AN AFTERNOON WITH E.O. WILSON

Scientist, thinker, humanist Before the world made ubiquitous connections through a web of packet-switched data, books mattered. Carried innocuously in backpacks and bare hands, books served as collections of big ideas and gateways to adventures. In 1990, there were clues all around that the world was on the edge of an epic transformation, from the recent end of Soviet-era geopolitics, to a hard-to-predict explosion in data processing and transmission. It was as if a massive tidal wave of ideas was suddenly swelling on the horizon, and the expectant world was about to receive the deluge.

In 1990 I was selected to give the commencement address at Macalester College in St. Paul, Minnesota. I had recently written a short book for my honors thesis in biomedical ethics, and anticipated that I might develop a career in related fields. As the commencement speaker that year, I had the opportunity to spend the afternoon with college VIPs and honorees, one of whom would be the great biologist E.O. Wilson, selected to receive an honorary degree from the school.

Wilson is not only one of the great scientific minds of his time, but of any time. Formally an expert on myrmecology—the study of ants, of all things—he may be most scientifically influential in the development of his theory of sociobiology, which proposes that culture and social behavior is direct product of biological evolution. He’s the author of many books, including a stunning, shimmering novel (Anthill), and has largely restructured the collective conversation on environmental advocacy, sustainable ecology, and more. He’s got a bright sense of humor, a warm aura of easy engagement, and despite his endless awards, accolades, adulations, and adventures at august institutions like Harvard, he’s as approachable as your favorite avuncular uncle.

In my home growing up, he had been a bit of a hero, too. My father had dug deeply into Wilson’s 1975 landmark book Sociobiology: The New Synthesis, and it had become the taproot for endless probing, exciting conversations. The concept of ants maintaining complex societies and behaviors-- rather extraordinary declarations at the time-- fueled endless metaphoric comparisons to the state of modern human cultural trends, political disputes, and evolutionary trajectory. That Wilson could also write about his complex ideas like a master wordsmith on top of being a world-class scientist solidified his merit. In my home the ability to have a sophisticated insight into just about any subject didn’t matter much if it could not be communicated clearly and rationally, with bonus points for a dash of poetry. Wilson could do all of the above.

Graduation day came, and I found myself sitting in comfortable chairs next to the great man sharing tea and cookies. At twenty-one, I couldn’t help but feel a little out of time and place, dressed in jacket and tie, a big day speaking to thousands, discussing the potentials of my own future and listening to many of my betters enjoying the day with the seasoned perspectives that are only possible by greater years. Wilson and I found ourselves in an easy conversation about everything and nothing at all. I confided that his book had been an intellectual revelation for me, with resonant effects on my family. Whether it was just polite southern gentility (Wilson hails from Alabama) or genuine interest, I recall how he earnestly asked me about my honors thesis and enjoyed the thought that I might head into a field that he regarded as vital and stimulating.

But what I recall even more is how we shared stories about growing up. We talked about walks in the woods for him outside of Birmingham that introduced him to the power and beauty of the natural world, and he asked me questions and then listened intently to my own teenage forest adventures—comparatively more recent than Wilson’s, to be sure!

It’s ironic as I look back on that day now in the digitally wired future that his famous research into ant culture demonstrated a collective intelligence to those lowly bugs that transcended individual abilities and ambitions. The colony was greater any one person; communication among the colony members was an elegant, surprisingly sophisticated system of data exchange and transmission. Wilson had described a biological expression of modern networking, a metaphor I think about almost every day that I interact with bits of data in the interconnected space of modern life.

After my graduation address, Wilson came over to me and shook my hand, made some very personal, specific comments about my speech—something that mattered immensely to me because it told me he genuinely listened. Perhaps more than anything else that day, I recall most of all how he sought me out after the ceremony. For all his remarkable achievements and reputation, Wilson presented himself as a genuine person, a down-to-Earth man who listened closely, observed intensely, and didn’t miss anything.

Life fleets by so fast. For a twenty-one year old about to set out to find his way in the world, the afternoon spent with him reaffirmed the values I still regard as most important: don’t take life for granted; don’t miss a minute, and above all, work hard to find value in the relationships you make with others, because the colony is stronger the more individuals re-invest themselves in shared experience.

--MS

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BIG SCREENS IN SUMMERTIME

Popcorn, ready for it's  close-up Yes, it's a blog about creativity, but the summer movie season jumped out early this year and we're thinking of calling off work until September.

