You can step into the same river twice

Scott Ligon, Mel Strawn and I have been working on a creativity trialogue.

At one level, we are discussing creativity; in this conversation, the digital platform is an important doorway — though not the only one — that are walking in and out of. I began with a description of my process to force or induce new perspectives (my particular approach to an informed playfulness); Ligon considered whether one could learn to be creative (and the answer was not only "yes," but that it was critical if one didn't want to be a replaceable cog in an organizational workflow chart); Strawn explores the tension and self-realization in the making and appreciation of an image as an "imaginative analogue to what is experienced in the real world." Of course, there is much much more than this brief summary.

At another level, each of us goes back to the source, back into that wellspring of creativity. But if we are really, really being creative, should our images look different? Are we in some kind of patterned rut that reveals another same-old, same-old thing. A Campbell soup can that now says Cranberry Carrot soup instead of Creamy Mushroom? Must Ligon be the same Ligon? And must he be using the same formula to create the distinctive look of a Ligon? After all, art connoisseurs can tell if a newly discovered Rembrandt painting is really a Rembrandt because it has the same style, the same brushstroke, the same lighting effect, the same materials, etc.

Ligon asks in his essay whether he is asking the right question. The same goes for me in this thinking about creativity.

Maybe I'm framing the issue incorrectly. Am I confusing a learned set of skills and craft with a particular application? Is the creativity in the toolsets, in the style or manner of crafting an image or in some button that goes on and off, depending on the moment of contemplating the image? Or is creativity all of this; perhaps not all at once, but in a dance of elements, combining in a variety of ways to yield something that compels us to stop and take a deeper look. Notice that I did not say "new" — since that is the evil demon of fashion and adulation that leads only to fragmented difference.

Is that word 'creativity' referring to the same place or activity where we find the source of imagination? Is it the same for Ligon, Strawn and Nalven? Or is it some rough and ready descriptive term that we find convenient, but really is quite different for each of us, and quite different each time we enter into that special time and space?

Which leads me to a story about Heraclitus — that 6th century (BCE) philosopher — whose fame has come down to us for the saying, "Time is like a river and you cannot step into the same river twice."

Comedians often provide us with a midrash (a different interpretation of a biblical passage); but the comedian, unlike the biblical raconteur, makes us laugh. Some comedians do this so well that they become the funny side of philosophy, where life is truly absurd.

Severn Darden of The Second City offers us a midrash about Heraclitus in his amazingly funny lecture on Metaphysics (in the Sound of My Own Voice and Other Noises LP from 1961):

"[Heraclitus] went home to his wife, Helen, and he said "Time is like a river which is flowing endlessly through the universe, and you couldn't step into the same river twice. Helen."

"And she says, "What do you mean by that, Heraclitus? Explain yourself." That means you could go down to the Mississippi River, for example, and you could step in, and you could step out, and then you could step in again. But that river that you stepped in has moved downstream, you see, it's here. And you would only be stepping in the Mississippi River because that's what it's called, you see? Not only all that water, but if something were on top of the water--for example, a water bug--if it was there, it would be downstream. Unless, of course, it was swimming upstream, in which case it would be older and it would be a different bug.

"So, anyhow, Heraclitus went home to his wife with this news, and he said "Time is like a river which flows endlessly through the universe, and you couldn't step into the same river twice."

"She said, "Don't be an ass, Heraclitus. You could step into the same river twice — if you walked downstream at the same rate as the river."

"He was amazed!

"So he went down to the agora, or marketplace, where there were a lot of unemployed philosophers (which means philosophers who weren't thinking at that time). And they had a few drinks first and they went down to the river, and into the river they threw a piece of wood just
to test how fast the river was going. And so Heraclitus saw how fast the wood was going. So he stepped into the river, and ran and stepped and ran and stepped and ran, and finally he ran out into the Aegean Sea and was drowned."

Please laugh at the punchline.

