Creativity Unearthed

So I assume that the first thing that comes through your mind upon arrival here is: “What exactly IS Creativity Unearthed?”  I have spent many years studying the remnants of human material culture. In the process I uncovered beautiful crystal stone chipped into stone tools, then buried in a sacred space. Perhaps as an offering, perhaps for future use to hunt for meat. Nonetheless, this was craft. This was creativity in action. This is Human nature.

Take a moment and look around the room you are sitting in right now. Everything, and I mean EVERYTHING in that room was designed by a man or woman using the creative impulse we all have. Perhaps that impulse is driven by engineering in one person, medicine,  architecture, or piano in a another. Nearly everything we do- we are living and breathing creativity. But how often do we really see all of this? We sit in several chairs during the course of a day. Someone out there designed them.  Here in Santa Fe New Mexico, I tell inquiring tourists that you cannot walk around this place without tripping over an Artist. But the same is true of the world. We are all Artists.

I have spent time studying Art History, Archaeology, Art Therapy, and Anthropology. Everything culminates in what I will excavate here in this here Blog: the creative fabric of the soul.

What does it mean to create? What does it feel like? What things distract or support this? Who does Art apply to? What is the meaning of art? When do we create art, and how do we create more? Why do we alternately see a painting by Picasso as art, but not the structure of the table that holds our computer?

We live creativity every day, though it is often disguised in a commute in a car to work; on that commute you pass by creative things disguised as functional objects. What in our collective consciousness dismisses art once it becomes utilitarian?

What is the drive of the artist, and where does it come from? There are many brilliant books out there about how to tap into your creativity. These books often highlight methods to reach inside yourself to paint, draw, or sculpt. However, as we all know, some of us are painters, some of us are doctors. Creativity permeates all of the ‘jobs’ out there, and not one of us is very far away from it.

So how do we move closer to seeing it? How do we uncover the treasures within and around us? I have a ‘few’ thoughts about all of this, and will be happy to share with you. Please do not hesitate to add your two cents here and there, and remember that everywhere around you are objects, sounds, tastes and feelings that other men and women have thought of, designed, created, and given to all of us…and there are a plethora of ideas inside of yourself waiting to be discovered.

Let the excavation begin!

-HC

Deserting the Desert: Vicennial Return to Big Water

Five huge red and black container ships dot the gray river that stretches across to Washington, the high arched bridge sweeping overhead. I float above the water on a pier made for an old cannery, my toes tingling from the massive subtlety of the waves pushing against the pilings. Fishing boats march past in a perfect line, fishermen bundled up ready to haul in salmon. Perched on the dock alongside seagulls and pigeons, I wait for Coffee Girl to open; the smells of espresso mixing with the smell of the sea and river as my fingers stiffen in the chilled air.

For the past 20 years I have been largely inspired by the desert. I have been moved by the smells of dusty sage and vanilla pine. My eyes have absorbed a brightness reflected in the colors of the desert sands and the turquoise clarity of the skies.  However, as a child I gazed upon this river every day; back then it was but a meaningless haze of fog and rain.  The gray seemed made up of one dull tone while the water’s smell permeated my clothing and thoughts. It is not until you escape a place that you realize that it is truly inescapable- an impermeable part of your soul. The landscape becoming an immovable creative source within the soul.

Each creative type is informed by a landscape. Some are inspired by the Bay of San Francisco’s fog and chill. Some draw colors and light from the desert or the plains, the sea off of Maine or the city lights of NYC and Paris.  Whether this landscape ends up in our artwork or writing is unimportant- for it informs us ever so subtly.  The sea air ends up in the haiku- not as description necessarily, but in mood, tone and meter. The sounds of the waves lapping the pilings of the pier inspire movement in an abstract painting  while the city’s rumble ends up in the collages and fashion designs of the city dwellers.

In the desert I was inspired by the smell of sage to paint abstractions of nature and poems of solitude. As I sit here overlooking the views of my childhood, I feel inspiration welling up like tears; all of my senses aflame even though my fingertips are frozen. Movement of water flows back into inspiration. Gray tones resume their multi-tonal beauty, the grays becoming a swirl of blues and faint green-grays. The sounds of the boats and sea lions comfort my inner child. Fog swirls around my thoughts, hugging the colors of the maritime senses. I am of this place. The water comforts my heart while the sights and sounds and smells soak in to my pores right back to the places they once inhabited in my soul.

