Alexandersmap

    Category: Art

    • Aspired Greatness

      “I believe that the first test of a great man is his humility. I don’t mean by humility, doubt of his power. But really great men have a curious feeling that the greatness is not of them, but through them. And they see something divine in every other man and are endlessly, foolishly, incredibly merciful.” – John Ruskin

      If we agree, and I hope we do, that there’s a divine spark in each person, then each of us has something to offer. I know there some particularly hideous exceptions to that rule, but in general most people in this world are trying to do the right thing. The outrage we feel when some dark soul erupts in the world demonstrates our shared faith in humanity. Outrage originates out of a feeling of betrayal of shared beliefs.

      To reach greatness in the world doesn’t require the most followers or likes on YouTube or a particular net worth. Really great people have an aura of positive energy exuding from them. Really great people lift those around them up. Really great people strap themselves to the helm to steer the ship through the worst of storms. There are plenty of really great people in the world, and you’re probably thinking of a few examples right now.

      “I believe God made me for a purpose, but he also made me fast. And when I run I feel His pleasure.” – Eric Liddell in Chariots of Fire

      Divinity isn’t within us, it runs through us in our chosen pursuits, our relationships, our empathy and our sacrifice. It’s a calling, a purpose, that demands us to give of ourselves so that others may feel the Divine Spirit as well. That spirit may mean something religious to you (capital D, capital S), or simply something far greater than ourselves.

      I humbly write in pursuit of the divine – not to capture it, but to channel it through my writing. I’m a long way from greatness, but I see the path grow incrementally shorter with every hour devoted to the craft. Writing hasn’t been my life’s work to this point, but it’s woven in everything I’ve ever done. A modest, often futile attempt to share the divine that I’ve encountered in this world with you. Does that make it a purpose or a pursuit? I think the latter, but I hear the call of the former.

      And shouldn’t we aspire for greatness and a way to share it?

    • Every Setting Sun

      “Let every dawn of morning be to you as the beginning of life, and every setting sun be to you as its close.” – John Ruskin, The Two Paths

      You see the difference in the days now. September brings that perceptible tilt of the earth, shrinking daylight hours and with it a persistent tightening up of that time between sunrise and sunset. Soon the trees will react and the world will turn a kaleidoscope of colors. In the northern hemisphere we’ve turned the corner from the laziness of summer and you can feel the quiet insistence of the harvest season upon us.

      There’s work to do, meaningful work, and it must begin in earnest while there’s time. It’s funny how September does that. Deeply engrained in our souls, this feeling of bringing all your work to a satisfactory conclusion. A harvest. Like the setting sun you can feel when one chapter is ending, with a bold suggestion that something new might begin. But we’re fools to focus on that which isn’t promised to us.

      Sunsets are lovely, but you earn the sunrise. And when you greet the day your thoughts turn naturally to what you might do with it. Life is best lived in the urgency between sunrise and sunset. When the sun sets this evening, what will we have harvested in these brief hours? For the days grow shorter with every setting sun.

    • The How of Things

      “We humans live in two worlds. First, there is the outer world of appearances—all of the forms of things that captivate our eye. But hidden from our view is another world—how these things actually function, their anatomy or composition, the parts working together and forming the whole. This second world is not so immediately captivating. It is harder to understand. It is not something visible to the eye, but only to the mind that glimpses the reality. But this “how” of things is just as poetic once we understand it—it contains the secret of life, of how things move and change.”
      – Robert Greene, Mastery

      You might read a paragraph like the one above with the eye of a scientist, seeing the truth through the lens of composition of matter and chemical reaction and such. You might read it through the eyes of a politician or businessperson, immediately grasping the backroom deals and favors that occur well before the headlines catch the attention of the public. Or you might read it with the eye of an artist, seeing the structure of the words themselves and how they spin magic in their unique assembly on the page. There is indeed poetry in the how.

