizing aggression.” Therefore it is only in genuine dialogue, where one both speaks and listens, hears and is heard, that transformation occurs. These thoughts have profound implications on how we teach, not only in our schools, but in our communities of faith, in our homes, and in our charities and other social service organizations.
What is necessary for this dialogue to occur? Freire points to five elements: profound love, humility, intense faith, mutual trust, and hope. Without these dialogue cannot occur. But these deserve their own full attention at another time.
Author’s note: Speaking of dialogue, my blog posts usually flow out of dialogue. This one was inspired not only by picking up Freire this week, but also by conversations with my husband as I read him quotes, and exchanges with my fellow blogger Peter here and here.
As I am researching the development of kiln technology in China, one interesting fact I found was the linkage between the yellow loess that lies in a thick blanket over China and the development of high-fired ceramics thousands of years prior to other parts of the world.¹ The loess in turn was blown in from the Tibetan plateau and the Gobi desert. As I was discussing this with my professor, he mentioned other examples of dust being blown from one part of the earth to another and thus impacting the ecosystems, and thus in turn impacting the cultures that developed there.
As I thought of this, I saw in my mind’s eye dust blowing all over the earth directed by the winds, and I thought of the Western conception of inspiration as breath, and considered both the Hebrew and Greek conceptions of “spirit” which are associated with both breath and wind. It seemed an amazing idea that the earth’s winds blow dust that result in amazing innovation in a culture, and in our own culture the idea of wind is associated with both inspiration and our human spirit, as well as the divine Spirit.
2 The earth was formless and void, and darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit [wind] of God was moving over the surface of the waters.
¹Finlay, Robert. “The Pilgrim Art: The Culture of Porcelain in World History,” Journal of World History, Vol. 9, No. 2 (Fall, 1998), pp. 141-187
As I mentioned in a previous post, I have recently been exploring the beginning of the book of Genesis as a pattern for creative endeavors. My purpose in doing so is not to detract from any religious interpretation, but to focus on the lessons that artists, writers, poets and other creative people can gain from reading this passage. I believe I am only scratching the surface, so welcome others thoughts on this subject.
Rather than tackling this a day at a time according to the Genesis story, I am going to break the 7 days into 3 parts, a simplified version of the steps of the creative process. The 3 stages are:
The Beginning: Emptying
The Middle: Working
The End: Completing
Eventually I may tackle steps 2 and 3 in a blog post, but for now what intrigues me the Beginning stage. This is the stage that many ideas never get beyond.
Day 1: Emptiness
The earth was without form and an empty waste, and darkness was on the face of the very great deep. The Spirit of God was moving, hovering, brooding over the face of the waters. (Genesis 1:2, Amplified Bible)
In the beginning of every creative endeavor is chaos. We start with an idea, for instance to create the heavens and the earth, but in the beginning the idea is still without actual form. It exists only in our minds. To make matters worse because we don’t have the skill of a God, we often find a gap between idea and execution. We may think this goes away, and certainly there are moments of inspiration where it seems our ideas go directly from mind to paper, or movement, or vocal expression (depending on our art form). But this is the exception rather than the rule. Usually we find no matter how lucid our ideas seem in our head, when we actually go to express them concretely, the form they take at first is chaotic.
This is the starting place for all of us. At this stage there are 3 major problems facing the artist:
A Very Great Deep
Formlessness. Note one of the first things the Creator does as he faces formlessness – He separates light from darkness. Every visual artist knows it is light and shadow that give form. We begin with our broad strokes. What is our story about? What are the themes? What are the darks and lights that we will put in this painting? What is the form of this vase? What is the general emotion I am trying to express as an actor portraying this character?
Does this mean that we always know these things when we begin? Actually no. Sometimes I find that the chaos must be properly explored before I am ready to organize it. Thus when I write, I may at times need to just write regardless of whether chaos comes out or order. Usually I find it is a mixture of both. When I explore a new form on the potter’s wheel, at first I may experience a chaotic collapsed pot or two until the new form flows easily from my fingertips.
