Teresa R. Funke's Blog: Bursts of Brilliance for a Creative Life, page 43

Are You a Serious Artist?

Recently, I was listening to a young artist describe his approach to his work, and it all sounded so familiar. Emerging artists get caught up in the “romance” of their art. In their determination to be seen as “serious artists,” they embrace dark and heavy topics; they question whether drugs or alcohol will help them tap into deeper wells of creativity; they don the costumes of the “brooding artist;” and they beat themselves up for not having the “answers.”

If you came to your art later in life, maybe you didn’t go quite this far, but you probably still worried that people wouldn’t “get” your art. You wanted so desperately to connect.

At a certain point, though, something happens in an artist’s journey. You realize that this whole thing is a pull, not a push, as they say in marketing. You’re not pushing your art on the world hoping that people will like it and respond to it, you are pulling people toward you who share a common interest or appreciation for the work you produce.

As artists we are also humans. Which means we’ll experience ups and downs in our lives and careers, and the emotions that follow will make their way into our work. We’ll explore heartache and anger and frustration, but we’ll also explore love and joy and empathy.

You’ll know you are a “serious artist” when you are doing the work that feels best to you, work that gives you a sense of purpose, work that inspires you. You’ll know you are serious when it becomes less about what you are going through and more about what you have learned.

Edgar Allen Poe was a serious artist, but so is Jerry Seinfeld. Don’t let a stereotype define you. You don’t have to be a “tortured artist” in order to be good, you just have to embrace your gifts and trust where they take you.

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I’ll Sing it My Way

The other day I learned that I’ve been singing the lyrics to a song incorrectly for, like, most of my life. The song is from the musical South Pacific, and I always thought the words were, “You’ve got to have a dream. If you don’t have a dream, how you gonna make a dream come true?” The other day, my daughters and I went to a Broadway Brunch for Mother’s Day, and when the singer did her rendition, she sang it, “How you gonna have a dream come true?” This startled me so much that I went home and looked up the lyrics. The singer got it right. I had been wrong.

So what’s the big deal? It’s one word, right? But look at the meaning behind the word! To say, “How you gonna make a dream come true,” implies that you have to work for your dreams. “How you gonna have a dream come true,” suggests it could be handed to you, which we all know is not typically the case.

Besides, in the musical, Bloody Mary is the champion of the two young lovers, who have to fight to protect their forbidden romance. They work to overcome hatred and prejudice just to be together. In other words, they have to make their dream come true, by urging themselves and others to change their views.

I’ve decided to keep singing it my way from time to time, and I hope Oscar Hammerstein won’t mind. We writers choose our words so carefully, after all. But I can’t let go of the inspiration that line has provided me all these years. It’s a message I passed on to my children, two of whom are graduating this month from college and high school and working toward their own dreams.

I think Oscar will understand. As creatives, we know our art isn’t really ours anyway. Each person who experiences it brings to it a piece of themselves and reacts to it in ways that stem from their personal struggles, beliefs, morals, and even hang-ups. Art gets us through our most trying times, and sometimes it does so despite what the artist originally intended. That’s what makes it so powerful. More than anything else, art is fluid enough to be what we need it to be.

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Operating on “Artist Time”

The other day, I had scheduled a mid-morning coffee with a friend. I did my exercises first and checked e-mail, leaving myself a full hour to get ready. But sometime during that designated time, my creative mind decided to take a walk. I wound up spending twice as long in the shower as I intended to as this brilliant idea unfurled. I held my foamy toothbrush between my teeth so I could jot down some of my thoughts. I stood in my closet staring in the direction of my clothes, but seeing only words marching before my eyes. By the time I finally glanced at the clock, I noted with panic that I had ten minutes to get where I was going.

If you operate on “Mommy Time,” people cut you some slack. They assume you are late because of a lost shoe or an unexpected potty break. If you function on “CEO Time,” they might even respect you for running behind, assuming that a very important meeting must have gone over. But if you operate on “Artist Time,” you get nothing but grief.

