THANKFUL

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

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THE TROUBLE WITH LOOKING BEHIND-THE-SCENES

Back in the 1950s, Superman leaped tall buildings in…a theatrical harness with a couple of stage hands pulling rope through a block and tackle off set. But what did we see?

"Truth, justice, and the American way!"

Superman flew. He had to: people watching television decades ago saw it with their own eyes.

But that's television; we all know it's just make-believe, even if we tune in to lose ourselves intentionally in the story. Movies are a whole lot more immersive, just by means of working within more expansive boundaries and defining different expectations. But things are changing all over the land of make-believe, from the Province of Television to the Domain of Movies. None of our electronic fictions are precisely what they once were, and it isn't just because computer generated effects have replaced ropes and harnesses for our heroes.

Movies still command a certain measure of cultural attention, but not like they did as recently as twenty years ago. Arena- filling rock and roll bands have taken on profoundly different roles in the culture, too, as have books and other cultural events to a lesser degree. Even television no longer acts as the soothing zone of cerebral down-shifting that it used to be. Twenty years ago NBC's "must-see-TV" line-up held much of the country in thrall, provoking Friday morning office conversations that must have sapped a measurable portion of the nation's productivity.

The change came slowly, methodically, creeping in on catspaws. An easy cause for the change, obviously, was the advent of millions of new web-based ways for people to spend their time, distracting them from large, more widely shared events. The web and its handheld, wireless offspring further fragmented attention. But I believe one of the greatest factors in a new cultural ennui is the corollary to infinite choice. Infinite choice demands an inevitable qualitative discount on well made work just to keep the endless pipes full. As a result, theatrical curtains that used to hide how everything in the world was made have suddenly parted.

Typically we enter into a partnership with performing arts, or any work of art, for that matter. Even if a rock star makes it look like they're just wildly gyrating, the reality is always so much more prosaic: hours of rehearsal, endless practice all alone to perfect complex riffs, preproduction planning, and on and on and on. The partnership with an audience is about suspension of disbelief. We dream about our media idols because the illusion of so much charisma and power and performance excellence is one of ease and effortlessness. We want our magicians to levitate, even as we know that gravity never takes a holiday. We want what they seem to have.

Ever watch a cooking show? Millions do. Cooking shows teach you everything, even if you never intend to cook what they're showing. Most people never try the stuff being made in state-of-the-art studio kitchens. But expectations rise by watching these things, nonetheless, and with those expectations puffing up like soufflés, so do the minimum requirements for general satisfaction. Is this bad? Probably not. An educated public, no matter what the subject, is a better social body. But when everything is ordinary, it's harder to hold an audience's attention.

Lower production costs and an effectively infinite number of media outlets means that humanity's innate curiosity can now be effectively sated for any subject at all. Behind-the-scenes programs, blogs, podcasts, photo galleries, magazine articles, and more can teach you the secrets of just about any subject or endeavor you may want to know. Curious about how to play a diminished C chord on a guitar? Check. Want to know about the manufacturing process of fast food french fries? Yep: that's available too.

It's a funny thing. I like having access to all sorts of information about how the world works. I like knowing how papayas grow just like I also want to be able to look up how to properly place a comma in a sentence.

But endless informational resources about endless subjects is not the same as going behind-the-scenes. Behind-the-scenes programming removes the necessary suspension of disbelief required for theater. Just like audiences still go to see magicians even though they know it's a trick, they go to the movies knowing that the stories they're watching are built by armies of people working for months in movie making businesses. The compact audiences metaphorically sign with creators not to see how it's done facilitates necessary disbelief. The fact is, Superman only makes sense if we believe he can fly. If we see the ropes, we all laugh; it ruins the magic. The moment we go back stage and see that there really isn't a bottomless pit into hell but instead just a wooden trapdoor, we lose a bit of the surprise and emotional connection with regard to the plight of the character and his our her narrative.

