How To Take A Creative Poop
“And when the girl, I don’t know her name, but the Italian girl— when she comes in, the shadow will turn into a full circle and the music will start and it’ll turn blue.”
I was sitting in the cafe of the SF MOMA at a table next to these older, what seemed to be artists. They totally had the look.
Tight fitting monochrome clothing, gray wirey hairs spiraling out of their heads, a concave artsy posture when sitting down.
They’d just walked out of the room that said “Exhibition in progress.” and sat down at 12:30 to enjoy some fresh avocado salads with a crunchy baguette on the side.
They had highlighters and binders. One had an accent. The other one talked with a lot of hand gestures.
They would make sound effects to build on their idea “and when it goes, da-da-da-da, we bring the dancers in”. I couldn’t help but think that whatever they were creating seemed so senseless and subjective… so weird and unnecessary to the progression of society.
But they spoke with such harmonious pleasure.
The rhythm and lust of their conversation kicked off a warmth in my body like how the gas clicks the spread of fire as you pre-heat an oven.
Why are some of us born feeling like if we don’t express ourselves, we will dissolve? Why do some of us need to dance and play with colors and words to feel alive? Why do we sacrifice our livelihood, our relationships and our sanity all in the name of “art”?
That is the mystery of creativity. It’s a curious and possessive invisible energy.
It’s potent enough to argue that it’s necessary for survival and frivolous enough to argue that it isn’t.
Art is taking a creative shit.
It’s digesting your emotions and memories, chewing on them and swallowing them.
It’s allowing your imagination to break the collection of your experiences down into little nourishing pieces for your body to absorb.
Eventually your body will be so swollen from this abundance of imagination, it will cause a pressure to release it or “push it out”, if you will. (haha gross).
It’s why there are men playing violins on the New York subway for quarters and loose dollars. It’s why the teenager yells “You just don’t get me mom!” as she dyes her hair pink. It’s why Van Gough cut off his ear— wait, maybe that was because he was psycho, not creative.
Wait, what’s the difference?
Anyway….. we do this because if we don’t, we will feel dead inside (and outside).
We do this because if we don’t, we will feel creatively constipated.
Today I encourage you to take an inspirational laxative to release your creativity.
Put on the music that gets you in the zone. Watch a movie with lots of colors. Finger paint with a kid. Open a magazine and smell the ink.
Scribble. Fucking. Scrabble.
Get paid in a currency that’s more exciting than money.
Get paid in the currency of freedom and completion and in that feeling, that tickly feeling, of being unforgiving to the most lavishly beautiful part of you.