AN OPEN LETTER TO THE EDUCATIONAL ESTABLISHMENT

Broken dreams At 1AU we do not manufacture widgets. We do not develop actuarial spreadsheets based on risk assessments of teenage driving habits. We do not order fresh produce for a chain of restaurants displaying cartoon characters on the menu. Therefore, the first, natural assumption is that we are suspect and unreliable in asserting the value of developing skills that have little to do directly with profits or productivity.

I will assert the opposite and attempt to demonstrate why.

The Common Core Standards refer to an initiative developed by the National Governors Association Center for Best Practices (NGA Center). The well-intended goal of this initiative was to develop curricular guidance for schools to teach vital components of primary educational goals at the highest possible standards. The most recent Standards call for a marked increase in non-fiction reading, replacing much of the fiction and poetry that up until now has constituted a substantial portion of student literary exposure.

Here's why. The reasoning goes that we now live in a largely data centric society, that instruction manuals and data-based informational sources have become the warp and weft of our days. The sentiment was summed up in a speech last year at the New York State Education Building by David Coleman, the President of the College Board and one of the authors of the new standards proposal.

“Forgive me for saying this so bluntly, the only problem with . . . [that] writing is as you grow up in this world you realize people really don’t give a [expletive] about what you feel or what you think. What they instead care about is, can you make an argument with evidence, is there something verifiable behind what you’re saying or what you think or feel that you can demonstrate to me? It is rare in a working environment that someone says, ‘Johnson, I need a market analysis by Friday, but before that I need a compelling account of your childhood.’ ”

Can I argue with this? Do I dispute for a moment anything implied or overtly stated about the realities Mr. Coleman describes of the grown-up, post primary school world? Not for a second. His assertions are not in dispute. But even here, as I agree with his statement as one of fact, one of my central arguments appears against his overall proposal. Simple refutation of facts is not in itself adequate to overcome all arguments. Aesthetics require support, but they also require justification, usually in the form of metaphoric representation that appeal to some basis of common values held by the adjudicators. Simply being able to counter an argument does not, in and of itself, define a strong counter-argument.

Mr. Coleman is correct that our society requires sophisticated skills for processing primary source material and analyzing complex data for many ordinary, daily transactions. While I risk sounding like a naive, shoeless idealist, I would say that part of this reality is the tragedy of the new standards proposal. In a society that has largely become an endless, sometimes bloody chase for capitalistic success, the texture and emotion and deep wisdom of lives often expressed most trenchantly through literature have been largely overshadowed. It's as if society has tacitly adopted a philosophy that enterprises separated from making an efficient buck are also things that no one wants to hear about.

Has society decided suddenly to deny the value of poems? Of song? Are famous works of art in and of themselves valuable for what they express or must they be able to become merchandisable as greeting cards and tchotchkes to have measurable value? Is there a value to being emotionally moved that transcends money? I love my children intensely, but if they were reduced to their measurable value, I'd want them out of my life today.

More and more it feels like we chase capitalistic enterprise like hamsters on endless wheels. Everyone works all the time, endlessly refining to-do lists that never grows shorter. Mr. Coleman's assertion and the standards he represents is only one more capitulation for a society to abandon its best parts.

I find this ironic. Movie tickets still get sold. Episodic television continues to be vastly popular. Music of various types continues to croon and wail and enchant. Are we to believe that the skills necessary to live in a world filled with feeling should just accrue without direction, gradually like dust settling on a quiet window sill? Are we to pretend that the wisdom of literature––the characters that have affected us, who have become our private rudders through countless challenges in life--are to be abandoned like old walking sticks? That would be tragic. How many times have we all considered chasing giant white whales in our lives, only to reflect ruefully on the fate of Melville's captain? How often have we met the same phonies that Holden Caulfield met, considered his choices, considered differently for ourselves? Do Orwell's political observations in the guise of fiction give us political pause? Do we recall Laura's pluck and enterprise in that little house she lived in on the Missouri prairie? Do we find moments of quiet reflection before making vastly profound strategic decisions like Ender Wiggin? Do we live with the Fools of Chelm, or are we those fools ourselves?

