At social gatherings – birthdays, christenings, weddings,
funerals, car boot sales – I am fairly often told the same thing by anyone I’ve
been in conversation with for more than the regulation three minutes: that I am
sooo creative. This is half true, half glib falsehood (and in asserting this, I suppose, half evidence of rampant egoism). Then there follows a lament on the part
of my fellow socialite that him, or her, wishes they could be the same. And, of course, there is nothing stopping
them.
Except most likely there is.
When their pat reply is trotted out, and their face begins
to droop, I reply in an equally facile manner that ‘it only takes
practice’.
But it is not only practising a particular creative
discipline to the point one becomes technically accomplished, and imaginatively
stimulated, that matters when attaining creativity, as much as the practise of
getting to know oneself, and developing a comfort in exploring the previously
unarticulated thoughts, fears, hopes, dreams that lurk within (we all have
them, but usually they reside inside of us in a kind of suppressed worry loop);
and then, once again, expressing our neuroses in a creative manner to the world
(or anyone who should bear witness), with which there is an inherent danger in
exposing the Self to a greater, or lesser, extent!
Creative acts do not, of course, necessarily have to be
about expressing our neuroses, they can just as well be about joy, an
articulation of the hopes and dreams that lie dormant within us we want to
bring out, than those buried thoughts and malignant fears. And yet, our creative history is chock full of
creative acts that have been apparently joyful, where the creator has succeeded
in juxtaposing his, or her, less agreeable neuroses with optimism and gusto: the foremost examples that come to mind being Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, and Syd Barrett’s Pink
Floyd.
After all, what, in
part, drives us to be creative, I would suggest, is a need to create a monument
to an emotion we cannot understand, or do not necessarily feel comfortable in expressing
in an everyday environment, where we may run the risk of being judged in a very
direct, potentially wounding fashion – imagine trying to express the joy and
grief that underscores the work of both Van Gogh, and Barrett, at even one of
the more exuberant occasions we typically encounter, such as a birthday party:
I am not sure whether one would feel comfortable at all, before, during and
after the act.
In a sense being creative requires a degree of courage –
whether there is a correlation between the further one delves into one’s psyche, and creative acts of more profound expression, is debatable – still, the fact
remains there is an element of truth, hidden or otherwise, in the great works,
and if you want to do a painting, write a poem, play or sing a song (how many
times have you sung something personal and found, from time to time, the words
stick in your throat?), the further you go along the road of creative
endeavour, the more likely you are to discover more of the bad, in addition to
the good. Indeed, if at any stage in
life you feel unloved, unfulfilled, or frustrated, one of the most liberating
things you can do is pick up your pen, paint-brush, or guitar, and experiment. You might achieve something great!