Let me be clear: movie theaters are how movies should be seen. Yes, we have televisions and computers. Yes, we watch movies there, too. But if you really care about movies, a big screen with razor sharp focus and excellent sound can't be beat.

Movies aren't big television shows. The don't work the same way narratively or visually. Are they related? Sure. But the sense of immersion you get in a darkened room, singularly focused on stories writ onto gigantic screens transforms the sense of vitality and power and, in best cases, art.

Okay, okay, and the big explosions are much cooler on a big screen, too. (Boom!)

Iron Man 3 recouped its entire production budget BEFORE it opened in the United States. It's a smash hit only three days into its domestic run. Other big name pix are on deck, too. In the superhero department, the Zack Snyder Superman reboot has us geeked, and there's a lot of purely escapist potential in the mega-magic shenanigans of Now you See Me. There are also the smaller films that harken to a time only two decades ago when real-life dramas were huge box office draws, too. Big screens are not just for giant budgeted stories. The Kings of Summer is gaining big notices and introducing a fresh, welcome voice to the noisy, action-packed trend of recent years.

Based on a single movie almost ten years ago called Primer, Shane Carruth is back with a new movie, and it has completely captured my imagination. Made reportedly for less than $100,000, this is modern, bravura storytelling simply because it throws all caution to the wind and tries to say something with whatever resources it can muster, damn the torpedoes or rules of the game. The movie is called Upstream Color. It demands the respect of being seen on a big screen. I'm declaring this one a summer movie, even if it's actually a Spring release. It gets an asterisk simply for being made in the era of huge commercial vehicles, and I'm pulling for it to find a big audience, just on principle.

Clearly I'm not going to see all the summer movies I want to see at a theater. To quote a line from one the greatest of all summer movies, The Matrix, "Time is always against us". Yeah, yeah, who's got the time to spend three or four days a week at the movies! (Sigh…) Some are simply going to show on television screens, come what may. But whatever you do, remember that even the biggest, most intensely calculated corporate junk that makes it to the multiplex is the product of hundreds of creative people laboring for thousands of hours to make something that didn't exist before they put their hands on it. It's an amazing thing, that creative process. Even for all of the many potential outcomes, the work always demands human lives to bring things into being.

Ah, the movies: I could riff on movies all day long. Maybe in the 23rd century, lifetimes will be longer. Hey, there's something to think about before the lights go down. I absolutely have to see the new Star Trek film called Into Darkness in a big theater, dreaming of worlds beyond.

--MS

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GESTURES

Orchestral baton The gestures of an orchestra conductor physically do nothing but move the air, and even that has minimal influence on the physical world. So why do conductors matter?

There's something about leadership that makes conductors matter, and it's not just about making music. The world's great orchestras--a sadly diminishing number--can most certainly make their way through the conventional repertoire with minimal guidance. With a concertmaster's tempo, the corps can play the score. Hey presto: instant Mozart!

But we all know there's more to music than meets the metronome. Imparting influence and opinion, a conductor makes a million subtle and not-so-subtle gestures that influence the outcome. Many of those influential gestures take place far from the performance podium. In rehearsals, in frozen snippets of conversation while pouring coffee in the break room, even going back so far as decisions about which musicians to hire, conductors set trajectories for invisible forces that emerge as sound at performance time.

Some creative acts come to life from the hands of singular auteurs. Painting, rather obviously, springs from the brush of a singular artist. But what of opera? What of filmmaking? What of golf course design (presuming you're into that sort of thing)?

Collaborative creative enterprise may require the input of many on a team, but above all it requires vision. It needs clear guidance, and success demands leadership.

Not everyone can lead, but the moment that statement gets spoken aloud, people bristle. Not being a leader does not imply diminishment of value. A complex evaluation, value becomes a measure of absolute quality, not relative quality. In relative terms, the lead tenor at Saturday's Metropolitan Opera performance is certainly more "valuable" to the production than an anonymous chorus singer, but this should not impugn that unknown singer's value overall. Leadership demands that all parts take themselves seriously, or as the great acting coach Constantin Stanislavski once famously remarked, "there are no small parts, only small actors".

Conductors do not play the instruments wielded by musicians seated before them. They may be able to play, but they usually do not do so at performance time. But the great ones understand the nuanced and complex language everyone shares beneath the baton. Conductors are responsible for the entirety of their musical ship, first movement to last, downbeat to final rest. Sometimes they're forced to haul an orchestra over challenging terrain, but most of the time they do something completely the opposite. Most of the time a smart conductor knows how to keep the wolves of distraction and random interference away. A conductor says, “I'll take responsibility for where were going, but I'm still counting on you to get us there.”