I would hate to leave these questions, and the profound wisdom imparted by the stories and characters that examine them, by the side of the road, supplanted by spreadsheet analysis and diligent abstractions of white papers. Is it good to read Martin Luther King's original Letter from a Birmingham Jail? Absolutely. Primary texts present vital windows on culture, on critical thinking, on the tangible world. But should we dismiss the value of literature in lieu of fact-based media? No. We do so only at the peril of losing humanity's passionate engine to pursue goals that transcend daily labor. Literature is not a luxury. It's a function of humanity's quest to understand itself, one person, one saga, one moment-- big or small, smooth or rough, quaint or grand--at a time. When publisher Tim O'Reilly asserts that he "doesn't give a [explicative] if literary novels go away. They're an elitist pursuit," he eats the intellectual seed corn of the society that cultivated his media behemoth. The novel as a form is elitist? What hubris have we so deeply absorbed that we're willing to erode an essential wellspring of our moral formation, our shared cultural experiences, of lives we do not have to live but from which we can nonetheless learn so much? Do we dare to consider ideas beyond what we can quantify numerically? It's as if to say that immediate, quantifiable utility is the only thing that defines value, if it doesn't speed up the churn, it isn't worth the effort. Think this is a new trend? No. There's a reason Gene Roddenberry made Spock half-human. Logic alone is not enough.

While 1AU Global Media makes no bones about being a business proposition founded and staffed almost entirely by artists, it's commonly known that one of our unusual specialties is the ability to translate complex science, technology, economic, and other conceptually challenging subjects into imaginative and engaging media products. We not only need to be confident with the science itself, but we also need to be capable of a surprisingly diverse list of technological tools, from sophisticated software packages and original code development, to a dizzying array of hardware employed in the service of making easy to digest media. As a company we would be nowhere without robust scientific literacy, earned the hard way. But we would also be nowhere without the very things that a life suffused by literature ultimately conveys.

Years of working on behalf of NASA, NOAA, and other federal agencies put me and my colleagues in close contact with world-class scientists and researchers. This is a serious crowd, and a brainy one, and I don't think anyone would argue that the jobs they do are anything less than the categorical height of academic or professional achievement. Nonetheless, one of the most common inspirational sources I've heard from many in this serious, analytical, extraordinarily non-fiction crowd is their early exposure to science fiction literature, often headlines by the goofy, inventive, ethically challenging and satisfying world of Star Trek.

I'm not proposing that Star Trek is great literature, nor that it should be placed in school curriculums. But I am suggesting, by means of counter argument, that without a fictional frame, the vitality of the many scientific and technical muscles cultivated by rigorous higher education would not be nourished by the grounding humanistic principals that give life meaning. Achievement, profit, growth: they mean nothing without values, ethical reasoning, beauty, and justice. Humanistic skills can only be cultivated by intangible consideration; they are not reducible to objective tests. They are three dimensional.

1AU Global Media is a business. We are capitalists, after all; that's the world in which we live, and (thank you very much) things are red hot in that department. We're very grateful for the opportunity to make a living by living creative lives, and with no apology we intend to continue to be wildly successful capitalists going forward. So much of production and media consulting reduces to extremely complex engineering, accounting, project planning, technical analysis. The pace is fast, the skill set complex, the learning curve endless. But I would profoundly lament the loss of young artists entering the professional world who weren't fueled by passions cultivated by literature and the deeply intimate experiences it can instill. I would be unable to mine delicate, deep veins of meaning in the purely mechanical world of non-fictional texts. I would miss the spark that life demands for it's own continuity.

That leads me back to The Common Core Standards. They present an educational framework that's well intentioned and based on measurable outcomes, namely test scores for parsing certain classes of non-fiction texts. To some critics, Mr. Coleman suggests that not everyone understands the intentions of the Standards, that they are not exclusive, that 30% of all reading should still be left to literature in school. My problem, besides a banal debate about percentages, is that intentions matter most and many educators simply won't see the forest for the trees.

To cite Mr. Coleman's example, the world may not be looking for a compelling account of your childhood, but I would argue that an employee who not only knows how to write one, but also how to reflect on childhoods he or she has encountered in books is better capable of interacting with real people in the real world. Because unless Mr. Coleman and his cohort are proposing that productivity and profitability themselves are the highest goals of human interaction, I suspect that Mr. Johnson's reflections on childhood share certain commonalities with Mr. Smith's reflections of his childhood, too. Now that they're both adults, they have to figure out how to publish their company's monthly widget production report collaboratively, and they have to decide if chasing the White Whale represented by their biggest competitor's widget output is also a good business plan.

If only they had read Moby Dick.

--MS

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YEAR ENDER

Balloons end the year and begin the year. The Mayan prediction of apocalypse has come to pass. What could possibly be weighing on your mind?