As creative people, we often get caught up in the work itself punctuated by the errands of the everyday life and the necessities of the days. The views surround us, yet we forget to absorb them. The landscape becomes a mundane part of the experience- a side note to a glorious novel.

The challenge is to remain a part of the landscape even while in the everyday. It is going out on a kayak on the great river and pulling a tiny paddle through a massive force,  dipping your toes into the saltwater of the ocean waves, recalling the names of flowers on a hike or even savoring the burst of sweetness as you pop a wild huckleberry in your mouth. It is admiring the architecture on an old building while waiting for the light to change, or taking a moment to simply listen to the sounds of the city before rush hour.

Wherever you may live or move, the landscape becomes a part of your soul~ as the great rivers and seas,  and the mountains and deserts have informed mine. Let the land remind you of why you create and what you aspire to create.

Pocketful of Posies: Friendship and Transformation

"Flock" 2004

Moving is about transformation; as soon as you land in the new place, you are no longer the version of yourself you were in the last town.  You make different kinds of friends, bond with a new sort of person that you would not have 5, 10, or 15 years ago. You say goodbye to friendships that did not work well- the distance allowing for a shrinking of connection…all the while maintaining some friendships that will last through many moves and changes.

I have moved close to 60 times in my life and have met so many gorgeous, wonderful, amazing human beings that sometimes I am sad about the ones lost to time and growth in different directions. But I am ever joyous at the thought of the undiscovered friendship adventures yet to come.

I spent my last day in Santa Fe visiting a few of my dearest friends, with whom I share a sisterhood. I also said goodbye to some with whom the bond was not as strong. Some of these most cherished friendships blossomed out of strange places, much as a lotus grows from the mud. Others grew from fate throwing us into the same moment in time, or the happenstance of the universe.  No matter what friendships stick and which fall away, I know that it is all as it should be. The sisterhood and dear male friends remain, while some men and women become acquaintances with whom I once shared adventures.

Exactly halfway through my move from Santa Fe to the Oregon Coast, I visited a dear friend that has been in my life since before puberty- from that time when joy and light were unencumbered by hormones and responsibility. Something about this visit sticks with me- the simplicity of conversation, the topics, the comfort no matter that it had been almost 4 years since we last saw each other.  In the middle of a conversation, my mind flashed-forward 30 years to us again sitting there, comfortable as sisters, discussing our details as if it were only yesterday, sharing secrets we would not tell many others. As I sat with her in her home, surrounded by a family neither of us could picture in 4th grade, My mind was filled with over 20 years of stories and memories, all the while collecting more.  No matter the time or distance, we have pride, concern, love and joy for the other’s lives.

This move has been different than the others. Many of my moves have been to a completely new place with unfamiliar faces that transformed to the familiar. This time I am moving from one place that I love to another place that I love. I said ‘see you later’ to dear friends from one phase of my life, and I am on my way to revisit old friends who will most likely become new friends. I am moving in with one of these wonderful old friends, about to embark on another adventure filled with adventures- the offer of 6 months to just be an artist an overwhelming gift to an artist-something only an old friend might offer. This time my move is different. It is unexpected in its possibilities and its location. I never ever thought I would go back to anywhere. Six months might turn into years upon years; what an unusual thing for me.

To some people, moving is filled with challenge, heartache, arguments, loss and sadness. Yes, my moves are filled with these as well, but I am used to them- I know them. I know they will be with me for a short time, and therefore become harmless.  I know that saying goodbye and hello are equally challenging. Transformation is not always pretty, but it can be an adventure if you let it, and the people we meet on our adventures become a part of us, whether they stick around or not.

A palm reader once said to me upon looking at the lines on my hand: “You will move many many times in your life, and you will have many many friends all over the world. But even the ones that seem to disappear remember you with love.” And this has indeed been the case, for my life is filled with glorious people and fantastic memories together. Finding the lost has been delightful, and revisiting the old is revitalizing.