And it's a tough thing, steeped as we all are in infinite information. We all have access to trailers and magazine articles and web sites that reveal tons of details about how something gets made. But I suppose my thesis is this: treat behind-the-scenes information with respect, lest you no longer appreciate anything. It's one thing to learn all about a magician's life; it's another thing entirely to learn how he makes the tiger disappear. As soon as you know where that tiger goes, you'll not only stop caring, but you'll be more likely to click on something newer, something incrementally more scintillating, and your own attention will continue to fragment.

Fragment it too much, and then nothing matters at all.

-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.

RAIN AND SUN

The rain speaks.

I'm standing at the window watching a heavy, late summertime rain fill the air. Early yesterday, bright sun washed out the sky; it hadn't occurred to me that a storm may be right behind.

By and large we at 1AU work in a high-tech world. That means we spend a lot of time around computer monitors and electrical cables and cameras and, of course, endless hours inside. We work by electronic light. We breathe recirculated air.

It almost sounds like life aboard a spacecraft.

But today it's raining, and it occurs to me that the vaguely romantic mood I'm in directly relates to the water falling from the sky. I laugh at myself when I think of how I sat in my car this morning, strategizing for a minute as I tried to think of a way to minimize the soaking I'd get when I opened the door. I considered all of the options, worked out the moves like choreography: sling my shoulder bag securely, then grab the flip-lid coffee cup with right hand while I pocket the car keys with my other. I'd adroitly bump the driver side door shut with my right elbow, and dash for the door, 50 meters across puddle-strewn pavement.

Ready...? "Go!"

Result? I got wet. And then I stood at the door to my office looking out through the glass--dripping, slightly chilled-- and I decided not to be annoyed at all.

Rain falls; winds blow; temperature changes. The natural world speaks, but not to us. It speaks and we may listen in, like passengers in a train terminal listening nonchalantly to a private phone conversation in the chair next to us. The natural world offers food for thought, backdrops for moods, be they bright or melancholy. The natural world is not something to resist. Taken with a measure of grace, it's a touchstone, always surprising, always authentic, often changing, yet reliable and honest every single day.

As artists we should be open to all sorts of influences, from surprising physical experiences and diverse people. As the Japanese filmmaker Akira Kurasowa said, "Artists cannot avert their eyes." Where that comment evokes considerations of social justice, and nuanced political observations, and moments of transformation, I'm sitting here with rainwater on my glasses recognizing how it also suggests that we not lose touch with sources of inspiration directly enveloping us. Sometimes it's rain; sometimes it's the act of band-aiding a paper cut earned when you rush to refill the aging inkjet printer in the corner. Inspiration comes from observation, and observation comes from wanting to be a participant in your own life rather than a spectator.

Today the sound of rain--that low, white noise vibration––becomes a natural soundtrack to the movie of my day. But so do bird songs in sunlit afternoons, and the mournful whistles of late autumn breezes as they coax me to pull the sides of my collar closer together. Sights, sounds, feelings of air on skin: the natural world is raw material for art. And as regular readers of this column know, I believe art is the natural byproduct of a vibrant life.

MS

Back to DC, Back to the Future

After a terrific week at the Jackson Hole Science Media Symposium, we're headed back to DC. It was great to spend time catching up with old friends and terrific to meet lots of new people with awesome ideas and energy.

The coming change of seasons feels like an appropriate bookend to this adventure. We're looking forward to exciting new projects in our queue, and look forward to staying in touch with you. (Hey: that rhymes!)

Go farther.

--VW, MS

ICONS

Sometimes unexpected events of the day overwhelm the best laid plans. This week's intended blog post was ready to go, when news came over the weekend that Neil Armstrong had died at 82. Perhaps the most famous astronaut to ever have lived, he was, ironically, also one of the most reclusive. The very traits that made him the perfect choice for commanding Apollo 11 disinclined him to seek fame, or celebrity, or the trappings of political power. Very few people in history are known so famously for such a briefly defined sequence of events in their lives, or single utterances made famous beyond all comparison. But there's a reason the title of this blog is what it is: Armstrong was an icon.