This time of year things simultaneously slow down and speed up. Theaters fill with expectant popcorn munchers eager for escape, while countless Lego sets rise above millions of carpeted floors, earnestly striving for architectural transcendence. Productivity in workplaces across the nation slows down unless you're in the catering business. Families spend time reacquainting themselves with others who share the same living spaces, a temporary relaxation of modern academic and occupational pressures inducing an odd temporal rift in the space time continuum.

Artists especially look back and look forward, sometimes in the same glance. Here at 1AU, we're reflecting on a great year. As a team, we've grown in ways that can only be described as exciting. Technical capabilities are razor sharp, and creative invention has never been more keenly honed. We completed some thrilling projects in 2012, expanding our roster of clients in the process, and developing relationships we're confident will have long lives ahead of them. 1AU staff appeared at numerous public speaking events, too, getting great audience reactions and a flurry of new connections. Plus (you don't mind if we boast for a moment, do you?) it's always fun to speak at events where your team's work is up for an award.

2013 promises continued growth along this path. Members of our team are already booked for several great live presentations in the coming year. More importantly we're deep in pre-production for a range of thrilling new projects, some flat, some round, some online, all inventive and engaging.

Trends in the industry suggest that the extraordinary era of change and transition in modern media will only intensify and expand. Movie ticket sales continue along a hard-to-predict curve; television as we know it is the same as it ever was, while simultaneously fresh and new, too. Mobile media clearly has become the newest solution for everyone's media needs, both upscale and down, but as everyone knows, what looks like the "new normal" may only stay that way as long as the next new thing hasn't appeared yet.

But here's the one thing we're confident will remain consistent: 1AU Global Media will be out front. For me, I continue to take great, humble satisfaction in getting to work with such a great team. I'm inspired, I'm reinvested, and I'm grateful. As we work on new pieces for a wide variety of government, corporate, and private clients, we're also developing our own projects in-house. (More on that in coming months!) As a company, I'm emboldened to dream big dreams, confident that we'll not only persevere, but create products with value, meaning, and clear voices.

We're looking forward to an exciting new year, and in this space you can expect to see more news of our exploits, as well as regular thoughts about world of creativity. We're also looking forward to hearing from you. If you're a current client, a possible client, just a fan or a friend, or perhaps you found us by happenstance on the Infinite World-spanning Interwebs, please drop us a line, either in our comments section or via email. You too…can GO FARTHER.

All the best for a great new year! ...from the team at 1AU Global Media, LLC

PS -- Next week will be pretty quiet here on the blog. Perhaps a word or two, perhaps a picture. But we're just taking a short break. Plan to make us your regular Monday check-in again starting January 7!

Try Poetry

A rose is a rose is a rose. Sometimes things that look easily categorized actually belong under their own heading. For example, does anybody really regard the millions of jangly ditties beeping out of endless cell phones as music? The fact that ringtones can be notated using the same graphical language as songs, symphonies, and spirituals does not make them categorical kin. They may both be "musical", but the description of something is not the same as a thing's actual identity. How we categorize things helps us keep them organized in terms of their value, but categories themselves do not confer value.

Language is like this. While just about everyone can dash off a grocery list--or at least dictate it into their smartphone app-- it's probably fair to say that mustard, pretzels, and laundry detergent hardly constitute award-winning prose. (I'm guessing there's a small portion of our readership who recall the famous scene in Norton Juster's classic "The Phantom Tollbooth". I'm talking about the time when court ministers to King Azaz the Unabridged spout the names of favorite foods in the town square, followed immediately by bountiful platters of the same.) Yet this very same language, prosaic nouns and verbs arranged with precision, becomes the tangible flesh and bone of literature.

Grocery lists have their place; they help you remember what to buy. I don't need extensive description, delicate metaphor, or surprising characterization to remind me to pull a quart of milk off the shelf. But when I'm making a movie, mixing a soundtrack, taking photographs, or leading a rehearsal for a live event, it's not enough just to stick together a string of words, sounds, or pictures. No matter the medium, the challenge is always the same. Of all the many choices possible, even if those choices are unattainable dreams, the job always comes down to synchronizing vital choices into larger context. That arrangement of options, that selection process demarcates the intangible boundary between poetry an an ordinary jumble of words on the page.

This process takes moxie and a surprising amount of energy. In fact, sometimes this process takes nerves of steel. Most creative acts have finite production clocks. No matter how self-indulgent an artist or creator of any other type, one thing's for certain: life runs out. On a more down-to-Earth, day-to-day level, schedules and budgets also run out. When creating something, the pressure to complete the job often acts like it's own gravitational field. Complaining about gravity doesn't make it any easier to leap tall buildings just as wishing for clarity and artistic inspiration doesn't make delivery schedules any less agreeable.