      There’s a light that dawns when you see this other side of things, this secret sauce of how and why things are the way they are. Lessons learned through experience and intelligent observation and time invested in the questions of how. Some people receive the gift of a curious mind early in life and immerse themselves in the wonder of how, but most of us are too dazzled by the sleight of hand to focus on how the magician does the trick.

      There’s magic in the how. Watch Paul McCartney at a mixing board isolating bits of a Beatles song and you learn the intricate composition and experimentation that went into crafting it. The magic seems to sparkle on the surface, but it’s much deeper than you might hear in a first listen. The final product is an illusion built on layers of sonic novelty and gumption. The joy lies in discovering things you missed the first dozen times you heard a song.

      The magic lies in the mix. What we see on the surface is only the tip of the iceberg. Dive deeper into the how.

    • Follow the Trail and Scatter Light

      Man dreams one day to fly
      A man takes a rocket ship into the sky
      He lives on a star that’s dying in the night
      And follows in the trail, the scatter of light
      – U2, In A Little While

      There are moments in an album or a book or an evening when you recognize the magic. Emotion wells up in you, stirring and amplifying feelings, sending you to another place. A higher place, maybe, or a darker place should the moment direct you that way. I keep climbing to higher places, hoping the view is better. Hoping I’ll become better in the process. And some of it ends up here in this blog.

      U2 hit me a few times over with All That You Can’t Leave Behind. Opening with the hit, dropping in a mournful homage to Michael Hutchence and then the heart pounding Elevation. This was the U2 I’d missed in their experimental days of the late 90’s. These were songs that stuck with you. Ear worms if you will. And then they hit you with Walk On, which grabbed me by the throat waiting for a flight from LA to Boston. When Bono starts singing “Home, hard to know where it is if you’ve never had one” while sleepily waiting for a red eye flight home… well, I’ll never hear the song the same again.

      For all that, the second half of the album is admittedly weaker. And for me, In A Little While became the unconscious end. For it was this song that got that emotion welling, that stirred and amplified those feelings. When Bono sings “Slow down my bleeding heart” I’m right with him, and I know it hit others the same way. That’s the power of a moment.

      Bono stated at one of the concerts U2 recorded that Joey Ramone’s family told him In A Little While was the song that he listened to in hospice, which changed the song for Bono, the guy who wrote it, from a hung over dolt going home at the end of the night to something bigger. Something more meaningful. I never heard the song as anything but soul-stirring, which just goes to show, art might begin with the artist, but it becomes whatever the audience wants it to be.

      I think about that as I write. About reaching moments of emotional connection in my writing. About crafting something of depth and substance, something that amplifies that nugget of desire or fear or love in your soul. Surely I’m a work in progress, but still climbing. Following the trail and scattering light. Still dreaming of flying.

    • Editing Our Short [Life] Story

      “Stuart Cornfeld once told me that in a good screenplay, every structural unit needs to do two things: (1) be entertaining in its own right and (2) advance the story in a non-trivial way. We will henceforth refer to this as ‘the Cornfeld Principle.” – George Saunders, A Swim in a Pond in the Rain

      I don’t recall who recommended Saunder’s book to me. It was most certainly a podcast or blog somewhere along the way. On the face of it the book seems a bit academic, but it’s a delightful class in writing well using Russian short stories as the vehicle for instruction. If that sounds boring, I understand, but Saunders makes the stories come alive while informing us on the craft of building a story.

      Which brings me to this observation on writing a screenplay by Stuart Cornfeld. Who can argue each point when it comes to building a story? Yet so many fall flat in one or both element. And what of building a life? Shouldn’t a life be built around joy and purpose? There’s a balance there between fully enjoying this short life and making something of our short time here, isn’t there? What do we keep in our stories and what do we eliminate? This Cornfeld Principle offers a simple template, even if the application isn’t always so simple in practice.

      Stuart Cornfeld passed away last year. He’s best known for collaborations with Ben Stiller, including a joy nugget, The Secret Life of Walter Mitty. I don’t know much about him other than his work, but it’s clear he brought a bit of happiness to the world in his brief go at life.