In my experience, there's no one perfect leadership format. Conductors, directors, management executives, and lead surgeons in operating theaters, come in all different personalities and styles, even if they share a few distinct traits. But in all cases I've believe that good leaders are in touch with how subtle gestures can have profound influences on those beneath their baton. If they're paying attention, good conductors will be influenced just as much by the corps bowing hard across the strings as the string players respond to tuxedoed arms waving up front. Because when it comes right down to it, leadership of successful teams uses the intangible qualities of nuance and gesture to make things that matter. Big, obvious decisions tend to be easier to deliver, but not necessarily more desirable to experience. While beauty may be in the eye of the beholder, nuance and gesture are the invisible heart of the sublime.

--MS

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DREAMS, PART II

This tomato makes sense in a dream Last week we discussed the value of paying attention to your own dreams, especially in terms of using them as sources of creative inspiration. Today we're talking about your experience with a much more conscious kind of dream. These are the dreams of desire, of invention, of need. These are the mixtures of longing and inspiration that provoke us to action, to pursuits of life. These are the waking thoughts that follow us around through our days, the things we wish were different, the things we believe might transform the nature of the world in which we live.

Hopes and dreams are the propulsive engines for creative acts. Whether they're things as intangible as trying to capture the essence of a tomato in a few poetic lines or something as tangible as a desire to make lots of money through innovative software development we all dream about worlds that float beyond our grasp.

Some details we try to hide, even from ourselves. Some we want to share with everyone. Always, always, always, we wonder if they're worth the pain of pursuit.

The answer is: sometimes. Each of us undoubtedly has a list of imagined existences for ourselves, more fantasies than dreams. Sure, more money is better than less. Green lights along your morning commute are always welcome, and guilt-free cookie breaks at 2:30 in the afternoon would be a pleasure, too.

Those aren't the dreams I'm talking about.

The ones that matter, or at least matter here, usually concern the inevitable trade of intense effort for something you may have trouble explaining, even to yourself. Why run a marathon? The answer doesn't immediately explain itself. It's possible to be a terrifically fit person and never run a marathon. Why write a novel? Most novels never get published. Thousands that do hardly ever get read, and you'll clearly have more free time to read good ones if you don't try to write one.

Some dreams simply defy good explanations, but they move us anyway. Some dreams have immediate explanations. If you're dreaming about paying for your children's college tuition so they're not burdened with debt, explanations are easier to unspool. If you're hungry, homeless, or hopeless, dreams of a life with less struggle and more purpose are immediately clear and resonant.

Where's the connection between the dreams of accomplishment and the dreams of necessity? They all turn on a sharp point of creativity. And make no mistake: the point is always a sharp one. If your dreams really and truly matter to you, there will be a terrible, growing pressure to see them through. If you're hungry, you'll go to great lengths--any lengths-- of invention to feed yourself. If you're desperate to complete a series of paintings that you've been carrying around in your soul for years, you'll also go to great lengths.

Do I conflate the desperate, vital needs of sustenance against the comparatively bourgeois desire to make art? Not at all. There's clearly a hierarchy of need here, and a worthy social discussion about how some people can have nothing while others have the privilege--the luxury--of contemplating what kinds of self-indulgences they want to pursue.

But the point here is that dreams are not precisely the same as interests, or even desires. They're bigger, deeper, richer, more powerful. They compel us. They push us. They take us in unexpected directions.

It's no laughing matter to dream about leaving a disease behind. There's never anything wistful about dreams of peace in places that only know violence. What's more, real creative solutions always exact a cost, often big costs, and they always cost upfront, when there's no guarantee that the effort will amount to anything valuable. But imagine the novels that matter most to you, and then imagine them not written. Writers dream their stories, and those dreams must overcome the exhaustion of busy days at unrelated jobs to become real. The power of dreams to remake the world overcomes exhaustion, fires furnaces of invention, remakes souls. At least it does for those who answer the call. If it didn't, music would be unsung, marathons un-run, justice undone.

The philosophical distance between the so-called art world and the world of justice turns out to be infinitesimally narrow. Into that breach, we commit ourselves, our dreams, and create new worlds. By dreaming of worlds that have not yet come to be, we widen the space of possibility, and once the spark of possibility chases shadows from dark places, the rising dawn of invention at least has a chance to follow.