So in order to avoid the eye rolls, we tend not to mention our tardiness, in the hopes that you didn’t notice. If you push us, we might tell a little white lie about a last-minute phone call or bad traffic. It’s only to other artists that we admit the truth. “Sorry I’m late, but listen to this great idea I got!”

Creativity can’t be scheduled. Oh, how I wish it could, but, like a spoiled child, it has a tendency to do as it pleases. You call us “flighty” or “distracted” or “disorganized” because we sometimes burn dinner or overflow the bathtub or forget to close the garage door, but would you rather we let all those great ideas go by so we can stay on top of the smaller details of life? Because if you insist on that, you can say good-bye to those awesome new books you love to read or those catchy tunes you hum or those inspired paintings you hang on your wall.

Does that mean we are always late or unreliable? No. I’m almost never late to meetings with clients or to doctor’s appointments. I absolutely can function within the dictates of time when necessary, but I have definitely lost some great ideas in the process. So whenever possible, I follow my muse.

One time, I’d gone to collect the mail in the middle of the day, and on my way back, I got an idea. I dropped down in the Adirondack chair on my porch because I was afraid if I stepped back into the chaos of my house, I’d lose it. As I was deep in thought, a neighbor strolled by. “Working hard?” he said. “Yep,” I answered.

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Raising Myself

My daughter’s been waiting for this post for a long time. I keep threatening to write about how odd it is to be “raising myself.”  Given that tomorrow is Mother’s Day, this seems the perfect time to explore this.

It’s not just that my daughter is following in my footsteps and seeking a career in the arts, or that we both adore theater, or that she, like me, did her studies abroad in London and fell in love with England. It’s not just that we read the same kinds of books and watch the same TV shows. Nor is it that we were both late bloomers in romance or squeaky clean kids in high school. And it’s not just that we have the same eyes.

But when my daughter tells me about her life, I know what she’s going to say before she says it. She tells me anyway. Like me, she’s a non-stop talker. When I was a kid, my dad used to ask if I was “talking just to hear my head rattle.” My husband now tells my daughter to “wrap it up.” And though I usually agree with him, part of my heart goes out to her. I know what it feels like to be silenced.

And I know what it feels like to want to always make other people happy and do what’s right. And how it feels to want your hard work to be recognized, but also to be quick to recognize it in others. The things that frustrate me about my daughter are the things that frustrate me about myself, and that’s hard.

Because she is “me,” I have a tendency to want to protect her from the things that will hurt her, because they are the same things that hurt me. But she is stronger than I am and more confident than I was at her age. I’d like to think maybe I had a hand in that. Maybe because I knew the things that would bring her down, I was able to build her up.

But really, my whole approach to parenting has been the same approach I take to art. Each piece of art, and each child, is unique and special. I’ve never asked my kids to be anything other than what they are. It just so happens that what my daughter is — is a bit too much like me. Poor kid.

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A Little Class, Please

My daughter wants to be an actor. The other night, we were watching an interview with a movie star on one of those late-night TV shows. Out walks this girl, dressed to the nines, who proceeds to tell a story about throwing up. I turned to my daughter and said, “Promise me that if you ever get the national spotlight, you’ll show a little class.”

Oh, Teresa, lighten up, you may be thinking. Jokes about bodily functions can be funny. Sure, if you’re telling them to your friends in the bar, but do total strangers really need to hear about your recent bout with food poisoning?

I think artists feel pressured today to come across as “real” to their fans. They tweet silly observations and post funny videos on Facebook and tell raunchy stories on talk shows. There seems to be an assumption that if we can make you like us, because we are just like you, you will like our art. It all feels a bit desperate to me, and mostly unprofessional.

Then again, I grew up watching classic films. My favorite stars, like Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant, embodied class. They may have struggled in their personal lives, but onscreen they were polished and in control. And their legacies have stood the test of time. Class acts never get old.