      Shouldn’t we all aspire to a similar contribution? As we write our oh-so-brief life stories day-to-day, don’t we owe it to ourselves to make it both interesting and non-trivial? Whether our story becomes a page-turner of a life or a satisfying epic is up to us. Edit well.

    • Dancing in the Gap

      “Don’t lament so much about how your career is going to turn out. You don’t have a career, you have a life.” – Cheryl Strayed

      “Cease to be a drudge, seek to be an artist.” – Mary McLeod Bethune

      “I knew I had been transformed, moved by the revelation that human beings create art, that to be an artist was to see what others could not.” – Patti Smith

      Today is a Friday. which in the world of work means something to the majority of people making a living. Back in the day, Thursday and Friday night meant having a few drinks after work to wait out the traffic, commiserate about the grind suffered in earnest that week, and to talk of plans for the weekend.

      I’m done climbing that particular ladder. But I haven’t quite weened myself off being a drudge. But I fight and cajole myself towards some measure of artistry. Admittedly, it’s an odd place to reside. I know people who delight in their drudgery and shun artistry. I find that they live the rest of their lives in a similar fashion.

      We’ve built this social structure where taking one for the team and being a cog is celebrated. Cheryl Strayed is right to point out that your career is merely a part of your life, but it’s a big part. Aren’t we obligated to rise above the grind? We all know salespeople and engineers and accountants who spin delightful work out of what others might view as drudgery. Life is what you make of it, and so is your career. You can and should create beautiful art in your daily work.

      I’m particularly excited about a couple of projects I’m working on in my career. I’d like to weave a bit more art into each, and really, that ambition to raise the project to a level above the norm is where artists begin their work day. So what if it’s a sculpture or a PowerPoint presentation; make it beautiful.

      Our short, fragile lives are built on whimsy and chance and a bit of gumption. So why succumb to drudgery? Why not begin a notch or two above the norm and see how much you can stretch yourself? To dance in the gap between drudgery and art is to lift yourself beyond a job or a task to a place where the beautiful and noteworthy begins.

    • A Beautiful Reluctance

      We were born saying goodbye
      to what we love,
      we were born
      in a beautiful reluctance
      to be here,
      not quite ready
      to breathe in this new world
      – David Whyte, Cleave

      I understand this reluctance. I wrestle with it myself. And tackle the moments as they wash over me and undermine my footing like a relentless surf. We’re never quite ready for what the world throws at us, but with a subtle shift and a will to persevere we find a way to keep our footing.

      For all the harshness in the world we learn that, more often than not, the waves come from within. The demons aren’t out there marching towards you in waves, they whisper in your ear. The distractions and busywork and perceived obligations squander our moments and precious minutes. The reluctance pulls at our sleeve, back towards what we are comfortable with, back towards the safe and predictable and indistinct.

      Each step is uncertain, but slowly we move forward. The farther we venture, the harder it is to hear the call to come back. And in the growing quiet we might hear something just out of reach. Just ahead. And we continue towards those who call us, towards the Muse, towards our boldest dreams. One moment, and one breath at a time.

      But it begins, as it must, with goodbye.

    • To Be Touched by Everything I’ve Found

      One obvious problem with long drives is that it eats into reading time. You can solve this with audio books, of course, but then what of podcasts? As a heavy consumer of both, what do you choose? And this is where time becomes our enemy.

      Long drives require epic podcast episodes, and there’s nothing more epic than Hardcore History with Dan Carlin. For the last year I’ve been saving long stretches of travel to complete Supernova of the East, which is like all of Carlin’s podcasts: devastating edge of your seat listening. You want a little perspective as you crawl along in traffic over the Tappan Zee Bridge? Listen to the details of the Battle of Okinawa as Carlin spins his magic.