I would contend, that in that absurdly funny view about time and change, and the river of life, we would find Severn Darden spinning out a similar tale about creativity.

We might each have a definition or sense of what it means to be creative; and in like fashion, we could easily get distracted by a Helen and run and step, and run and step, til we run out into the sea and drown.

Both the serious side of creativity as well as those absurdly funny characterizations are framed by the language and institutions of ART. We can be bullied into being too, too serious about creativity; or we can laugh it off as a posture or an illusion about being original. Neither is quite true.

What ultimately becomes the holy grail for each artist is to be aware of both ends of the spectrum (the serious vs. comedic) and then take the individual adventure into self-discovery. We have to sing our own songs to ward off the fears of a critical public, the envy of others and the less than charitable remarks of those who control the standards and definitions of what qualifies as good art.

After reading Ligon, Strawn and my own essays, the takeaway is the very personal adventure we each confess to. These adventures start and end in very different well springs of creativity. We wave to each other from the tops of different mountains, with 'helloooooos' echoing back and forth in the valleys that separate us.

October 23, 2010

Rethinking trees

I draw a connection between Socrates' invitation to think and art. Socrates opined that an unexamined life is not worth living. One path to examining life is to force art -- or the art that I wield -- into this process. Art can be uneventful as driving a bus unless one travels with zen (and yes, even driving a bus can be an examination of life, but I am doing art at the moment). Getting up in the morning and looking out into my backyard, a wonder of fog hanging just beyond the fence, the trees waiting for me in their shroud. Up goes my digital infrared camera and snap, snap. But why stop the examination there? Can it be that our eyes render that 'reality' in the only manner of perception? No. That is what the art process we select allows.
We can travel down many paths, pulling and shoving that snap, snap in ways still unthought. A socratic dialogue moves in one direction, photoshop manipulation in another. Both can be in the zen zone. Both make life worth living. Of course, there is the devil in me who just can't resist posing the philistine argument: the individual exists simply for the reproduction of the species. But I'll save that for another blog. This blog is about art and for this moment I will only indulge one illusion at a time.

Blurred Line? Pixels and Pointillism

I'm in the middle of muddling through an article.

I will open the discussion with some thoughts about George Seurat and his pointillist method of painting. By today's software applications, these points are large, but in the context of the 19th century painting, they were discrete objects composed of solid pigment instead of painted lines of pigment. Dots instead of strokes to represent captured light.

With today's technology, we have far smaller objects -- or pieces of light -- the pixel. But even with an image composed of pixels, we perceive a blurred line. Upon magnification, at 700%, we can begin to discern the pixels. Yes, this is difficult to see on this blog, but when I publish the article it should be markedly improved. Okay, you will need to trust me on this observation.

At 3200%, we can barely tell the blurred area; we see pixels. The blurred area are simply pixels with hues that are the same or similar over an area composed of multiple pixels.
Depending on one's distance from the image and the 'objects' (pigmented dots or pixel light), we perceive the intended representation -- which is the edge of the officer's hand and which was somewhat blurred in the 'painted' image to give a more natural appearance. But, this understandable edge of the hand decomposes into pixels -- or, in the older tradition of neo-impressionism, into points of pigment.

For a more detailed exploration of digital art, comparing pigment to pixels, see On the Uniqueness of Digital Art by JD Jarvis.

Motion & Pause

When we press the ‘take picture’ button on a still camera, we are saying ‘now.’ But what is it that we have captured in the framing of the moment? Does ‘motion’ look any different than a ‘pause’?

We can fill in the spaces with what we think will be the next location. We move with the camera looking for perspective, we wait for the moment to still the object.

On its own, the object moves or remains still. We dance together, camera and object, motion and pause.

Beginnings

Conversations can begin with an exchange of ideas or images. These conversations can wander -- meanderings along a wooded trail, along a beach or city streets. Or they can seek some objective, seek a certitude about what is and what is not. Since this is the beginning of the conversation -- or blog -- it is too soon to pick one way or the other.