Remember the song? It's very simple: "All we are saying…is give peace a chance." Leave it to the artists of the world to see this so clearly.

-MS

PS -- Yes, yes, here's where the good people of 1AU ask our dear readers to share what you've read with friends and colleagues. And here's the place where you think, "Oh, sure, one more imposition of my precious time." Well, we're asking. It's something we value above rubies, above gold: if you like an idea enough to give it a moment's thought, then consider giving it a measure of freedom. When you share an idea with another person, you release an idea to grow freely in the world. Like what you see? Set it free.

ROCK 'N ROLL and MONSTER TRUCKS

Zen Garden Silence has it's place. Noise has it's place. They don't often belong in each other's space, and learning to respect the differences that separates each presents valuable fuel for invention and clear thinking.

Try it like this:

Ice cream is good. Pickles are good. Together? Not so good.

It's tricky. In terms of a creative process, the juxtaposition of disparate qualities often sparks life into a new idea. But generally I find the combination of disparate qualities something that must be undertaken with care. Driving a monster truck to a monastic Zen retreat strikes me as a philosophical discontinuity. It doesn't reconcile easily.

This all has to do with a process of making good aesthetic choices, at least superficially. But superficiality does not confer irrelevance. Superficial presentations of ourselves and our creative work are often the only interactions we will have with a majority of others. Presentation matters, and if you're hoping to present something to an audience beyond your spouse, your parents, and your children, you're going to need to polish it up.

But beneath the surface, we enter a dialogue about the nature of things--the essential, deep, honest nature of things. This is the book judged for what's beneath the cover. This is the person regarded for the content of his character rather than the color of his skin. This is why some software delights us, and some software exasperates us. This is why amateur performances of great music are not the same as great performances of great music. This is why paintings of ostensibly the same subject can have profoundly different merits. Transcendental truth presents hard to define boundaries. People of good intention can disagree intensely about the nature of an ordinary thing or idea. But my point is that in a world of seemingly effortless information transfer, and a seething churn of ideas and cultures, it's important that the potential for all combinations does not overwhelm good decision-making. Just because something is possible does not therefore mean it should be done. Pickles do not go well with ice cream.

And there it is: everything…is not everything. Discretion is not the same as prejudice. Decision is not the same as exclusivity. Merits of good invention spring from respectful evaluation of source material. Rock 'n roll is great…if you're in a rock 'n roll frame of mind. But to play it at a Zen retreat is to miss the innate nature of each thing.

Do I think there will never be a way for them to brush shoulders, rock music and zen meditation? Not at all. While nothing lasting about that particular pairing springs to mind (and I'm not clearing my afternoon to await an epiphany on this juxtaposition), I most certainly remain open to some unexpected, delicious frission. That's because a respect for each element individually affords the potential for new relationships. Respect for the essential nature of ingredients makes it possible to consider new combinations.

After that, anything's possible.

-MS

PS -- Yes, yes, here's where the good people of 1AU ask our dear readers to share what you've read with friends and colleagues. And here's the place where you think, "Oh, sure, one more imposition of my precious time." Well, we're asking. It's something we value above rubies, above gold: if you like an idea enough to give it a moment's thought, then consider giving it a measure of freedom. When you share an idea with another person, you release an idea to grow freely in the world. Like what you see? Set it free.

SILENCE

Reeds growing in quiet water. In the great cacophonous, chattering clatter of the world, I've come to value silence. I do not value it above sound, just as I do not value clarinets more than violins, nor cherry pie over pizza pie. But as a frame of consciousness, as a describable quality that may be invested in a day, a moment, in an intentional space, silence becomes a surprisingly powerful and moving state of being.

Do not be misled. It's far too simple to regard silence is a mere absence of sound. The world is a noisy place. Children talk, birds squawk, cars honk, printers balk. Sound surrounds us. It informs us, carries us. Music becomes the apotheosis of organized sound, and as such defines its great potential. Language in its many spoken forms simultaneously joins us to each other and transmits information of all types. We define the boundaries of space and time by the sounds around us. In your own home you know sounds unconsciously, communicating subtle, vital details of your most intimate space. The heating element on that old coffeemaker emits a tiny tick as the metal subtly expands after it's been on for a while. The spring hinge on your front door squeaks in a certain way on the last third of its arc. The floorboards under the carpeting at the top of your basement stairs groan every time they tolerate the weight of a person standing there.

