Showing posts with label creativity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label creativity. Show all posts

Sunday, January 1, 2012

A creative understanding of creativity

As a sociologist, and a somewhat radical/liberal one at that, I spend a lot of time defining the proverbial "box," the set of cultural norms, values, and opinions that dominate American social life, and then doing as much work as I possibly can to fuck that box up to the point where it's no longer even recognizable. I consider it my JOB to tear people's assumptions asunder and make them question things they've always taken for granted. Maybe I don't live my life coloring outside of the lines in every way imaginable, but I refuse to let myself feel confined by any of them, and more importantly, I refuse to sit back while people try to force those lines upon others' lives and conduct (with the notable exception of immoral conduct, though who has the authority to determine morality is something I'm still wrestling with...). 

I'm sure some of you are scratching your heads right now in an attempt to figure out how the title of this post and that first paragraph have anything to do with each other. Yesterday was my best friend's 22nd birthday and New Year's Eve, so I didn't quite find the time to write a post for Kuumba, the sixth day of Kwanzaa. Kuumba translates to creativity, but not in as restrictive a sense as most of us are used to thinking about creativity (as oxymoronic as that sounds). Officially, the sixth day of Kwanzaa calls for us "to do always as much as we can, in the way we can, in order to leave our community more beautiful and beneficial than we inherited it." This is active creativity, putting creativity to WORK.
This can be done in the typically creative way, via some artistic form like visual art, music, poetry, theater, film, *cough*blogging*cough*, especially when the content of that art challenges expectations and assumptions, but to the best of my understanding, Kuumba demands that we explore broader ways to interpret creativity. We must never forget that artists are FAR from the only people capable of creating. Entrepreneurs create economic opportunity where there was none. Community leaders and organizers create political action and social camaraderie where none existed previously; they are creative. Teachers, professors, and scholars are creative, putting forth new ideas and queries that stimulate discussion and action around previously ignored topics/issues. Students are creative, taking the ideas teachers, professors, and scholars raise and running in incredibly interesting and varied directions with them. The man who gives a few dollars to a homeless person creates hope. The couple giving themselves to one another honestly and working on their relationship thoughtfully creates love. The protestor, the person who speaks up in the silence, creates a counter-narrative, creates the possibility of change.

I took a class last Spring for which we read and wrote a paper exploring Richard Florida's The Rise of the Creative Class...and how it's transforming work, leisure, community, and everyday life, in which the author argues that today's young professionals are demanding the ability to lead creative lifestyles, lifestyles that turn a lot of the things our parents and grandparents took for granted on their heads, and productively fucking shit up in the process. Florida argues that by “apply[ing] or combin[ing] standard approaches in unique ways to fit the situation, exercis[ing] a great deal of judgment, [and] perhaps try[ing] something radically new from time to time” (Florida, 68-9), today's professionals are introducing creativity into the workplace and American culture overall; we're on a road to ALL being identifiable as "creatives". And with that, I say go fuck some shit up. Ask questions. Raise issues. Be heard. Hear others, and help others hear them too. What you make is up to you, but create.      

Friday, July 15, 2011

2nd 30 Day Letter Challenge: Day 29--Letter to a Mythical Creature

Dear Kendra,

[Readers, before you go scouring the interwebz on a quest to find this Kendra of which I speak, relax. She doesn't exist on the internet. She exists only in the minds of me, S, and our other friend whom neither of us really speaks to anymore, M*****. She was a character in a book S and I spent most of 8th grade coming up with the storyline for.] 

You were just a baby. The daughter of a mermaid and a sorcerer, you had powers the likes of which your world had never seen. A blank slate, you weren't inherently good or evil; you would end the battle once and for all, but whose side you were on depended on how you were raised. And so, under the cover of night, evil stole you from good's protected castle and whisked you away to a fortress dug deep inside a mountain in a long-forgotten range. A team of students was assembled to rescue you. They never made it. 
I loved you so much. You and everything you stood for. Looking back now at how obsessed we were with you, your protectors/defenders, and the forces of evil who held you captive, I have to laugh. But it was all so real then. Your entire world was the greatest figment my imagination will ever know. Your parents' parents, we were the masterminds behind both the plot to steal you and the quest to get you back. We made every minor success and major pitfall along the way. The unexpected detours that threatened to be your would-be saviors' undoing were our doing. We spent hours on the phone and in the library with this every day, planning the most minute of details. Children in our world, we were the ultimate masters in yours. If the guy who wrote Eragon could do it when he was a young teenager, why couldn't we? [Oh how I miss the days when 'Why not?' was reason enough to do something. Though I suppose there's no reason it can't still be.]
Your story never ended though. Sometime around the beginning of high school I simply lost interest. I looked at the unfinished 68 page outline [yes we were that serious] and couldn't believe how naive we were. I had this cold hard world moment where I didn't think anyone else would ever take us or our story seriously and I gave up on you. And I hated myself for it, so I tried to make up some ridiculous story about how writing the outline was boring me and I wanted to spend some time writing actual chapters, but no matter how hard I tried to dedicate myself, I couldn't give you the attention and love and respect you deserved. I just wasn't into it anymore. Maybe it stemmed from not being as close to S once I wasn't seeing him every day, maybe my life just got in the way, maybe I just grew up...I told him I didn't like what I was writing and that I needed to pick up some better writing skills before I could keep going. That I was going to develop them in the Creative Writing class I was going to take sophomore year and then I would start back up again. I took the class...but I never started up again.
I lost all interest in fantasy [at least, the magic and dragons and quests kind of fantasy] at the same time that I gave up on you. I couldn't bring myself to have anything to do with the genre. I don't know which loss of feeling came first. It was so bad that I could barely even finish the last Harry Potter book--I had to know what happened, but I wanted nothing to do with wands and wizardry anymore. I couldn't. I don't know why, but I just couldn't. I couldn't take it seriously anymore.
I'm sorry. I wish I had done better by you. And now you're gone, extant only in our memories, because my mom threw away the computer everything that related to you was stored on without asking me if there was anything I needed on it. I just came back from Princeton one break and it was gone. You were gone. So I'm sorry I couldn't do right by you. And S, I'm sorry I couldn't tell you the truth. I couldn't explain it then, and I still can't. Something in me disappeared and took you with it, Kendra. That's all I can say.

Maya