Each and every one of these friends, men and women alike, have impacted my art. Their laughter is in the paint, their secrets are in the clay. The moments we shared, the landscapes we viewed- these are all a part of my story, and therefore the history of my art. Without these people, my art might not tell the stories it does. Without the sisterhoods and the bonds, I would not have created the artwork I have made.

Much as a creative spirit gathers inspiration like wildflowers, I gather friends into a glorious bouquet of poppies, pansies, wild roses, iris, dandelions, thistle, dune grasses and daffodils. I am beginning to wonder where I could fit one more flower in my heart, but there it goes, right between the iris and the rose. Perhaps one day I can plant that garden in one spot and watch it grow from one slowly rocking chair.

Six Months of Freedom: Art Patrons in the 21st Century

It is not often that an Artist receives the gift of time that only an art patron can offer.  We get so locked into society and it’s rules that we fail to comprehend that this can still be a possibility.

Not that long ago, it was typical for an artist to have a patron of some sort. It has, not without reason, now fallen into the hands of the Artist to create their own destiny; the grants and workshops and retreats are applied to, saved up for, and are too few and far between. Potential art patrons of today can make much more impact with very little output. For all of their donations, space, time, and effort, they are nicely labeled Patron of the Arts.

I have two such offers right at this moment, and a job offer on top of those. Both of the art patrons are in different parts of the country than I now reside. Both have space in their homes, and an offer of no worries about the basics for 6 months. To be an artist in this day and age, and to have such patrons offer such wealth of time is astounding. For that is what it is: an offer of TIME. To an artist such as myself, time is worth more than anything. It means freedom and space and time to create without distraction. It means the ability to focus every fiber of my creative being on the act of creating. It opens up my spirit to share my life’s story in Jewelry, Painting, Writing, or Clay to share with the world.

These art patrons are not wealthy, and I do not need nor require them to be. They offer space, free space in their homes and garages for me to do as I please. They know I will honor them and repay them when the work begins to work for itself. They know that they will get to become a part of my dream, my story, and my art. For their offers of space and time, I will be able to take care of the rest, and with luck and hard work, six months later, they will have a dangerous artist for an adoring fan.

Oddly enough, I currently live in Santa Fe NM, the third largest art  market in the U.S., 5th in the world.  I live 20 steps away from Canyon Road…20 steps away from millions of dollars of art by some of the best artists in the world.  I  parade through this market like it is home, gallery owners know me by name, networks have been growing to whom my art will be marketed. But time and space to create are at a minimum.

In this place filled with displays of creative objects, the underground Bohemia required for a burgeoning artist to thrive died out long ago when the tourists began to arrive en masse. I love it here nonetheless, but to make it in Santa Fe, the prospective artist must first begin elsewhere, and sneak back in here under the cover of night.

I have but a few days to decide the next path to be taken. I would be denying myself my art should I take the job- creating a slower moving train towards the dream, but moving towards it nonetheless. However, should I take the trains towards these patronage offers, jumping in %100, I may never recover, and will be pulled along on a dream to everywhere and everything I desire. Oh, the deliciousness of choice and desire mixed with opportunity.

To those who have an extra room in their house, or an empty garage, I implore you to ponder offering it up for the use of an artist. Yes, we are messy in our creativity. If it is a Musician you support, they will be noisy and temperamental. But they will share with  you the greatest sounds your ears will ever behold: the sound of a new poem being crafted to a song. If it is a Writer, they will generally be quiet, but the ranting and raving at the inner arguments over dialogue will give you a peek at genius.  If it is a Painter, there will be paint everywhere;the smells of drying oils will fill your nostrils. But there will be color and light and emotion like you have not yet seen on your walls. No matter the kind of artist you patronize, your life will be surrounded with creative bohemian thinkers and generous souls who will feel that they will owe you the world. All the while they will change yours.

Slow Trains to Unknown Destinations

 Sitting in the train car, I watch the land move past me. Sketching big red barns and cars at the RR crossings, my imagination wanders. I begin to rethink my life’s choices. I begin to evaluate my dreams. The train becomes a meditation in motion. My mind at once clears and fills with the passions that the hustle and bustle of daily life denies it. I can talk to other people if I wish, or read in a silence populated only by the rumble of the tracks. Even a three-hour ride somehow sweeps my mind clear of the dust of the city. These three hours begin to fulfill the wanderlust in my soul and remind me that there is more to be had.