Gallons of ink and millions of pixels have taken flight considering every aspect of the man and the legendary mission on which he flew. I find his extraordinary story compelling for many of the same reasons that billions of other people find it extraordinary. But let us not forget the value of his existence beyond mere recitation of one-of-a-kind acts. There's also this: how many millions of people, with no direct connection to science nor technology nor multibillion-dollar government programs, have been deeply inspired––creatively inspired––by Armstrong's one small step? The power of an iconic image is like a crystal. No matter what light enters it, the refractions that scatter around the room can scintillate and surprise. Moments of inspiration take on endlessly surprising trajectories of their own, put in motion by iconic forces. Some see themselves in Armstrong; some dream about emulating him. Others imagine the many internal monologues he told himself, or could have told himself, or the stories others told about him. An icon radiates, and science teaches us that radiation generally flies off in all directions.

Almost everyone is less famous than Neil Armstrong, but that's hardly the reason I'm confident this will be the only posting on the web you read today (and probably ever, I'd wager) to juxtapose the name of another great who died just a few days before the first man on the moon. Remy Charlip was one of the founding members of the Merce Cunningham dance company, but earned a measure of fame and respect from a certain slice of society for his work as a children's writer and dance educator. Known for his inspired, brainy-yet-never-stuffy flights of invention, Charlip drew little distinction among writing, illustrating, dancing, and other forms of art. “It’s one of the hardest things to do — to be free enough to dance, to move around,” he said in the New York Times back in 1997. For him, the act of invention meant letting go of preconceptions about what had been done before, and ranging out into new territory. One of his most famous pieces was something he called the "airmail dance". Charlip would mail drawings of various choreographic poses to dance companies and then see what those companies might create based on his epistolary sparks.

Icon? Maybe to some. I always liked Remy Charlip. I loved his books as a kid. I saw his performance company The Paper Bag Players live at Lincoln Center years ago, and recall the show warmly. Was he as iconic, so to speak, as Armstrong? Who cares? Armstrong's influence on my childhood passion for all things spacey most certainly propelled an interest in science and exploration and ultimately artistic pursuit of the unknown. But Charlip's influence on my imagination similarly, if less famously perhaps, helped shape my genuine belief in abstraction of ideas as a means for pursuing truth. Charlip demonstrated humorous, thought provoking lessons about turning ideas in unusual ways to reveal something unexpected and beautiful, and what I absorbed about his courage to experiment with daring invention propels my life as an artist to this day.

The point is, iconic power comes from representation, sometimes described by an event but more often embodied by a person. Too much power invested in icons becomes purely hagiographic, and in my mind ultimately self-defeating. On the other hand, cynical blinders to iconic influence forgoes powerful opportunities for inspiration. But in the middle of these extremes there's something profound, even as it's obviousness hides in plain sight. We should be respectfully aware that people just like ourselves might do extraordinary things that influence the world in unexpected ways, giving each of us license to get up in the morning, rub our hands together, and say to ourselves, "Okay. How am I going to make this a valuable day?"

--MS

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MEDIA NUTRITION

Cheeseburger? Or brown rice and vegetables? YouTube again? Or that stack of books you've been ignoring on the corner of your desk?

Is there such a thing as good media nutrition?

Let me pose the question another way. Is it important to consume some kinds of media over others, even if the "good-for-you" stuff isn't really what you want?

The question by itself immediately provokes intense debate. It calls to mind elitist considerations about a hierarchy of aesthetics: does Mahler matters more than Madonna? Is there such a thing as good taste, and if there is should you even care?

I think there's a better way to approach this. To some extent, it's really a question of overall nutrition versus absolute right and wrong. No single cheeseburger is going to kill you, but eat them three or four times a week and you'll probably be on a first name basis with your cardiologist. Is a cheeseburger necessary? No, and probably never. But sometimes it's desirable. And on this point, I think we begin to approach the first half of the media consumption question. A widely varied diet ultimately provides valuable food for thought, offering a range of sources and senses and inputs that can only broaden creative potential. A steady diet from a narrow range of options, even if your choices are the not artery clogging type, gradually narrows your ability to discern subtle distinctions outside your comfort zone.

But here's the second part. It's too easy to rationalize that easily consumable media is part of a balanced diet. Just like your parents insisted that you at least try the asparagus, it's vital to make intentional efforts to range out and explore aesthetic inputs that may take some work. Why do grown-ups tend to like asparagus more than kids? It's not rhetorical: repeated exposure prompts the development of new appreciations.