In a more literal sense, poetry as a construction of language often has a tough time coexisting amid the ordinary thrum of grocery lists and e-mails to your child's guidance counselor. With its intended precision, poetry functions differently, communicates more precisely, strikes the ear more powerfully than the many conversations and advertisements and newscasts and tennis lesson schedules we more regularly consume. No matter how much we say we're interested, sometimes the saturated clarity of a poem is more intense than we're prepared to experience. Imagine if everyone you met-- lover, friend, acquaintance, and stranger-- came up and gave you a hug. Sometimes Mcluhan's medium for conveying a message matters a lot.

The challenge remains the same, no matter the medium. Music, movies, poetry, cooking: adequacy will always be enough to get by, but excellence demands something more. Excellence demands critical decisions delivered without infinite amounts of time.

Perhaps we should practice more. Perhaps part of the process is making sure that we give ourselves license regularly to reflect on intentional aesthetic thoughts. We should multitask less and listen to music more, without doing three other things at the same time.

Now here's a bizarre, but essential inversion. Remember my charge at the top that cell phone ring tones were not music, that just because they could be reduced to musical notation did not mean they were equivalent? It was a trap, dear reader: a trap to make a point. While I don't regard cell phone ringtones as music, per se, I do understand that quality is an attribute that can appear anywhere, in anything. Quality is the process of reaching for apotheosis, never actually arriving, of course, but reaching, reaching, reaching nonetheless. Whether we prefer one type of craft over another is not precisely the debate here. I find most ringtones to be little more than sonic indicators telling me that one person wants to speak with another. But even for the decidedly disposable craft of ringtones, I suppose I must also grudgingly acknowledge that there's such a thing as better or worse examples of the craft. Ultimately that's what may best define the essence of a poetic experience. If good words in intelligible order communicate, perfect words in sublime order also communicate. That they say more than the value of the literal words themselves is the reason they matter. Acts of creation lift the spirit, and the best acts make spirits soar. But even disposable acts, intentionally selected, can get you to answer the phone.

--MS

PS -- To our regular readers, please take 20 seconds (or thereabouts) and retweet, cross post, or otherwise pass the link for this blog and it's 1AU Global Media home onto your readers and friends! Call it karma, call it kismet: we'll just call it cool! Cool?

TIME TRAVEL

There's no knowing what century you may find yourself with this. I'm listening to a 70-year-old recording of a 300-year-old piece of music on a two-year-old computer. I thought I was working on this week's blog, but I guess what I'm really doing is time traveling.

For the first time in human history we're now in an era where a sort of time travel is commonplace. In Bach's Cello Suite #4 (BWV 1010), sound preserved by inky graphical notations scratched by quill pens on candlelit paper transforms into sound under the deft fingers of the great cellist Pablo Casals, seated decades ago in an entirely analog recording studio.

Those analog sounds are now traveling forward in time, long after Casals and the engineers around him and inevitable marketing department of his recording company have gone back to the Earth. Played on my twenty-first century electronic gizmos, the resonant sighs of his sculpturally human instrument are now digitized, even cleaned up, with tape hiss magically removed, newly balanced frequency responses added to the mix, and modern remastering polish applied over all, conferring nothing but freedom for the music to fill my room.

I have no idea if these words I'm writing will be read by anybody 300 years from now, although I have my suspicions. But the monumental efforts and inventions of those rare superhuman creators like Bach hundreds of years ago are now something of a cultural echo that continue to provoke thoughts here in the present. It's almost as if the echo comes first, as if we're hearing the sound of humanity's invention bouncing off walls from the past, before the vast numbers of humanity got born into comparative easy times for creating things. We select what moves us not only from the world around us, but from time, and even distant space. I live in 21st-century Maryland; Bach lived in 18th century Europe, Casals in 20th century Catalonia, Spain. There's no good reason we should be in communication at all except…there it is. Sure, the ideas in the thread-- Bach to Casals to me-- only move in one direction, but then the arrow of time also flies from the bow string in only one direction.

Everyone knows that our sneakers come from China, our grapes from Peru, our oil from the Gulf of Mexico. These are all expressions of our immediacy, are instantaneous ability to acquire precisely what we want and what we need. I realize this is an upper-class, first world observation; most the world needs much more than it receives, and certainly it receives much less than it wants. It would be callous to believe that first world cultural time travel was an entirely democratic phenomenon.