I often crave a change of scenery. I seek unknown destinations,unknown people. I crave the meditative experience that comes with no outward action needed to move myself.  Driving my car is lovely, I can pull over and stop at random historical signs and rest stops with impeccable views. But it is the train that owns my heart. In a train, I do not have to think. I do not have to pay attention; but somehow I then begin to pay attention in earnest. I begin to see the landscape as part of me, not something I am traveling over or though.

I worked as a Flight Attendant years ago, and easily got used to the hurry up and wait of air travel. Rushing from terminal to terminal only to find your plane not yet there, the stress of getting your seat overwhelms. As a Flight Attendant, I did not have to concern myself with a regular seat, squeezed between strangers or getting my elbows knocked by the drink cart. I had my very own jump seat. I had two, sometimes three galleys to linger in- where I could tell the passengers they could not linger, according to the FAA. I had a cockpit to sit in with pilots to chat with 30,000 feet in the sky, to see St Elmos Fire swerving over the nose glass of the plane, to see a pre-911 NYC in all it’s glory on approach. There was nothing like that big picture window in the cockpit with which to view a city.  But I digress. Back then, air travel as a flight attendant was freedom…until I wanted to fly somewhere personally. Then I became a sardine. It has been over 12 years now since I left the airline to return to college and I find myself revolted by the rush and impatience required to ride those metal tubes in the sky. A different pace of travel suits me now.

Riding the rails has always been perceived as romantic… and for a very good reason.  When we take an airplane to get somewhere quickly, we are hurtled through the sky at 600 miles per hour. If we are lucky enough to get a window seat, we have satellite-views of alien landscapes, no maps to guide us. Ask any flight attendant: “Where are we?” “What mountain is that?” and he or she will make something up. The landscape becomes ambiguous, we are disconnected; however, this is not an entirely bad thing. When we travel for business, or for an emergency, it is entirely reasonable to ignore our position in a metal tube in the sky; the destination and end result is more important.

However, when the end result is the journey, not the destination, taking the train or a boat changes everything about the nature of travel. If we take vacations for the time we need to relax, to explore, and define our existence but hurry through them so make sure we miss nothing and return home from vacation needing another to help us recover, have we not defeated the purpose of ‘vacation?’  The romance of slow travel allows us to lift our eyes from our book onto a landscape we have not seen, bringing back the imagination of our youth: “What is over that hill?” “I wonder if my ancestors wagon went through those wagon ruts?” “I wonder how that wildflower-filled meadow smells?” Because we have slowed down and released ourselves from the act of driving, waiting in line, rushing to and fro, we begin to imagine possibilities again. We release the hurry over to the train conductor, letting go of the control we generally hold so tightly of. Doing nothing somehow turns into everything.

Riding the rails, Hobos became part of our american landscape, much as a hitchhiker walking the land between rides.  The reliance on self, the meditation of walking or sitting on the edge of an open boxcar opens the mind along with the heart. Time becomes everything; it is no longer filled with the ‘shoulds’ of societal participation.  These hobos became a tribe of monks like the seasonal tribe of hitchhikers that congregate on the Plaza in  Santa Fe, shaking hands in June of every year, sharing stories of the journeys they have taken while apart. When I ride a train, I meet like-minded people. Sure, there are some that travel this way because it is cheaper, but there are many more who enjoy seeing their country, seeing the dingy industrial areas, the mountain passes  drivers never see, the wide open landscapes of the prairie. To sit in the upper level of a parlor car, with glass surroundings with which to view the Cascades, or a dining car with table service and wine tastings, movies, plenty of legroom, complimentary pillows, and pleasant conversation with new friends brings us back to a time when there was more to life than hurry up and wait. You begin to meet people who also remember the value of looking at the land, and children who are just discovering how big our world really is.  These are groups of men and women who live lives of outward meditation, movement and exploration.