Emptiness. I believe it is emptiness that stops many a would-be artist, for emptiness can feel like a kind of death. All art begins with emptiness. You have a blank computer screen. A blank canvas. A lump of clay. Words in a script that do not yet have an audible voice. Steps in a choreography that do not yet have any sense of transcendence. The paradox in art is that we must enter the emptiness in order to deal with it in our art. When I first began reading about the creative process, I found almost every author spoke of this idea of beginning with emptiness. As I explored this idea, I realized that in my most creative moments throughout my life, I had instinctually gone to this place of emptiness. This place has been described as a place of inner quietness, a place of meditation. Eric Maisel in his book Fearless Creatingdescribed it as “hushing”. It is only as we enter and pass through the emptiness that we find the substance of our art.
A Very Great Deep. “Darkness was on the face of a very great deep.” The deep lays beneath the emptiness and darkness, thus it is only through our delving into the emptiness that we can discover the deep. I find it interesting that the word “face” is used describe the deep (this is true in the Hebrew as well as the English). Our face is what hides or expresses what lays deep inside us. Whether our art will be trite or meaningful has only partially to do with our skill. The other more substantive part is how much we can reach into the depths of ourselves and express something that transcends ourselves.
Recently, I was at a workshop where the leader did a number of gestalt exercises. The theme of mountains came up again and again for me in the exercises. At one point, the leader of the workshop asked us “What is the predominant feeling you are left with?” I replied that I felt a sort of “aching longing”, to which the workshop leader replied, “it might be good to find out what that is.” Later as I mediated on the themes that had come up, I realized the longing was something deep within that desired transcendence – that is, something inside me that longed to be extended and expressed outside of myself. This desire for transcendence is a common theme among artists, writers, poets and musicians. We live for the moments when we achieve it.
If this is indeed our aim, what is the answer to achieving it? How do we enter the emptiness, pass through it, and explore the great deep? As the Creator in Genesis 1 does, we brood. The association of brooding with the artistic temperament is so prevalent that it has become almost cliche. But often cliches become so for good reason. We can’t just enter the deep and run back out. We have to stay there. We have to let what is there fully enter our consciousness. I believe it takes an extraordinary person to maintain hope in such circumstance. There is much in the deep to bring us to the point of despair, but if we can persevere until the deep finds expression and speaks to the deep in another, we will find that hope begins arise. For this, after all, is only the beginning.
“Deep calls to deep in the roar of your waterfalls. All your waves and breakers have swept over me.” – Psalm 42:7
When I wrote the original draft of my last piece on Art & Fear in 2004, at the end I had this thought: What could be learned from looking at the Genesis account of creation from an artist’s perspective? At the time, I wrote some notes on what happened each day in the Genesis account, including application of these events to the creative process. It was pretty powerful. However, I think the Roaring Lion (See “Art & Fear” article, where I compare the Creative Process to a savage beast) began to scare me, and I stopped myself.
I mean if there is a God, and He did have some hand in creating this Beautiful World we live in, maybe we could learn something from how He did it. Maybe rather than looking at the story of Genesis as something to argue science and religion over, maybe instead we who are artists, writers and creative people are in a unique position to understand what the author was trying to say about the act of creation, and maybe in turn we can learn something ourselves as well as teach others about what it means to be a creator.
Think about it for a minute. Genesis is saying that God is a creator, AND that we are created in His Image! Do you get what I’m saying? We, humankind, all of us, if we are indeed created in the image of God are also meant to be creators!
When I was a child, my parents enrolled me for a time in free schools. The idea behind these schools was noble, and partly worked. The main idea (at least in the schools I attended) was that children start out right, but we (meaning adults) ruin them. I say “partly worked”, because I do agree we do a lot to ruin children, mostly through selfishness, but what the schools failed to understand is that kids do in fact need some structural framework in which to work. Boundaries are needed. We in the free schools were truly boundary-less, and thus we as children did probably as much to ruin each other as any adult did.
Though the experience was a mixed bag for many of us, I learned some things that I would not have in a more traditional school, among these lessons one is that people are all born creative. So, if we are all born creative, what happens?