But as students of all ages now consider the ocean of educational options rolling in at their feet via online opportunities, it's essential to place the genesis of all these new ideas in the context of deeper time. None of us create anything just based on the experiences of our own lives. But as the ability to preserve ourselves is now easier, more powerful, more permanent than ever before, it's probably important to consider what kinds of echoes we may be leaving for students in some distant future to find.

Complacency in our digital assistants is a mistake. The fact that these extraordinary scores have survived across the centuries for me to hear Bach's musical transportations only amplifies the point. Imagine a world where those scores disappeared! Then realize that most of humanity's creative acts great and small have disappeared over the years for one reason or another, and it's becomes imperative to at least consider how our inspirations of today may be accessible to future generations, one way or another.

--MS

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THANKFUL

Thanks for the help. I think I speak for all of us at 1AU when I say one of the big reasons we love what we do is that we have the great, humbling privilege of working with new ideas everyday. As professional creators, our working lives are all about having conversations on subjects we may have only just discovered, or recently excavated. What we make is not unlike the fruits of a long, successful expedition. When Howard Carter uncovered Tutankhamun's Tomb in 1922, the discovery itself made him famous, but it's arguable that a discovery like that would not have attracted anyone's attention if it did not involve great challenges of politics, funding, and endless, delicate digging in desert sand. The adventure of discovery is nearly as important as the discovery itself.

In short, I'm thankful.

Ninety years ago this week, Carter made his fateful discovery, opening a tiny hole into one of archaeology's--and popular culture's--greatest discoveries. But Carter is no instantaneous discoverer. He is no lucky traveller on a lark with a trowel. For decades he made his way across Egyptian sands, searching, digging, reading the signs for a long lost culture hidden from the 20th century by disinterested sands. Most of those years he labored in anonymity. In fact, eighty-nine years ago Carter almost gave it all up, and not by choice. His benefactor George Herbert, 5th Earl of Carnarvon, gave the great archaeologist one more season worth of funding. He told Carter either to make a major discovery or call it quits.

Timing is everything. Carter became a legend.

Should Carter have showered his benefactor with obeisance? With deference? With fawning subservience? I don't think so. Carter made the discovery; his funder made the discovery possible. There's a space in history's bookcase for both.

I would suggest that the things Carter most owed his benefactors are gratitude, thanks, and appreciation. People who make discoveries, who risk bold ideas of all sorts often have the vision to even dream such things because the paths they've taken in life are not about acquiring the means to empower such things. Lifetimes of academic study or artistic development often do not yield the resources to fund novel enterprises. Risks do not mean these enterprises have guarantees of success. They would be ordinary things if there were no risk, and for those asking for backing, be it financial, political, or just someone to hold the ladder while we climb up to the ceiling to paint on our backs, it's essential that we retain an honest dollop of awareness that we'd be nowhere without our benefactors.

Are you a benefactor? A client? Thank you very much. Now, pardon us please: we have work to do.

While I may sound like an entitled, self-interested, smug know-it-all, I actually believe that people, governments, and institutions that have the means to support risky scientific, aesthetic, or academic enterprises are obligated to do so. It's part of the social contract. Societies require many inputs to be healthy and whole. Just as farmers shouldn't have to be responsible for laying the roads that help them get their goods to market, artists and explorers should have some means to pursue goals which inevitably will contribute something substantial to the societies in which they live.

But money and politics will get you…money and political stamps of approval. They don't do anything to stage an opera. They don't lift a single shovel of sand. That's why on this Thanksgiving I'm also celebrating, even calling out, the often unsung numbers who stand shoulder to shoulder as teams, enabling enterprises of all sorts. You think Spielberg makes his movies by himself? How about Elon Musk and his rockets? Of course not.

I'm thankful for that tight, close group of colleagues who help me transform seemingly impossible mountains of ore into refined jewels one shovel at a time. I'm thankful for all the late night checks on render queues, for spontaneously generated ideas for clever 3D models captured on the backs of envelopes while walking up from the mailbox, for smart schemes to hide a microphone in a shot. I'm grateful for a sense of humor on set when the clock threatens to knock us out, for smart ideas that are unafraid of being alternatives to expectations, for helping wash dishes after a wrap party. But mostly I'm thankful for the sense of teamwork that comes from shared ownership, that none of us are able to make what we do by ourselves, and that when we work in sync we're capable of things we can only dream about as individuals.

I'm grateful to walk out into the desert every single day secure in the knowledge that I'm not alone.