      What do you do when you’ve finished a series like Supernova of the East and you need to step back into the better side of humanity? Music helps. Lately I’ve been mixing classic rock and what today is known as “Americana” music (personally, I just call it music). Specifically, diving into old Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young tunes and new Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit compilations. Looking for poetry set to music? You can’t go wrong with either. As a lover of words piled together just so, Isbell does to your brain cells what a complex Cabernet does to your taste buds.

      The best I can do
      Is to let myself trust that you know
      Who’ll be strong enough to carry your heart
      – Jason Isbell and the 400 Unit, Letting You Go

      When you get to a hotel room in some remote place and you’ve caught up on all those emails and administrative work, what next? Drink? Watch television? Or dive back into the books that have tapping you on the shoulder for attention? There’s a place for every form of entertainment, but in most of my travels the hotel television never gets turned on. But the Kindle app does.

      After some consistent prodding by a friend of mine, I’m finally finishing Sapiens by Yusef Noah Harari. I know, what took me so long? Honestly it just kept slipping down the pile as other books jumped ahead. Regrettable, but life is about tradeoffs. What we choose to dance with in our brief time makes all the difference in how we see the world. Now that I’ve almost wrapped it up, I see what all the fuss is about.

      “Even today, with all our advanced technologies, more than 90 per cent of the calories that feed humanity come from the handful of plants that our ancestors domesticated between 9500 and 3500 BC – wheat, rice, maize (called ‘corn’ in the US), potatoes, millet and barley. No noteworthy plant or animal has been domesticated in the last 2,000 years. If our minds are those of hunter-gatherers, our cuisine is that of ancient farmers.” – Yusef Noah Harari, Sapiens

      Speaking of that stack of books, I put aside a couple of other books to focus on completing Sapiens. One in particular, The Blind Watchmaker, is a heavier lift than Sapiens, but compliments it well. I’ve referenced it before in the blog, and look forward to moving it to the virtual “done” pile. Combined, these two books have shaken my perspective of the world and how we got here.

      “If you have a mental picture of X and you find it implausible that the human eye could have arisen directly from it, this simply means that you have chosen the wrong X.” – Richard Dawkins, The Blind Watchmaker

      Inevitably I need to sprinkle in page-turner fiction, poetry and sharp left turn material to shake off reality until I can catch my breath again. Journey to Ixtlan by Carlos Castaneda was a definite left turn for me, an interesting read that got me thinking about mysticism and craving more time in the desert Southwest.

      “You can do better. There is one simple thing wrong with you—you think you have plenty of time.” – Carlos Castaneda, Journey to Ixtlan

      The Sea in You: Twenty Poems of Requited and Unrequited Love by David Whyte is a lovely collection of poems by one of our living masters. Whyte stirs words together with the best of them and catches my imagination with his alchemy. I’ll surely spend more time with Whyte in this blog in the near future.

      “be weathered by what comes to you, like the way you
      too
      have travelled from so far away to be here, once
      reluctant
      and now as solid and as here and as willing
      to be touched as everything you have found.”
      – David Whyte, The Sea in You: Twenty Poems of Requited and Unrequited Love

      We collect bits of wisdom and memorable nuggets in our consumption. Does this make us better conversationalists or a faster draw on Jeopardy? Most likely, but there’s something more to it than that. To revisit the old cliche, we are the average of the five people we spend the most time with. What we consume either amplifies our biases or challenges them. I choose to be challenged, and find myself slowly stretching and building a better mind, with greater perspective, through what I listen to, watch and read.

      In short, to be touched by everything I’ve found.

    • Beauty, Reflected

      “When Narcissus died, the goddesses of the forest appeared and found the lake, which had been fresh water, transformed into a lake of salty tears.
      “Why do you weep?” the goddesses asked.
      “I weep for Narcissus,” the lake replied.
      “Ah, it is no surprise that you weep for Narcissus,” they said, “for though we always pursued him in the forest, you alone could contemplate his beauty close at hand.”
      “But . . . was Narcissus beautiful?” the lake asked.
      “Who better than you to know that?” the goddesses said in wonder. “After all, it was by your banks that he knelt each day to contemplate himself!”
      The lake was silent for some time. Finally, it said:
      “I weep for Narcissus, but I never noticed that Narcissus was beautiful. I weep because, each time he knelt beside my banks, I could see, in the depths of his eyes, my own beauty reflected.”
      – Paulo Coelho, Prologue to The Alchemist

