Inspiration

The term "inspiration" seems like such a loaded word in this day and age.  The Romantics talked a lot about inspiration, the Moderns, too.  They attributed so much to inspiration, this mysterious force that, at least according to them, was the difference between ordinary folk and artists (oh, that and a little thing called talent).  But in their world, talent without inspiration amounted to nothing.

For me, at least, there are different creative states.  Sometimes you have a job to do, it is time to put pen to paper and write something for a deadline.  I wrote a lot of CD reviews for a World Music internet site like that.  The CDs appeared in the mail and, after a few days, the emails began arriving wanting to know when the reviews would be ready for posting.  Sometimes, if I really liked the album I felt a burst of energy and a personal engagement in my work that gave it that little extra kick.  But a lot of the time, it was just generating product for a deadline.  You do your best, and you don't feel especially "inspired" and there is something a bit lifeless about what comes out of the pipeline.  This is when creation feels like work, and you just hope you get paid to do it (because often you don't).  So there you have it, inspiration defined by its absence.

But then there are those times when I run across something that takes me out of myself.  It can be many things; music is a major trigger, as is film, poetry, and visual art.  Nature can also effect me deeply.  I feel a great energy rise up within me that seems to work at every level: physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual.  The experience can be overwhelming and I grab pen and paper and try to translate the raw emotion into language:  to capture, distill and hopefully recreate the creative charge.  Where a painter works with color, line and shading, I feel my raw material is language refracted through emotion and intellect.   I am a keep observer of the human heart and the impact of living on this tender but incredibly resilient organ.  I don't know why I experience the world in this way.  If I thought about it too much, I might be concerned.  No one in my daily life experiences life like this.  I've never known another person who felt their heart was breaking at the beauty of Leslie Cheung incarnating Cheng Dieyi in Farewell, My Concubine or who researched and wrote a novel about flamenco to capture their experience of this profound art form.  No wonder the ancient Greeks conceived of inspiration as a type of almost demonic madness.  Under its influence I have done things and been someone I never would have otherwise.  My only quibble with the Greeks is that I usually  experience as much heaven as hell in the experience.  The hope of engaging with life in this heightened way is often what gets me out of bed in the morning.  Inspiration is the main thing that has me live life more fully, more intensely and with greater zest.  Anything less feels like a pale imitation of life.