What is a word that keeps coming up for you?
...the word you find yourself continuing to say. The word you keep hearing, seeing, and noticing.
Now, think about that word. What does it bring up for you? Can you try writing a poem to/for this word?
Consider using Victoria Adukwei Bulley's "not quiet as in quiet but" as a template.
Being creative is not natural.
To grow and get old is natural.
We are organisms running on energy,
therefore we try to be as efficient as possible.
But this efficiency must be challenged
Our ability to get out of deadly routine,
to get lost, be pushed, resist the ordinary,
seek novelty, strive for new ideas.
Because there is no one you, one idea,
one angle for looking at things.
Learning new things is confusing,
frustrating, maybe painful,
but comfort takes us nowhere.
Practice what is alive,
where new variations, questions,
outcomes may appear.
Change your brain’s architecture, your movement,
your thinking, your actions.
Do not seek what reassures you,
what you already know.
Enjoy exploration and uncertainty.
Embrace that which makes you doubt again,
that which allows your joints to feel variability,
a new rhythm.
Cultivate a practice that provokes you,
a practice that gives you an energy surplus.
Put yourself at risk and learn to recognise
what is better than simply good enough.
Who can see beyond the obvious?
Who has the courage to see the body
not as something we should control and stifle,
but as a poetry, with spaces between the words
and joints that allow different interpretations
and new meanings.
We are not machines made for a single purpose.
We are all you can imagine.
JOZEF AND LINDA - https://fightingmonkey.net
The Soft Manifesto
Can you afford to break down any barriers between your work and the audience? (monetary, language, accessibility, etc.)
What can you gain, that is not money, from the work?
Who, that is not you, can gain from the work?
Can you remove yourself from the center of the work?
Does the work consider its impact on our planet?
Does the work consider your politics?
Does the work reflect your understanding of the responsibility of being human?
Have you learned all you can from the work before presenting it as finished?
In what ways have you grown or changed from older work, and are you proud of these changes?
Can you afford to rest?
“…identity will give us a certain chemistry. And also we feel that we want to preserve that. The whole body gets used to it. The body itself can get used to a certain chemistry, and demands that that chemistry be preserved.”
"Coherence is sensed as harmony, order, beauty, goodness, truth..."
David Bohm in Thought As A System
“Limit everything to the essential but do not remove the poetry.”
— Dieter Rams, quoted in Less and More: The Design Ethos of Dieter Rams
It's easier to recognize beauty than it is to create it. You're good enough to know that what you're doing isn't good, but not good enough to produce something great. When you find yourself in this frustrating limbo, the challenge is to never forget what got you there in the first place. Remember that thing that got you into the game.
Your love. Your passion. Your taste. That's the reason you're here. You still belong, even if you don't feel like it right now. Your taste can be killer even if your ability is questionable.
Commit to the process and you'll become good enough, soon enough. Put in a volume of work. Close the gap.
Photographs are the epitome of memory or some form of reified memory. What has always struck me—not so much about the kinds of photographs that people take now in large quantities—about the older photographs, taken at the time when people had their picture taken perhaps two or three times in a lifetime, and they have something spectral about them. It seems as if the people who appear in these pictures are kind of fuzzy on the edges, very much like ghosts which you may encounter in any of those streets out there. It is that enigmatic quality which attracts me to these pictures. It’s less the sense of nostalgia but that there is something utterly mysterious in old photographs, that they are almost designed to be lost, they’re in an album which vanishes in an attic or in a box, and if they come to light they do accidentally, you stumble upon them. The way in which these stray pictures cross your paths, it has something at once totally coincidental and fateful about it. Then of course you begin to puzzle over them, and it’s from that that much of the desire to write about them comes.