It is with this spirit that I seek trains, and sometimes buses, boats and cars to fulfill this wanderlust. It is a wanderlust that created the world as we know it. If it were not for the wanderlust of our ancestors- ALL of our ancestors, Homo Erectus, Neanderthal, Homo Sapien, people of the Bronze Age and Iron Age, Phoenician sailors, Polynesian rafters, Prehistoric Indians, Pilgrims, Pioneers, emigrants and modern wanderers, we would not be where we are on this Earth.  Yes, we see photographs of everywhere in the world now, to ease our interests in ‘seeing’ for ourselves, but we still hear stories of tiny moments in faraway places that compel us to find our own stories to share.

Certainly in our modern world, we do not often have time to travel by train or boat. But what if we decided to take a train across France to explore tiny villages rather than running between cities much like we do at home? Would our consumption of slow adventure change our souls as the consumption of slow food changes our bodies?

The slow food movement is catching on, so why not slow travel? We have limited time in our lives, yet we often rush right through it, wasting no time on getting places, yet oddly enough wasting so much time standing in lines and being uncomfortable as we hurtle through the sky. What if family vacations involved slow trains to unknown destinations? With a train to wander, new people to get to know, and changing landscapes to view, would you child still grumble: “Are we there yet?”

Navigating Intuition

I was daydreaming on a recent road trip and neglected to examine the signage directing me where to go next. An hour later I realized I was heading directly East into a landscape that did not match the promised heights of the Rocky Mountains. I was lost. Yes, I was familiar with the place I was now heading, but was unsure of how to find my original destination. You see, I forgot my map (and for a cartographer’s daughter, this is blasphemy!) and I refuse any of those electronic devices yelling at me to turn here and turn there. So I was compelled to sail for the nearest shore, disembark, and re- align myself to the destination. The daydream that caused me to stray off course was, oddly enough, about compasses.

Ancient mariners looked to the stars to find their way, and often were thrown off course by storms, shifting currents, wind gusts. But those stars would be there when the sky cleared to return them to their path.  Before setting out to sea, these early sailors had to learn how to read the stars, how to read the sea, how to trust their intuition.

Imagine a Child of 5 being given the basic tools for life. Imagine that one of these items is a compass, along with instructions for finding their way when lost. “Hold the compass steady until the needle stops swaying. North will be the direction the needle points. Wherever you need to go, North will be your guide.”

Now begin to imagine that compass as metaphor for intuition. Imagine that child being given that ‘compass’ with which to enter the world. They will always know where North is to guide them. They are taught to believe their intuition as the guide to their True North, their path to their dreams. To align with your True North, you must be taught that your feelings/gut/intuition is to be trusted first and foremost. This allows a child to begin to form their selves with conviction, with no wavering in who they are.

Now imagine a child without such a gift. A child that grows into an adult without a clear understanding of direction, intuition, esteem, strength: a person who has no sense of direction in this world that then makes no sense to them. They know deep down what they desire, but without that inner compass, it is difficult to stay on the path. Intuition is lost to them.

There are many out there who did not get the gift of the inner compass as a child.  Feeling a bit lost, they are easily swayed by other’s magnetism, other people’s North’s. They bounce around between the magnetism of other people, other possibilities, and other paths.  And there are the people who have this inner compass, this inner direction from which they do not stray. Someone handed them a compass early on and taught them what it was for.  The lost, the ones who are easily swayed by whomever has the strongest magnet, they have to learn through trial and error how to use the compass, how to use intuition.

In the movies, they often call another person in a romantic duo their “True North.” In pondering this, I realized that to call another person your True North is to deny yourself that very name. In fact, does it not make sense that we seek people who are aligned alongside our True North? If I am aligned with my True North, that is defined by me as an Artist interested in living simply, close to nature, and living creatively. That, then, makes my potential mate required to be aligned similarly, so that neither of us ever wavers from our individual True North.  This carries over to our friends, family, co-workers, and our sphere of experience.  When we allow a person or experience which does not align with our True North in any way impact our direction, we can get waylaid on our path in life.  I know that I have been waylaid by two husbands, and many friends that were not true, nor on a similar course.  To check your inner compass frequently is to re-align with your True North, your true self, and allows you to alter your surroundings. If you know your True North you are able to clearly decipher people and activities that make you stray from your path.  You will also be able to see those that are so closely aligned to your True North that they are almost a part of you.