Sound is neither good nor bad. In its different manifestations, we are in constant dialogue with it, sometimes provoking it into existence, sometimes adapting based on what it tells us.

It's often intentional, too. It must be, because the natural state of the world is noisy, vibrant, loud. By seeking out moments of silence, or appreciating them when they're encountered, we avail ourselves of the creative person's most powerful tool: transformation. We must transform the world to make it quiet, and the act of transformation from any one state to another inevitably affords discovery through unexpected refraction.

Silence is different than our ordinary moments. Quiet spaces generally require effort. They must be created, or at least they must be pursued. There are different levels of silence. Sit in a quiet space for a few minutes, and you're likely to hear the sound of a distant ticking clock, rhythmically texturizing the space. Does that clock intrude, or does it remind you that there is no other sound? Silence is like that. It presents questions even as it offers opportunity.

Every day older, I'm aware of silent times more and more as they remind me of my own silent future, an inevitability that continues to approach no matter what I do. It approaches us all, and perhaps it's because of death's ultimate arrival in stocking feet that we spend so much time talking, singing, tap-tap-tapping out rhythms, as if to convince ourselves--prove to ourselves--that it's not here yet.

Silence offers clarity. As a condition that doesn't easily happen without intention, it provokes a byproduct of internal reflection. In a quiet space, along with your own thoughts, clarity of mind is all you have. For many, that clarity provokes fear more than anything else. No doubt it's the fear of clarity that sends many into endless pursuits of stimulation, of noise.

I'm not opposed to sound, even loud, raucous ones. To be so opposed would be akin to rejecting tarragon or garlic for no good reason. I may avoid putting garlic on my peanut butter sandwiches, but applied to other things, garlic is wonderful. Same for sound of wide and varied type. I cannot live without music. I love the chatter and thrum of a New York City sidewalk, the electric vibe of a movie soundstage, the steam and clinking buzz of a cool coffee shop with vital conversations mixing all around.

But with time's relentless evaporation seemingly accelerating, I discover a certain wholeness and rationality in silence. Then: irony. In quiet spaces, I find the whole world for me opens as an artist, a creative person. It is then I hear the music I want to write, the lines of poetry I want my characters to speak, the sounds of revolution and passion and humor that I hope will take up residence in my work as an artist. In silence, I am reminded how much I do not want to live there, even as I find a great desire to visit quiet spaces regularly.

That's because for me, silence often provokes the chorus of the universe to sing.

-MS

PS -- Yes, yes, here's where the good people of 1AU ask our dear readers to share what you've read with friends and colleagues. And here's the place where you think, "Oh, sure, one more imposition of my precious time." Well, we're asking. It's something we value above rubies, above gold: if you like an idea enough to give it a moment's thought, then consider giving it a measure of freedom. When you share an idea with another person, you release an idea to grow freely in the world. Like what you see? Set it free.

AN OPEN LETTER TO THE EDUCATIONAL ESTABLISHMENT

Broken dreams At 1AU we do not manufacture widgets. We do not develop actuarial spreadsheets based on risk assessments of teenage driving habits. We do not order fresh produce for a chain of restaurants displaying cartoon characters on the menu. Therefore, the first, natural assumption is that we are suspect and unreliable in asserting the value of developing skills that have little to do directly with profits or productivity.

I will assert the opposite and attempt to demonstrate why.

The Common Core Standards refer to an initiative developed by the National Governors Association Center for Best Practices (NGA Center). The well-intended goal of this initiative was to develop curricular guidance for schools to teach vital components of primary educational goals at the highest possible standards. The most recent Standards call for a marked increase in non-fiction reading, replacing much of the fiction and poetry that up until now has constituted a substantial portion of student literary exposure.

Here's why. The reasoning goes that we now live in a largely data centric society, that instruction manuals and data-based informational sources have become the warp and weft of our days. The sentiment was summed up in a speech last year at the New York State Education Building by David Coleman, the President of the College Board and one of the authors of the new standards proposal.

“Forgive me for saying this so bluntly, the only problem with . . . [that] writing is as you grow up in this world you realize people really don’t give a [expletive] about what you feel or what you think. What they instead care about is, can you make an argument with evidence, is there something verifiable behind what you’re saying or what you think or feel that you can demonstrate to me? It is rare in a working environment that someone says, ‘Johnson, I need a market analysis by Friday, but before that I need a compelling account of your childhood.’ ”

Can I argue with this? Do I dispute for a moment anything implied or overtly stated about the realities Mr. Coleman describes of the grown-up, post primary school world? Not for a second. His assertions are not in dispute. But even here, as I agree with his statement as one of fact, one of my central arguments appears against his overall proposal. Simple refutation of facts is not in itself adequate to overcome all arguments. Aesthetics require support, but they also require justification, usually in the form of metaphoric representation that appeal to some basis of common values held by the adjudicators. Simply being able to counter an argument does not, in and of itself, define a strong counter-argument.

