'On Creativity'I am dreaming in red.
I'm actually dreaming of fire, a red crackling campfire, a campfire of leaping sparks, surrounded by darkness. I feel a deep luscious sense of contentment. All is tinged with red. Warm and comforting.
And when the buzzing drone of an insect breaks the spell, I open my eyes only to see a pinkish glow enveloping my room, the first tinted light of day.
It is 7 a.m. and I have slept in.
It is the first time in nineteen days that I have slept past 5, and I (despite
breaking the morning ritual) am elated.
Before my morning tea, before spiritual reading, moments of meditative silence, plans for the day,
artwork, food, radio, domestic chores, before anything else happens, I pull on some clothes (where they lay from last night), rouse Chester and head out into the day.
Everything is sharp and bright. (Is it me or my mood or the weather?) Everything seems fresh and twinkly with tiny dew drops and dancing light. Chester is feeling it too, so we ramble onward through the village, cutting through the (still quiet) school yard, and up deserted Howard Street. Howard Street, (more of a footpath, really, but in actual fact a one-way road), with the leaves of the ancient live oak trees rustling and flickering with light.
Past small family burial plots, the slanting light illuminating shaded mossy stones, ('loving father', 'dear sister of', 'rest in peace'), past the front-porch dogs, barking in frenzy but keeping a distance, and then out of this cool light onto the circling harbour road, where things are slightly more active.
We keep to the road's edge, but are passed by only two vehicles, pick-up trucks, each one turning onto the British Cemetery Road, (heading for the coffee shop?), and one with an old yellow lab in the back staring balefully at Chester but passing without comment.
And on we walk past the ferry docks, across to the NPS shop, the little patch of woods behind, the wide expanse of grass, parking lot, public boat launch, a glimpse of Pamlico Sound, the David Williams House, (the museum run by the Ocracoke Preservation Society), and on to the road where the two trucks turned. When we arrive at the coffee shop fifteen minutes later, sure enough, the two trucks are there, the old yellow lab waiting patiently for his human.
Once coffeed, and deciding that I am in need of some new drawing materials, (reds primarily), we make our way to the little book shop which (happily) has a small section of art supplies. As Chester lies on the bookshop porch, I chat and choose a beautiful set of French oil pastels. Thus armed, I am ready for home and the creative part of the day.
The creative part of the day.
What is it about that? Doesn't this part of the day count as 'creative'? Surely my day is already packed with all things creative - sights, sounds, scents, tastes - but I practically disregard it all in the rush to get to my drawing table. Shouldn't all of it count as 'creative'?
Can these perceptions - sights, sounds, scents, tastes - be useful in creating something new?
Whatever the answer, I do know one thing.
I am all about the 'process'.
Which, in actual fact, covers a lot of ground. My being here, after all, is part of the 'process'.
Process - the course of becoming.
Exploring, experimenting, (sometimes disastrously), but moving. Moving beyond, taking things further, where even the disasters play a part in the new creation.
That is what excites me, and what allows for freedom to explore ideas, concepts, materials. Because if even the disasters have a role in what is to come, (creatively speaking), I am completely free to play around with ideas and concepts and materials, and be influenced by sights, sounds, scents, tastes, without any inhibitions.
Is that the secret to creativity?
The day turns hot (but breezy), and up in our little sanctuary of creativity, both dog and explorer are happy. One in a shady spot on the deck, and the other in a shady spot on the deck, with a small round table at which to work and a beautiful new French oil pastel set.
And lots of reds.
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