Regular readers of this blog know that I've written extensively about the value and importance of music in life and culture. Regarding media nutrition, I turn again to music. How many people these days actually give themselves over to listening––I mean intently listening––to music recorded with actual instruments? It's almost as if the worlds of classical and jazz music have become cultural shorthands; a few notes from the strings section or a few diminished 7th chords from the keyboard are now shorthand stand-ins to represent moods. Why force yourself to dive into something less familiar when a short sample will suffice?

The funny thing is that these genres are not simplistic. There are wide and varied expressions in the classical and jazz pantheons that have shapes and structures and intentions that go deeper than what can be sampled quickly, or audibly quoted. This doesn't just apply to music, either. The same goes for different styles of painting, or performance art and theater and books and decor.

It even applies to movies.

Does this takes some work? In our frenetic, ultra–networked, touch-it-fast-and–keep-moving-age: yes. Is it easier to play the classic rock tunes we all know so well, or the latest flavor of the month pop tune? Of course. It's certainly easier to sing along. But the intentional effort to try something unfamiliar, or perhaps familiar but requiring a little more work, can yield enormous rewards. There are new flavors to discover, new textures, new smells, new implications most of all.

Next week and unusual art film will open in theaters around the world. It's called "Samsara", and in many ways this is the big anti-movie of the year. Filmed entirely in 70 mm--film, not digital!--this promises to be a nonverbal visual feast, propelled by music, inspired by the endless color and energy of Earth's vibrant life and diverse human culture. Anyway you look at it, it's a "big" movie. But it's not likely to break box office records. In its art house niche with a comparatively big budget, it still didn't cost but a fraction of what a tent-pole superhero movie cost this year. Sure, Samsara will likely to draw the usual artsy crowd plus a few folks who will regard it as a novel, once in a blue moon wild-side walk. But as an anodyne alternative to conventional three act Tinseltown dramas, perhaps more people should consider investing the time to see it on a big screen. It ain't gonna hurcha! More to the point, it might provoke a new thought, a new sensation, a new idea.

I haven't seen it yet (as of the time I'm posting this), but I plan to. That doesn't mean I'm about to sell my adolescent comic book collection, nor skip this fall's latest James Bond adventure. I like a cheeseburger once in a while myself. But as the summer winds down, I cannot but be aware that there are so many wonderful tastes and smells to experience out in the great big world, and I'd hate to stay with just the ones I already know.

--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.

KEEPING YOUR COOL

"Cry havoc!"

Or, at least, sound the alarm.

One of the great challenges in creative pursuits is the seemingly simple act of getting to the next day intact. Doodles on cocktail napkins, to cite cliché, all look full of promise and potential. But when they're reduced to real work--to physical labor, to spreadsheets and invoices and deadlines--those darling doodles rapidly fade from memory. Big ideas fully enjoined can suck up every last moment of the day and every ounce of strength on a team.

But as anyone knows who makes his or her life about bringing new ideas into being, creative pursuits rarely take place when convenient. They tend to pile up, forcing Solomon-esque decisions about limited resources, dwindling energies, and shifting priorities.

Havoc indeed.

In Upton Sinclair's great novel "The Jungle", the protagonist Jurgis Rudkus repeatedly declares, "I will work harder" when confronted with unrelenting challenges. By the middle of the book he's worn down, beaten up, dismissed and dispirited. It's sad, but it's honest. In the story Jurgis suffers the depredations of a corrupt political and corporate ecosystem. It's not exactly the same as trying to keep the wheels on the car in a successful artistic enterprise. (That's us.) But the parallels obtain. Sometimes the reckless momentum of the world, the relentless spin and swirl in an effort to get to some undefined next level can simply knock you out. Some days it's hard to keep going.

It would be reductionist bromide to declare that one ought to just work harder to push through challenging demands. It just so happens, however, that it's the truth. The trick is to find sympathetic vibrations in competing demands on time and energy. Do subtle observations made while pursuing one project shed light on some intractable problem dogging another? Does a conversation with one client spark a moment of invention to solve a dilemma elsewhere? Can you shoot B-roll on one location for two unrelated stories?