Mr. Coleman is correct that our society requires sophisticated skills for processing primary source material and analyzing complex data for many ordinary, daily transactions. While I risk sounding like a naive, shoeless idealist, I would say that part of this reality is the tragedy of the new standards proposal. In a society that has largely become an endless, sometimes bloody chase for capitalistic success, the texture and emotion and deep wisdom of lives often expressed most trenchantly through literature have been largely overshadowed. It's as if society has tacitly adopted a philosophy that enterprises separated from making an efficient buck are also things that no one wants to hear about.

Has society decided suddenly to deny the value of poems? Of song? Are famous works of art in and of themselves valuable for what they express or must they be able to become merchandisable as greeting cards and tchotchkes to have measurable value? Is there a value to being emotionally moved that transcends money? I love my children intensely, but if they were reduced to their measurable value, I'd want them out of my life today.

More and more it feels like we chase capitalistic enterprise like hamsters on endless wheels. Everyone works all the time, endlessly refining to-do lists that never grows shorter. Mr. Coleman's assertion and the standards he represents is only one more capitulation for a society to abandon its best parts.

I find this ironic. Movie tickets still get sold. Episodic television continues to be vastly popular. Music of various types continues to croon and wail and enchant. Are we to believe that the skills necessary to live in a world filled with feeling should just accrue without direction, gradually like dust settling on a quiet window sill? Are we to pretend that the wisdom of literature––the characters that have affected us, who have become our private rudders through countless challenges in life--are to be abandoned like old walking sticks? That would be tragic. How many times have we all considered chasing giant white whales in our lives, only to reflect ruefully on the fate of Melville's captain? How often have we met the same phonies that Holden Caulfield met, considered his choices, considered differently for ourselves? Do Orwell's political observations in the guise of fiction give us political pause? Do we recall Laura's pluck and enterprise in that little house she lived in on the Missouri prairie? Do we find moments of quiet reflection before making vastly profound strategic decisions like Ender Wiggin? Do we live with the Fools of Chelm, or are we those fools ourselves?

I would hate to leave these questions, and the profound wisdom imparted by the stories and characters that examine them, by the side of the road, supplanted by spreadsheet analysis and diligent abstractions of white papers. Is it good to read Martin Luther King's original Letter from a Birmingham Jail? Absolutely. Primary texts present vital windows on culture, on critical thinking, on the tangible world. But should we dismiss the value of literature in lieu of fact-based media? No. We do so only at the peril of losing humanity's passionate engine to pursue goals that transcend daily labor. Literature is not a luxury. It's a function of humanity's quest to understand itself, one person, one saga, one moment-- big or small, smooth or rough, quaint or grand--at a time. When publisher Tim O'Reilly asserts that he "doesn't give a [explicative] if literary novels go away. They're an elitist pursuit," he eats the intellectual seed corn of the society that cultivated his media behemoth. The novel as a form is elitist? What hubris have we so deeply absorbed that we're willing to erode an essential wellspring of our moral formation, our shared cultural experiences, of lives we do not have to live but from which we can nonetheless learn so much? Do we dare to consider ideas beyond what we can quantify numerically? It's as if to say that immediate, quantifiable utility is the only thing that defines value, if it doesn't speed up the churn, it isn't worth the effort. Think this is a new trend? No. There's a reason Gene Roddenberry made Spock half-human. Logic alone is not enough.

While 1AU Global Media makes no bones about being a business proposition founded and staffed almost entirely by artists, it's commonly known that one of our unusual specialties is the ability to translate complex science, technology, economic, and other conceptually challenging subjects into imaginative and engaging media products. We not only need to be confident with the science itself, but we also need to be capable of a surprisingly diverse list of technological tools, from sophisticated software packages and original code development, to a dizzying array of hardware employed in the service of making easy to digest media. As a company we would be nowhere without robust scientific literacy, earned the hard way. But we would also be nowhere without the very things that a life suffused by literature ultimately conveys.