This Thanksgiving, consider how you excavate the deceptively plain sands all around you, empowered by your benefactors, colleagues, friends, and community. Nobody creates in a vacuum. But because some people make their way through life propelled by the need to create and explore, it's essential that we maintain a dialog about the many ways all parties to the process play a role. Call it reciprocal gratitude. It's not something that needs to be spackled onto our lives like an abrasive obligation. Instead, consider it a shared bottle of water, something to hand off to the person next to you when you unexpectedly find yourself digging in the sand, trying to get something done.

From everyone at 1AU Global Media we wish you all the best for a safe and satisfying Thanksgiving.

--MS

PS — Have something to say? Leave us a comment! Don’t want to miss the latest from 1AU? Sign up on our mailing list. (Cool email like ours is better than that boring stuff that clutters your inbox, right?) Consider yourself a fan? Please re-Tweet us, post to Facebook, or otherwise forward us to your friends. Cool? Yep: cool.

TRACES

Time machine I recently purchased a bright orange pair of low-profile athletic shoes. Yes, they're comfortable, and a little zany, but those aren't the reasons I bought them. I bought them because they remind me of the teacher I once had, a master producer of documentary film and video.

I don't like hanging onto lots of bric-a-brac. I'm not much for keepsakes and talismans. But the older I get, the more I realize how much I've structured my physical and intellectual worlds to capture echoes and shadows from my past.

This teacher of mine almost always wore kooky running shoes. I recall a particularly crazy pair of his: a split-toed set of bright yellow Nikes that I think he bought on trip to Japan. He's a little guy, not much more than five and a half feet, but rarely have I ever met someone with as much presence or passion or power. He lives in Los Angeles and travels the world making socially minded documentaries for NGOs and broadcast outlets, always supplementing his income with teaching stints to motivated students who want to learn how to tell their own stories.

As I look down at the orange New Balances on my feet today, I find myself wondering if I'm simply trying to emulate my heroes, to play dress-up. As I think about it, I'm more confident than ever about my answer. It's only by preserving the traces of those people in our lives who matter that any of us transcend our own boundaries and have the ability to reach others.

These traces come in all forms. Sometimes we adopt a matter of dress that gently reminds us of someone else. Sometimes we pick up an article of speech and integrate it into our own language without even thinking about it. The easiest examples are photographs or physical artifacts that we keep in our personal spaces. As I've been thinking about this lately, it occurs to me that this preservation of intangible connections to others is in itself a creative act. It remakes the world consciously or unconsciously, tethering us to other people who continue to reach across time and space and shape our actions. As each of us makes our own determinations about what these tethers are and how they function in our lives we remake the universe.

Primarily I spend my life with artists and other highly creative people. As the old saw goes, "artists steal". Read this aphorism as a good thing, a natural phenomena, not a crime of actual theft. For artists it's as natural as breathing to draw upon the traces of other people in service of craft; we steal from everything, especially those influences that affect us most.

But most people are not artists, per se. Creative? Sure. That's why this blog exists in the first place. My point is that a more conscious awareness of the creative influences we feel from people in our lives is one way that everyone can plug in to the power of interconnectedness.

And if you're wondering, "What does interconnectedness have to do with creativity?" it's simple: it's has everything to do with creativity. Without it, we would not remake the world with stories, paintings, music, or even clever ways to stack firewood. Without the need to preserve the traces of others and play new riffs on their old tunes, there would be no motivation to create anything new. Creativity rarely flourishes without at least a moment for it to communicate with someone else.

If you're wondering if I always wear zany sneakers, the answer is an unequivocal no. But when I bought these tangerine trainers recently, I bought them thinking of my teacher. Now on the odd day when I put them on, I think of him and find a tiny spark of shared values reinforced. On other days I think of other people, of other habits, of other values. I'm reminded that in an infinite lifetime, I'd never lose touch with any of the people who matter to me. But life is not infinite, and I must remake my own world everyday, often with the traces of those in my life who made an impression.

That's why I'm an artist.

-MS

PS — Yes, yes, it’s always the same old request here at the bottom of the blog. “Please share with your friends if you like it…yadda, yadda, yadda.” There are even the little buttons around here where you can post it to Facebook, Tweet it far and wide, distribute it all sorts of ways. But you know what? You COULD! And you know what that would do? That would make us SMILE.

Marveling about THE MASTER

Pop culture is not always the province of art. Creativity? Absolutely. But art?