What happens is we (all of us: adults, children, society) ruin this inborn creative impulse. We do it by laughing at their ideas, by saying “can’t” “won’t” “don’t”. We do it through school systems that discourage creativity. Sometimes perhaps it’s because we too fear the Roaring Lion, and when we see our children roaring its roar, the same roar we stifled in ourselves years ago, we become afraid. Maybe it will devour them just as we feared it would devour us. We may have caged the lion, but it is still not tame.
Even those of us who call ourselves “creative people”, often don’t let the beast totally free. We may call ourselves “lion tamers”, but just as the lions “tamed” by Sigfried and Roy showed themselves not to be truly tame, so is this inner beast we call the Creative Process. While we may not be able to tame the beast, maybe we can at least learn to understand it.
So back to Genesis, as I read the story of Genesis like an artist studying the process that another artist goes through, it hit me that there’s something there – something rich and powerful. So, from time to time I hope to post my reflections on how each of the 7 Days in the Genesis account have something to teach us as artists. It’s pretty interesting what I saw there. I’ve only gotten through Day 3 in my own processing so far, and don’t know if the other 4 days will be as rich in imagery for an artist as the first 3 were, but there’s only one way to find out… keep looking.
The following was originally written on the 43things.com website, under my goal of “Write Every Day”.
Wow, it’s been a while since I’ve been on this site… sorry to all the people who’ve cheered me that I’ve ignored.
Anyway, regarding this goal, I have now been doing this for some months – maybe at least 3 months straight. I started by making sure I wrote in my journal at least 4 pages if I didn’t write on my other projects. That led to writing 31K+ words in the past month, on a novel for which I’ve had the idea for years. The original idea came to me in high school, and then about 6 years ago, I got a whole framework for the story. Now, for the past month, I have actually written good portions of it.
It will need a lot of work in the second draft, but I have already reviewed a few chapters, and I feel it has promise. Even if it doesn’t – is unpublishable or something – right now I don’t care because I am having a blast writing it. I’ve long had a sort of love/hate relationship with my writing. I love it, but it also was grueling at times.
This experience, on the other hand, has been pure joy. I think it’s because I really have been able to turn off the “inner critic”, and not worry about if the writing is good or not (until I’m ready to assess all that), but instead just enjoy myself discovering the narrative and the characters as I go. I have never written a novel before, but have read of novelists describing their characters like little autonomous living beings who don’t always do what they want them to do. That is the part that is so interesting for me: I have this general direction I’m going in, but as I write stuff comes out that surprises me. It’s fun, like watching a movie. It’s coming out of my imagination, but it’s deep from my imagination at times, so even “I” don’t know what’s going to happen until it does. Weird!
I guess I’ve experienced this before in other creative works, when I’m in the “trance of writing” as Eric Maisel puts it, BUT I think the phenomena becomes much more pronounced in a longer piece of fiction where the characters have more times to act and develop.
One last observation: I believe the act of writing every day for two months was a direct cause of this creative burst now, even if it was forced, and even if it was just random thoughts in my journal. The act of free writing anything somehow turns on a part of oneself. The “task oriented” me, thinks it doesn’t count if it’s something I’m writing for “my eyes only”, but the creative side counts everything because she knows she works best when she is allowed to come out and play every SINGLE day!
I like Eric Maisel’s model of the creative process as described in his book Fearless Creating. Rather than focusing on mysterious processes of “inspiration”, “incubation”, “illumination”, he defines the stages of creativity as:
These stages are more action oriented than descriptive. It’s not that those other “mysterious” processes don’t exist. They do. It’s just that knowing about them doesn’t do much to help you when you hit a roadblock. By contrast, Maisel’s model is extremely practical. When I first read Fearless Creating, I was sharing a studio with another artist friend. We began to refer to it simply as “the book”. Each time, either one of us felt a block, we would go read “the book” and come back a few hours later ready to work. The model enabled us to recognize which stage of the process we were in and exactly what associated anxieties were causing our block. It then gave very practical advice on how to face and overcome these anxieties.
I’m still walking out this process of being a creative person. Sometimes it’s been through my ceramics (currently my studio is in storage). Sometimes it’s been through writing (right now I’ve been doing a lot of that). Sometimes it’s been through other venues – music, song, poetry, etc. I have realized more and more that if I don’t create, I’ll die inwardly. So, I choose to create.