Years of working on behalf of NASA, NOAA, and other federal agencies put me and my colleagues in close contact with world-class scientists and researchers. This is a serious crowd, and a brainy one, and I don't think anyone would argue that the jobs they do are anything less than the categorical height of academic or professional achievement. Nonetheless, one of the most common inspirational sources I've heard from many in this serious, analytical, extraordinarily non-fiction crowd is their early exposure to science fiction literature, often headlines by the goofy, inventive, ethically challenging and satisfying world of Star Trek.

I'm not proposing that Star Trek is great literature, nor that it should be placed in school curriculums. But I am suggesting, by means of counter argument, that without a fictional frame, the vitality of the many scientific and technical muscles cultivated by rigorous higher education would not be nourished by the grounding humanistic principals that give life meaning. Achievement, profit, growth: they mean nothing without values, ethical reasoning, beauty, and justice. Humanistic skills can only be cultivated by intangible consideration; they are not reducible to objective tests. They are three dimensional.

1AU Global Media is a business. We are capitalists, after all; that's the world in which we live, and (thank you very much) things are red hot in that department. We're very grateful for the opportunity to make a living by living creative lives, and with no apology we intend to continue to be wildly successful capitalists going forward. So much of production and media consulting reduces to extremely complex engineering, accounting, project planning, technical analysis. The pace is fast, the skill set complex, the learning curve endless. But I would profoundly lament the loss of young artists entering the professional world who weren't fueled by passions cultivated by literature and the deeply intimate experiences it can instill. I would be unable to mine delicate, deep veins of meaning in the purely mechanical world of non-fictional texts. I would miss the spark that life demands for it's own continuity.

That leads me back to The Common Core Standards. They present an educational framework that's well intentioned and based on measurable outcomes, namely test scores for parsing certain classes of non-fiction texts. To some critics, Mr. Coleman suggests that not everyone understands the intentions of the Standards, that they are not exclusive, that 30% of all reading should still be left to literature in school. My problem, besides a banal debate about percentages, is that intentions matter most and many educators simply won't see the forest for the trees.

To cite Mr. Coleman's example, the world may not be looking for a compelling account of your childhood, but I would argue that an employee who not only knows how to write one, but also how to reflect on childhoods he or she has encountered in books is better capable of interacting with real people in the real world. Because unless Mr. Coleman and his cohort are proposing that productivity and profitability themselves are the highest goals of human interaction, I suspect that Mr. Johnson's reflections on childhood share certain commonalities with Mr. Smith's reflections of his childhood, too. Now that they're both adults, they have to figure out how to publish their company's monthly widget production report collaboratively, and they have to decide if chasing the White Whale represented by their biggest competitor's widget output is also a good business plan.

If only they had read Moby Dick.

--MS

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ENJOY THE QUIET

winter stairs Thanks for visiting FASTER THAN LIGHT: 1AU Global Media's weekly blog on creativity.

We're all-systems-quiet this week, spending time with family and friends. Please visit us next week as we kick off 2013 with an important blog posting about a recent, mainstream educational initiative that threatens the creative souls of our nation. Intrigued? Bookmark us, set an alarm in your calendar, or stick a post-it note to your bicycle's handlebars. You need to read it, (See? Foreshadowing!) and you need to share it far and wide.

Until then, enjoy the final week of 2012…and next year, plan to GO FARTHER…with 1AU Global Media, LLC

--MS

YEAR ENDER

Balloons end the year and begin the year. The Mayan prediction of apocalypse has come to pass. What could possibly be weighing on your mind?

This time of year things simultaneously slow down and speed up. Theaters fill with expectant popcorn munchers eager for escape, while countless Lego sets rise above millions of carpeted floors, earnestly striving for architectural transcendence. Productivity in workplaces across the nation slows down unless you're in the catering business. Families spend time reacquainting themselves with others who share the same living spaces, a temporary relaxation of modern academic and occupational pressures inducing an odd temporal rift in the space time continuum.

Artists especially look back and look forward, sometimes in the same glance. Here at 1AU, we're reflecting on a great year. As a team, we've grown in ways that can only be described as exciting. Technical capabilities are razor sharp, and creative invention has never been more keenly honed. We completed some thrilling projects in 2012, expanding our roster of clients in the process, and developing relationships we're confident will have long lives ahead of them. 1AU staff appeared at numerous public speaking events, too, getting great audience reactions and a flurry of new connections. Plus (you don't mind if we boast for a moment, do you?) it's always fun to speak at events where your team's work is up for an award.