Not always. But when the volume gets turned up to 11––and it doesn't matter what you do because it always gets turned up to 11 once in a while––it's essential that the din of battle does not overwhelm your nerves. You need to see the forest and the trees simultaneously. If you survive the journey, the calm of morning may afford a strength and clarity that makes it all worthwhile. Managing chaos is not out of the ordinary; it's to be expected if your heart is set on living a life that matters.

THE GIGS YOU DON'T ENJOY

They happen. Just as sure as a sink full of dishes always follows a great dinner you cook for friends, you're going to get a gig now and again that makes your shoulders slump.

Should you say "No"? Should you try and sidestep it, deflect it, get along without it, look elsewhere?

Not if you're serious about your craft.

The thing about being creative, no matter what your business, is that you can't always choose how and when to bring the lightning. Sometimes the dishes simply need to get done. Sometimes you simply have to take a job because someone likes what you have to offer, even if you don't particularly like what they're asking for. Plus, there's always the feast-or-famine reality of life in the creative world. Sometimes you'll wish you'd taken the job you didn't particularly enjoy because it sure beats no job at all!

But in my mind these are actually mediocre reasons to take uninspiring gigs. They're real, to be sure, and they matter. But the best reason to take a job you don't love now and again is that it keeps you sharp. It forces you to come up with solutions to keep yourself engaged. Goofy gigs often also come with requirements you might not ordinarily have selected if left to your own devices. Brushing off rusty ways of thinking has a surprisingly powerful effect of reminding you about your own values, your own best abilities, your own power. You remember your own power, right? The enterprises you were going to pursue, the adventures you were going to travel, the castles you were going to build? When something annoying takes you away from the goal that fired your soul, you can either complain uselessly, or your can re-commit yourself to chasing that spark as soon as you get the job done.

Here's the biggie: the world isn't smooth. There are no ideal realities anywhere. As they say, there are only perfect lives in the movies, and if you're the person making the movie rather than living inside the movie, you're going to be traveling the bumpy roads of reality. That's why embracing periodic potholes rather than completely avoiding them can make you a better driver overall. You learn how to navigate and compensate; you learn how to innovate and rise above. You don't get thrown.

The trap into which too many people fall is that dull gigs can quickly become stock in trade; they can become ordinary, the rule rather than the exception. The gigs you handle out of grumpy necessity can drain your energy from the work you really want to pursue. Take too many, and you stop doing the thing that matters.

And then life gets away from you. You get older, but not better. Life runs out.

But once in a while? Don't fret. If you're paying attention to the most authentic forces driving your creative spirit, you'll come to see the occasional gig you didn't enjoy as an opportunity to grow in ways you might not have expected could use the practice.

And you know what? Feel free to cheer when they wrap.

--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 its 1AU Global Media home–onto your own readers and friends! Call it karma, call it kismet: we’ll just call it cool! Cool?

YIELDS FROM THE AETHER

Generating ideas can be like catching fish in a river: you can get better at snagging 'em, but you can never control the entire process. As a team, ideas are the fuel that propel our actions. We spend a lot of time cultivating ideas, nurturing them, helping them become constructions worthy of resources and action.

They're like children, come to think of it.

But ideas do not immediately yield results. They do not entirely behave like the creations they grow into either. Creations come from hard work, perseverance, and craftsmanship. Ideas are about letting go.

This summer the team is deep into the idea-generating business. With long days of sunny weather, the promise of extended weekends, and big summer movies tempting us away from projects at hand, idea cultivation runs the risk of withering on the vine. But looking closer, the big challenge seems not to be the generation of new ideas, but the transformation of those ideas into results.

That's always the great duality. Ideas shimmer in translucent light; they generally do not stand up dressed in bold, primary colors. Work, on the other hand, accumulates like bricks, like opaque, matte objects that need to be fitted together into larger structures. Ideas radiate, work stands firm.

One of the most lethal challenges to a good idea are the many explanations people tell themselves about why it won't work. People tell themselves why their ideas are impractical, why they don't have the resources or the time or the opportunities to make them come alive. Plus, there are always endless distractions. After all, work takes work. Life tempts us with other ways to spend our time.