I think part of what bothers me is that many people have a hard enough time taking artists seriously. Our jobs are glorified hobbies and we are spoiled narcissists who haven’t done a hard day’s work in our lives. Celebrity appearances today seem to confirm those opinions.

But it’s more than that. I hear young artists of all types complaining that it’s hard to be taken seriously for their art. Yet they squander opportunities to talk about their inspirations and their processes or the value of their work in favor of telling stories about the rude salesman who sold them their car.

True professionals know that you can be both interesting and accomplished. You can talk about your work in such a way that you still seem vulnerable and real and even funny, but you are also establishing clearly that the art is what matters. If you want me to think of you as more than a great drinking buddy, show me some class.

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When Artists Dream

When my husband has a nightmare, it goes something like this: he is chased by a bear. When I have a bad dream, it plays out like this: I’m the wife of some Viking-like chieftain, but he is gone, and the neighboring tribe is preparing to invade. My eldest son is not up to the task of leadership, despite my encouragement. My husband’s brother wants to take over, but I don’t trust him, so I enlist the aid of the charming maiden with whom he is in love to help me distract him. In the meantime, I prep the warriors and then discover that I’m pregnant . . . with twins. . . and wouldn’t you know, just as the invaders are cresting the hill, I go into labor. No, I’m serious. This was my dream last night. I wake up exhausted. Running from a bear is one thing, saving a whole village is another.

Where on earth did this dream come from? From a myriad of images I encountered that day, I’m guessing. My friend’s Facebook post about visiting an ancient site in Ireland, my phone call with my son, the Ain’t I a Woman speech that I recently came across again. The subconscious mind is a magical place.

I’m sure you’ve read many interviews with artists and writers who claim their best ideas came to them in a dream and maybe you’ve wondered if that’s true. It is. I keep a pad of paper by my bed in case I wake up in the middle of the night with an awesome idea. In that foggy place between sleep and waking, stories lurk, and songs, and plays, and paintings.

And in my dreams, I’m rarely myself. I’m usually a “character” leading some fantasy life. It’s kinda awesome. I get to fall in love over and over with all kinds of gorgeous men, but it’s not me, so it’s not like I’m cheating, right? And I get to travel the world and try all kinds of crazy stunts that I would never attempt in real life.

To be honest, I rarely transfer my dreams to the page, though. They’re a bit too weird and I’m not that clever of a writer. But I do think about them a lot. I’ve been wondering all day whether my tribesmen defeated the bad guys or not. As the dream was ending, the midwife was telling me I was not having twins, just a single son. Was this kid the “savior” of our race? Did that come from reading an article about the new The Story of God series by Morgan Freeman last night?

Who knows? But that’s the best part about dreams. Like all great stories, I get to decide the ending.

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I Feel Pretty

When I was a kid, my dad used to sing the song “I Feel Pretty” from the movie West Side Story. Yes, my dad. When I was little, I thought the song was about this hopelessly stuck-up girl who liked to brag about her good looks. Catchy tune or not, I couldn’t understand why he liked it.

As I got older, I realized that Natalie Wood wasn’t boasting, she was simply giddy with happiness. Why? Because Tony was in love with her, and his love made her feel not only pretty, but also witty and charming and gay.

That’s how it feels when someone likes our art. When we get a complimentary e-mail or a social media shout-out or an award, we feel all those things and more. And like Maria in the show, we think the city should give us its key.

It’s not a feeling that necessarily lasts. Later that same day, we may face a harsh critique or a creative block or a rejection. In my meditation book, it talks about the importance of accepting that nothing in life is permanent. Things are changing by the moment, even our moods. But that’s all part of the journey. Think how boring life would be if everything was always the same.