2013 promises continued growth along this path. Members of our team are already booked for several great live presentations in the coming year. More importantly we're deep in pre-production for a range of thrilling new projects, some flat, some round, some online, all inventive and engaging.

Trends in the industry suggest that the extraordinary era of change and transition in modern media will only intensify and expand. Movie ticket sales continue along a hard-to-predict curve; television as we know it is the same as it ever was, while simultaneously fresh and new, too. Mobile media clearly has become the newest solution for everyone's media needs, both upscale and down, but as everyone knows, what looks like the "new normal" may only stay that way as long as the next new thing hasn't appeared yet.

But here's the one thing we're confident will remain consistent: 1AU Global Media will be out front. For me, I continue to take great, humble satisfaction in getting to work with such a great team. I'm inspired, I'm reinvested, and I'm grateful. As we work on new pieces for a wide variety of government, corporate, and private clients, we're also developing our own projects in-house. (More on that in coming months!) As a company, I'm emboldened to dream big dreams, confident that we'll not only persevere, but create products with value, meaning, and clear voices.

We're looking forward to an exciting new year, and in this space you can expect to see more news of our exploits, as well as regular thoughts about world of creativity. We're also looking forward to hearing from you. If you're a current client, a possible client, just a fan or a friend, or perhaps you found us by happenstance on the Infinite World-spanning Interwebs, please drop us a line, either in our comments section or via email. You too…can GO FARTHER.

All the best for a great new year! ...from the team at 1AU Global Media, LLC

PS -- Next week will be pretty quiet here on the blog. Perhaps a word or two, perhaps a picture. But we're just taking a short break. Plan to make us your regular Monday check-in again starting January 7!

TIME TRAVEL

There's no knowing what century you may find yourself with this. I'm listening to a 70-year-old recording of a 300-year-old piece of music on a two-year-old computer. I thought I was working on this week's blog, but I guess what I'm really doing is time traveling.

For the first time in human history we're now in an era where a sort of time travel is commonplace. In Bach's Cello Suite #4 (BWV 1010), sound preserved by inky graphical notations scratched by quill pens on candlelit paper transforms into sound under the deft fingers of the great cellist Pablo Casals, seated decades ago in an entirely analog recording studio.

Those analog sounds are now traveling forward in time, long after Casals and the engineers around him and inevitable marketing department of his recording company have gone back to the Earth. Played on my twenty-first century electronic gizmos, the resonant sighs of his sculpturally human instrument are now digitized, even cleaned up, with tape hiss magically removed, newly balanced frequency responses added to the mix, and modern remastering polish applied over all, conferring nothing but freedom for the music to fill my room.

I have no idea if these words I'm writing will be read by anybody 300 years from now, although I have my suspicions. But the monumental efforts and inventions of those rare superhuman creators like Bach hundreds of years ago are now something of a cultural echo that continue to provoke thoughts here in the present. It's almost as if the echo comes first, as if we're hearing the sound of humanity's invention bouncing off walls from the past, before the vast numbers of humanity got born into comparative easy times for creating things. We select what moves us not only from the world around us, but from time, and even distant space. I live in 21st-century Maryland; Bach lived in 18th century Europe, Casals in 20th century Catalonia, Spain. There's no good reason we should be in communication at all except…there it is. Sure, the ideas in the thread-- Bach to Casals to me-- only move in one direction, but then the arrow of time also flies from the bow string in only one direction.

Everyone knows that our sneakers come from China, our grapes from Peru, our oil from the Gulf of Mexico. These are all expressions of our immediacy, are instantaneous ability to acquire precisely what we want and what we need. I realize this is an upper-class, first world observation; most the world needs much more than it receives, and certainly it receives much less than it wants. It would be callous to believe that first world cultural time travel was an entirely democratic phenomenon.

But as students of all ages now consider the ocean of educational options rolling in at their feet via online opportunities, it's essential to place the genesis of all these new ideas in the context of deeper time. None of us create anything just based on the experiences of our own lives. But as the ability to preserve ourselves is now easier, more powerful, more permanent than ever before, it's probably important to consider what kinds of echoes we may be leaving for students in some distant future to find.

Complacency in our digital assistants is a mistake. The fact that these extraordinary scores have survived across the centuries for me to hear Bach's musical transportations only amplifies the point. Imagine a world where those scores disappeared! Then realize that most of humanity's creative acts great and small have disappeared over the years for one reason or another, and it's becomes imperative to at least consider how our inspirations of today may be accessible to future generations, one way or another.

--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.