It's been said that movies are the ultimate middlebrow experience, art for the mainstream. Sure, sure there are those outlier projects, cinematic experiences that push aesthetic, artistic boundaries or strive for narrative and visual novelties outside majority experience. But most of the time, movies reach toward the middle. Despite the spectacular complexity and expense to make one, they're easy and cheap to consume. They require minimal commitment on the part of the casual viewer. They're fun for a date night, a sleepover, a long airplane ride. Most of them are disposable, forgettable.

Still with me? I know this chafes a little, but be honest with yourself. I'm not talking about the many movies you've already woven into the weave of everyday life, to which everyone who knows a readily quotable line can relate. ("You talking' to me?") Fame and sheer memorability do not confer greatness all by themselves.

I love movies; that no surprise. But I find that it's the eternal promise a great movie might--might!--emerge amid the maddening throng is only one of the many reasons I pay close attention to them. It may sound like my middlin' opinion of the form belies a hypocritical sentiment…but I say "no". Instead I believe that an honest regard for the categorical value of something should not offer qualitative appeasements of earnest critical appraisals. There is no absolute measurement of quality, therefore there's infinite potential for discovery. Or, said another way, just because there aren't a long list of great movies doesn't mean there aren't lots of good movies, even interesting ones, too.

In a future essay I'm going to talk about some of the shared attributes that define lasting works of art. But today I'm going to focus on one work, a rare cinematic outlier. It's called "The Master", and while it's most certainly not for everyone, I regard it as one of the great works I've seen in years.

There's a common presumption that real artists can't be happy. The Hollywood corollary to this suggests that this is the reason why there are few real artists who make movies: movies that don't make people happy rarely turn a substantial profit. As a statement of conventional wisdom there are grains of truth here, but I don't believe it's actually so simple. If anything, Hollywood is the problem; serious cinema is not. 21st century moviemaking is much more democratic than it was in the 80s and 90s, with digital technologies forcing budgets down and raising the artistic dreams of independent filmmakers to astonishing heights. "The Master" certainly doesn't find its soul in an imagined super-eight world of backyard suburban sets, but nor does it find itself in the three act world of neat 'n tidy dramas with beginnings, middles, and ends. To be clear: this is no Hollywood film. For starters, it's daring.

Then consider this surprise: who shoots with a 65 mm film negative anymore? Not many, but this crew did. The colors are saturated and lush; the framing wide, yet powerfully intimate. There's nothing like an extreme close-up in a wide format to bring out nuance and saturated emotional vibrations.

The director Paul Thomas Anderson has done something which I consider remarkable. He's made all of the leading characters, most especially the two principals, volatile and intensely flawed. The character of Freddy, played by Joaquin Phoenix, presents a compromised soul to a degree that I don't think I've seen portrayed so honestly before, so richly painted.

I'm not writing a movie review per se, although let me reinforce what you've already gathered: I thought the whole thing brilliant. What prompted me to write about "The Master" were the choices the production team made in an effort to bring it to life. The actors, the production designers, the camera and lighting crews, and the writer/director all must have lived through a single, shared fever dream of rich intensity and soulful honesty. Ostensibly about the power of charisma, we experience the challenges and seductions for both charismatic people in love with their own influence, and those more ordinary folks who follow the charismatic ones. The movie prompts us all to consider why we get up every morning and face the day. The narrative is thick and dense. It does not give the audience lots of breathing room in its urgent portrayal of intense characters, and the vivid visuals offer little in the way of elbow room for us to slacken our focus. But most of all – – and I want to emphasize this above all else – – the movie doesn't show off simply to show off. It's true that creativity of all types and styles by its very nature puts itself on display. Emily Dickinson may have tucked her finished poems in a steamer trunk, but the moment she set ink to paper she decided there was some measure of those works destined for eternity and ultimate presentation.

There are some artistic enterprises that make presentations of self-indulgence a priori requirements. Rock 'n roll, opera, mural painting, Hollywood movies, television commercials, and many other forms of invention strive to grab you, to say, "Look at me". This movie does that too of course; it's just the nature of the form. But that's not the reason for this movie. "The Master" has no gratuitous car crashes, nor "how-did-they-do-that?" camera moves, nor location shots that strain credibility about how the production team gained access. People wear clothes we recognize, they eat food we recognize, the music playing in the background sounds like things we all heard growing up. It's a movie that has the confidence to plumb the murky machinery of people you know, not people you want to ape. It explores beauty in the ugly, in the weary, the busted. It provokes in its precision of voice, and in its precision--for that is the right word-- it evokes a strange interior sensation of hopefulness. Here is a movie that engenders a humane sense of hope because it presents itself in a precise, truthful voice, and considering how much media we all consume that's designed to be anything else but truthful, the sheer audacity to witness the world and then project it brightly back without blinking builds gravitas.