      Great writing reflects. It collects the beautiful essence of living in this world and polishes it up to reflect back on the reader. It’s what any writer worth their salt aspires to. It’s what I aspire to here and elsewhere. Call this blog a work in progress. What is published daily isn’t as polished as a Fleetwood Mac song, you get maybe the second or third draft here. But I try like hell to make it worth our collective time.

      The garden is well past the dance of the Daffodils. Maybe the timing of this quote should have been aligned with their peak, but looking back on my posts from that time I see my focus turned towards other things in this world. Such is the way with writing, you can’t possibly capture it all. The very process of focusing on one thing allows other things to escape notice.

      In all art you hold up the mirror in the moment, reflecting what you can with the tools you have at hand. Developing an eye for beauty is perhaps the most important thing any artist can aspire to, more than a steady hand or a grasp of the nuance of language or paint colors or lenses. An eye for the beautiful allows us to see what others might miss. And in seeing it, attempt to reflect it back on the world.

      Narcissists aren’t generally looked upon favorably. The brilliant turn in Coelho’s prologue is in showing that even Narcissus inadvertently offered something to another. To write at all is to wrestle with the narcissism within. To expect greatness of ourselves is bold, just who are we serving in our attempts? Nothing smacks the ego like the silence of the universe when you say “ta da!”

      The hardest part of creating something is seeing the beauty and not measuring up to it with your reflection of it. But each clumsy attempt brings us a bit closer to the possible. Beauty, reflected, casts a light on both sender and receiver. The best work will come. That which is beautiful patiently sparkles in anticipation of you seeing the best in yourself through your efforts. And, maybe, lighting up the world.

      But do try not to drown in your reflection.

    • Adding Extra to Ordinary

      “A master is in control. A master has a system. A master turns the ordinary into the sacred.”
      – Ryan Holiday

      “The primary math of the real world is one and one equals two. The layman (as, often, do I) swings that every day. He goes to the job, does his work, pays his bills and comes home. One plus one equals two. It keeps the world spinning. But artists, musicians, con men, poets, mystics and such are paid to turn that math on its head, to rub two sticks together and bring forth fire. Everybody performs this alchemy somewhere in their life, but it’s hard to hold on to and easy to forget. People don’t come to rock shows to learn something. They come to be reminded of something they already know and feel deep down in their gut. That when the world is at its best, when we are at our best, when life feels fullest, one and one equals three. It’s the essential equation of love, art, rock ’n’ roll and rock ’n’ roll bands. It’s the reason the universe will never be fully comprehensible, love will continue to be ecstatic, confounding, and true rock ’n’ roll will never die.” – Bruce Springsteen, Born to Run

      I’m beginning to understand the art of weaving magic. I am by no means a master, but each turn in the blog, each tangle with words in other work I’m developing, leads me closer to the sacred. The blog is my apprenticeship, never fully realized because I ship the work daily whether the magic is sprinkled on yet or not. This is a turn of the ordinary, and a march towards something more.

      Routines infer ordinary. We have our habits and generally stick with them, and we feel out of sorts when the routine is broken by happenstance or travel. But routines are where you find the magic, hidden deeply in layers of repetition and persistence. You don’t pull magic out of your ass, you work for it.

      You know it when you see it. Moments crackle with excitement. And one plus one does, for a brief moment, equal three. The greatest artists and performers regularly dance with the extraordinary. But hidden from that brilliant moment of now are the buried hours of falling flat, picking yourself up and trying something else then. You don’t add extra to ordinary without sacrifice.

      I’m well aware of where I am with my own work, and I also know where I’m going. Towards the sacred. Towards three. Towards the incomprehensible and magic and the extraordinary. I hope someday to share that with you.