So for those glorious moments when someone sees, really sees, your art and bothers to tell you so, relish it! Boast to a friend, brag to a family member, show off to a colleague, dance around your kitchen. Because for just those few minutes, life is pretty in every way.

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Revisiting the Folly of Failure

Today, I’m revisiting one of my most popular posts in this blog, “The Folly of Failure.” I’ve reissued it as a video on my YouTube channel under the playlist “Bursts of Brilliance for a Creative Life.” Take a look and, if it helps move your creative journey forward, please share it with a friend who needs a boost. Not until we all believe that failure is nothing to fear will we really see how far we can go! But it’s certainly more fun getting there together.

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Pie in the Sky Hopes

When I was a kid, I used to sit on the back porch step and sing at the top of my lungs the lyrics to Frank Sinatra’s song, “High Hopes.” Just what did make that ant think he could move that rubber tree plant?  I had no idea what inspired his crazy dream, but I loved that he achieved it, despite all odds, and despite the fact that no one believed he could.

I still sing that song, and still at the top of my lungs, only now it’s in the car or the shower or anyplace where the neighbors might not hear me. Because without high hopes, artists of any kind are doomed.

I wake up every morning thinking this will be the day that George Takei calls to tell me he wants to make The No-No Boys into a movie, or Jane Lynch e-mails to ask if she can perform my one-woman show, Dancing in Combat Boots, or the New York Times contacts me to do a story on this very blog.

Every day, I send off e-mails and make phone calls and grant interview requests and go to networking events and throw all kinds of spaghetti at the wall in the hopes that something will stick. And every day my husband shakes his head at me. Maybe he wonders when I’ll give up my high hopes and just settle for the good life I have. But that’s never gonna happen.

Because we artists are only as real as our highest aspirations. We may produce great work day in and day out. We may meet all our deadlines and run our businesses correctly and pay our taxes on time, but without those crazy high hopes, there is no real passion. And without passion, there is no joy. And without joy, there is no genius.

And whether we ultimately achieve our wildest dreams doesn’t really matter. It’s the quest that drives us forward. So go ahead and believe that you will be the one to cure cancer or beat the world record in ski jumping or write the next “great American novel.” And never stop believing it. Never stop working toward it. Because someday someone will do just that. Who’s to say it might not be you?

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You Can’t Take it With You

“You can’t take it with you.” This is a motto I’ve lived by my whole life, especially when I’m debating with my husband about how much I can spend on our vacation. He’d rather stuff that money into savings for a rainy day, and I want to blow it on a sunny day, preferably in an exotic location.

For the most part, I’m a fairly practical person. I don’t like debt, I value a solid savings plan, and I look for a good deal, when I can find it. But I also think life is short and I want to enjoy every minute of it.

Recently, though, it occurred to me that it’s not just money you can’t take with you. You also can’t take time or knowledge or awards or praise. It all gets left behind, no matter how smart or rich or successful you become. I put a lot of pressure on myself to be always learning more, achieving more, advancing more. And, to a point, that’s wise and necessary, but at times it feels overwhelming and punitive.

For example, I have two shelves and a basket in my basement that contain 100 unread books. The other day, I tried to cull those shelves by donating some of the books to the library, but I couldn’t do it. I never can, because part of me feels compelled to read them someday. So at least once a week, I glance at those piles and feel pressure. I think of that expression, “So many books, so little time,” and I hear the clock ticking.

But let’s be realistic . . . suppose I did read all those books and then 1,000 more, I can’t take that knowledge or experience into the next life. And in the meantime, I’m not buying or reading books I really want to read right now because I feel this self-imposed need to finish the books I bought.

In other words, goals and plans are necessary. They give us purpose and drive and help us do work that will contribute to the greater good. Something I read in a book, for example, may change me in a way that affects or improves my work or life perspective. But if I died tomorrow, and those books remained unread, my life would have been no less meaningful.

So never let your goals or convictions get in the way of living your life. It’s not about who dies with more, it’s about who lived the most.

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