Those that take us off course, like the storms of the ancient mariners can be things other than people. These storms, gusts of wind, and changes of current can be drugs and alcohol, jobs that do not take us closer to our dreams, financial mishaps, or even the birth of children. These alterations are not always a bad thing, but throughout them all we must re-connect with our True North, so that when those children are grown, or the job is over we can get back on our personal intuitive course.

Creatively speaking, when we align with our True North, the intuition to follow our path and our dreams becomes clear. Those that attempt to make us waver, or are tempting to sway towards become irrelevant to our journey.  And it is through this that we see not only those that align with us, but the possibility that the journey is not impossible. We can no longer get lost.

When we know deep down that we are an Artist, a Writer, an Explorer, a Poet, a Researcher, Hairdresser, Construction Worker, Computer Nerd, Librarian, Teacher, Politician, Nurse, etc., we must follow the stars and use our compass to find and follow our True North: and  let no addiction, haphazard pseudo-dream, misdirected ‘shoulds’, or well-intentioned but misaligned people pull us off course.

Unexpected Doorways

Sometimes I find myself standing in front of an unexpected doorway, it’s knob beckoning me with it’s worn and rusted metal. The wood of the door cracked and peeling from Summer thunderstorms, Fall wind, Winter blizzards, and Spring hail beckons like an adventure might.

To open the door might mean that it crumbles with the turn of your hand…or it may introduce your eyes to an unknown world.

Some of these doors are real- doors to new places of  work, school, entertainment etc; or they are metaphorical- doors to new friendships, mindsets, and spiritual journeys. But all of these doorways, regardless of physical or metaphysical condition can change everything one knows or experiences.

I have been experiencing these unexpected doorways a lot recently, and to each one I have turned the knob with aplomb. A few doors crumbled, but some opened without my ever having touched them. Some have locked behind, leaving me unable to open them from the other side. No turning back, I can only move to the door inside the door. It has been chaotic at times, opening doors only to find another hallway filled with doorways, more possibilities, more chances to choose between. The doors that have locked or crumbled have clearly done so for a reason.

I am an optimist, a glass-half full kind of gal. It is because of this that I attempt to open door after door, filled with the sense of adventure, no matter the possibility that the choice may fail. To me, there is only forward motion. To me, the doorways are opportunities not to be missed, not to be ignored. To others, it seems as I I attempt to explore too much;  settling into a 9-5 job soothes them. But to me, exploration can be safe, it can be soothing. I regret no door that I have opened. Yes, I wish I had closed and locked a few on my own much earlier, but I regret no experience.  These doorways constantly push one forward, into an unknown beautiful chaos. At times, the doorways seem to open upon themselves, bringing me back to a doorway already entered, certain hallways becoming mazes I am trapped within. Some mazes are good, some not so good; nevertheless unfolding as I take each breath. And to breathe through the maze of hallways and doorways  is nothing if not a journey worth taking.

Impatiently Waiting for Patience

Patience is a funny thing. We are willing to wait what seems like forever while in line at an ATM machine, but get irritated when the fellow ahead of us at a freshly-changed green light does not move instantly.  The patience at the ATM feels serene. We know the outcome of the wait, and are willing to set aside the next action in pursuit of this one. At the stoplight, we are already in metaphorical motion- we are already on our way somewhere, and anything that gets in the way of getting to the next thing is irritating.  What is it that causes us to have this patience at some moments, and not in others?

What is patience, essentially, if not trust? A trust that the man ahead of you at the light will eventually move, a trust that at the ATM, you will soon be richer than before, etc.

Perhaps the impatient ones are losing moments of their lives that they are not even aware of. They miss out on daydreaming, plotting world domination, and in general, thinking. Are the impatient ones so lost in a world where they can no longer daydream that they ultimately miss out on the little things in this world? Or do they have it all figured out, as I am sure they fervently believe, and we dreamers are merely in their way?

And do we dreamers miss out on more, more more of life by waiting? Do we end up with more moments that are but slow experiments at fulfillment instead of the jack-of-all-trades hurriers?

Patience is not my virtue when it comes to things I really really want; I lose trust that they will come to fruition if I do not act. But I can be infinitely patient with old people, children, and husbands. That is, until I divorce the latter for their infinite stupidity. Hmm. Makes one think about how even the infinitely patient can lose that patience with those that do not return the favor.