Just joining the article series? Developing Creativity (Part One): 'No Need to See Flowers Any Other Way can be read in Culture’s November 23rd lineup.
Resigning themselves to their fate, my aunt and my mother both tightened their jaws, bracing themselves for the process of painting something, anything, on their chosen doors.
If I could bottle the moment that came next, I would. There was a turning point when the resistance gave way while I watched my mother and aunt become immersed in the task at hand. In fact, my aunt literally did so, opting to trace her hands on the door (along with the words, “Help, I’m being held prisoner!”). Easy enough. That wasn’t the remarkable part, however.
Their relationship with what they were creating is what intrigued me. Both were very deliberate about which colors they used. It wasn’t necessarily that the colors had a conscious meaning or rationale; it was that there was an internally mediated surety about the choice. From where I sat I could see these moments burst forth like popcorn. I saw it in their postures as they both fell silent. Scanning the colors, moving a brush toward one, hesitating and then relaxing as the brush headed to a different hue, their images expressed themselves.
This was a pattern I saw over and over as my cabinets became something of a community art project. For those who were creatively inhibited, there was always the protestation, the resignation, the quieting, and then the immersion.
It was funny to me that, despite the initial protestations, each person expressed a definite idea about what exactly would be drawn once they set themselves to the actual task. Watching this process, particularly the quieting when the creative connection was made, was truly beautiful. Nothing compares to seeing adults becoming as playful as children again. Every day I enter that room, I feel blessed with the memory of how each piece was created.
This hasn’t been restricted to painted pictures. I’ve observed the same pattern in friends playing with magnetic poetry: protestation, resistance, quieting, and immersion. It isn’t that what emerges is necessarily high art, and it isn’t even important that anyone else understands it. Just hearing my Southside of Chicago, “regular guy” brother-in-law exclaim, “That’s it! ‘Tangy monkey!’ That’s perfect!” as he nods his head vigorously and links words together in a way none of us can fathom is priceless.
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