But ideas, properly nurtured, can overcome inertia. Good ideas can turn mountains of work into acts of creation. That's why coming up with good ideas are probably not something you want to leave to chance. Once in a while a good idea will simply pop into mind, but over the long term, it's better to be proactive rather than reactive. But of all the concrete, constructive suggestions for generating new ideas, there's one that rises above all others: let go of what you know.

Letting go of what you think the world is supposed to be is like opening your car's window on the highway. Ideas rush in without restrictions. The world becomes an engine of invention. You suddenly notice how trees grow, how traffic moves, how bread rises, how satellites orbit. You'll suddenly see familiar things you've seen your whole life in bold, new lights. You'll observe and you'll drift and then WHAM! you're crashing right into a new idea.

It's not as easy as it sounds, and believe it or not it takes some practice. We all have presuppositions surrounding us, some far more entrenched than we realize. It takes practice to let the world flood in. But consider an inversion of the old saw: apres le deluge, vous.

But don't forget: after ideas germinate, you gotta get down to work if they're gonna grow.

--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 its 1AU Global Media home–onto your own readers and friends! Call it karma, call it kismet: we’ll just call it cool! Cool?

REVISITING THE PAST, CREATING THE FUTURE

On a recent family road trip we stopped to visit the high school my mother attended in the 1950's. Located in the crumbling outskirts of Newark, New Jersey, Weequahic High School stands as a testament to the one universal truth: everything changes.

In the middle decades of the 20th century, Weequahic was regarded as one of the 10 best public high schools in the entire country. Philip Roth went there; Albert Einstein lectured there; the curriculum taught Chinese and Swahili there before most Americans ever thought there would be a reason to learn things other than Romance languages.

Everything changes. Located amid the depressing ruins of what used to be one of the nation's great cities, the front of the school faces Chancellor Avenue now like the broken friezes at Abu Simbel face the Egyptian desert. Inside the front door, the proud, inspiring post-modernist murals that met the historically extraordinary student body decades ago hide now behind cheap plexiglass shields to forestall abuse and degradation. The hallways show cracks and off-kilter locker doors. The lighting sputters and flickers for want of fresh bulbs. The paint peels. The sentiment that immediately floods a visitor is one of sadness, of lost opportunities, of societies beat up and beat down.

Students still attend.

My mother still speaks of her days there with reverence and respect. The aging alumni with whom she's still in contact--and they are a spectacularly accomplished bunch--still hold up the image of the place as if it were a light in the darkness of a descended city. They still talk about obligations to the future, and responsibilities for the past, and deep values locked in the DNA of a great idea.

Why write about this for a blog that purports to be about creativity? After visiting this remarkable, uniquely American place-- sharing stories, listening to legends, considering the implications-- a deeply resonant thrum begins to flood in. Those feelings yield to thinking. Thinking turns to cognition.

To wit: good ideas are not enough. The history of civilization, from its technological advances to its cultural inventions to its wide and endlessly surprising art, all spring from good ideas. But plenty of good ideas have come to naught. The great civilizations of middle America in the last millennium routinely slaughtered endless lives as human sacrifices even as they turned back the jungle and fed hundreds of thousands, building astounding cities and mathematical frameworks and orderly societies.

How many screenplays have rattled around people's heads without finding enough traction to make it to completion? How many paintings and dances and poems have simply crumbled beneath the realities of making those works whole, of bringing resources of time and clarity and money to bear on their completion? The continuity of good, profound ideas sometimes does not overcome the inertial forces of desert sands grinding those ideas down.

Even great civilizations crumble.

But ideas endure. Those murals still exist inside the front atrium of Weequahic High School. There are inspirations still embedded in the fading paint, capable of inspiring new students. That is, the potential for inspiration still obtains if the power of good ideas can be nurtured and cultivated, supported and reinvigorated.

Things always change. If we adopt this as a true statement, then we also open the potential for great things to rise from seemingly irretrievable pieces. Sometimes things change for the better.

We should therefore commit to engaging the world in an endless process of creation.

-MS

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