No, this isn't a movie that's going to rake in the mega-bucks. It takes a little work. It's neither disposable, nor easy. But as an antidote to the endless anodyne acts foisted on our media consciousnesses, The Master offers an alternative. It asks us to listen closely; watch carefully; think.

Sounds like good advice for life.

--MS

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INSURMOUNTABLE?

Staring into a blank canvas or empty screen, toeing the starting line of an endurance race, taking the first step of a 2100 mile journey - the end seems so far away, impossible to conceive. Yet the human spirit never stops craving the unknown, the obscure - whether it be a scientific breakthrough or a foggy mountain peak. Maybe it's that challenge that drives change, fueling humanity's movement forward.

In a recent expedition to the top of Mt. Katahdin, arguably the most formidable mountain of the Northeastern US, this energy was physically tangible amid the intrepid climbers, as thick in the air as the clouds themselves. In many ways everybody on the peak was at the high point of their own pilgrimage - some were completing a six-month hike of the Appalachian trail, others had scrambled over the lichen covered granite for a challenging one-day hike. Everyone was together - smiling, congratulating, stripping to their skivvies for a well deserved photo-op - yet each individually had just completed their own trip into the unknown, overcoming their own pains and challenges, bringing their own creativity and two feet to get them to the top.

Every painting, every movie, every climb begins with the same inner quandary: insurmountable? Maybe. But there's only one way to find out. Commit to the first step, then put one foot in front of the other.'

VW text EE photos

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IMPROVISATION

The fix-it solution for improvisers.

Improvisation: that's when you have an idea and you make up the next bit based on what you just did a moment ago, right?

I bet you do this a lot. We all do. But often people mistake improvisation for "making it up as you go along". No doubt there are elements of this in all improvisation, but artists know something intuitively that onlookers may discount. Lots of practice making things up leads to better results when you've got to perform.

We're heading into presidential debate season and no matter which side you support, keep one small corner of your brain open to the inevitable display of improvisational footwork from both candidates. They've both practiced prior to the debates; we all know that. They both have their standard buzz lines and tropes and stylistic flourishes; we know that too. But we don't know precisely what they're going to say to the inevitably unexpected events that arise and neither do they. They will improvise.

Each of us improvises when we reach the next moment in our lives. Do you think every surgeon knows precisely what they're going to see when they cut someone open just because they've had twenty years of training? Does every NASCAR driver know what's going to happen on lap 217, even though the job can be reduced to "drive fast and turn left"?

So, what's not improvisation? I could argue that all things fit the improvisational spirit, considering that life will eternally provoke unexpected moments for "making it up as you go along". But some things aren't so fluid. Some things are genuinely predictable. Monthly bills to pay, nightly dishes to wash, weekly reports to write for your boss: none of these fit the spirit of improvisation very much. But sometimes moments of inspiration springing from deep understanding of these tasks leads to invention and innovation, and the first time you try them out…voila: improvisation. Things only become codified, even ossified, after they've been done a million times.

When you give a speech, you're not improvising. You're presenting something that's gone through revision, trial, testing, and rehearsal (and if you're not, you definitely want to call us, 'cause we provide all sorts of great coaching services!) When you're building a model rocket from a balsa and cardboard kit, you're not improvising either. But the moment you're not sure what to do at the podium when one of the spotlights inexplicably goes out, or you discover that the rocket kit came with a cracked stabilizer, you've suddenly been thrust into the realm of improvisation.

This is not comfortable for everyone. Not everyone likes to riff on a theme. Some people feel much, much better working from a set of known data, from a cookbook, or a sheet of printed music. This is not only okay, it's valuable. I rely on concrete thinkers to do concrete things. I demand it of myself, in fact. Cooking, writing a novel, flowcharting the architecture for new software all require disciplined thinking and rigorous labor. They cannot be done well without a focused mind. But focused thinking is not the same as rigid thinking. The value of improvisation is being able to notice an unexpected opportunity, seize it, and not get tripped up by the inevitable surprises.

Undisciplined improvisation is just making it up and you go along. The difference in being a good improviser is the ability to impose the ballast of discipline even as you tack with ungovernable winds. Good improvisation is being able to take cues from known rules, briefly experienced inputs, precedents and even accidents, and not get thrown. Great improvisation is being able to take those elements and turn them into something breathtaking. Done well it's effortless; it just flows.

--MS

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