I had an opportunity, recently, to reflect on the nature of man’s search for unique ways to express his creative drive in socially acceptable fashion.

My, that sounded pretentious, didn’t it? The truth is that I got frustrated and didn’t have a clue why. This led to one of those moments I, like most people, avoid like the plague.

Self-evaluation.

It makes my skin crawl just typing it.

I am not, by nature, an introspective man. I don’t like to examine my motivations or to delve into the deep psychological underpinnings of my thoughts and desires. Examining the lint in one’s belly-button is a task better left to those mystic, mountain-top perching gurus of old. I am a firm believer, when speaking of such things, that ignorance really is bliss.

Unfortunately, I was trying to come up with a concept for a photo shoot and took a wrong turn. I found myself engaged in that most loathsome of occupations, introspection. Since you are here, and, obviously, have nothing better to do, I thought I would share the misery.

I have come to the realization that a constant thread throughout my life has been one aborted attempt after another to find a creative medium where I could effectively express myself. I found in myself a desire for artistic expression, a need to create; a hunger to do or be something new. Or, to be brutally honest, an endless search for that certain ‘something’ that proves that I am unique.

I have been through the catalog of classical art and found that though I may be a competent draftsman, I really don’t have a talent for sketching or painting. (I can produce acceptable copies of that turtle on the ‘Art Institute’ ads in the back of comic books, but I can’t make him dance.)

I taught myself piano and guitar, French Horn and the harmonica, but while I can sight-read music, I don’t have the talent for creating a tune and only a craftsman’s skill for reproducing that music.

I delved into sculpture and though my attempts were accurate representations of the model, they were lacking depth and that magic that makes sculpture seem like living things, frozen in time.

I tried my hand at writing fiction, but found myself lifting the characters and conflicts from my own favorite books instead of creating them from whole cloth. I have always been an avid reader and yet, when re-reading my own writings, found myself bored and wanting to skip ahead. I still like to write, though I have restricted myself to non-fiction commentary as a self-defense mechanism.

I have worked on cars and motorcycles, turning ho-hum commuter vehicles into — hmmm — slightly less boring commuter vehicles. Even after surrounding myself with some of the most talented bike-builders I have ever met, I found that while I was competent at adopting ideas other people had conceived, I was at a loss for truly creative ideas of my own.

My latest passion is that most technical of visual arts, photography. I have always been a shutter-bug, but of the snapshot variety instead of the artistic. I have a flair for photography but only time will tell if I have a real talent. I have even managed to make some money at this new hobby and have grandiose dreams of it actually paying for itself, someday. Knowing my history, I don’t have high hopes of being the next Ansel Adams, but I am enjoying myself while it lasts.

So where has this trip down memory lane gotten me? Has it opened new vistas, expanded my understanding of myself and my place in the world? No, not really. It has, however, reinforced something that I already knew. I want to create, but not for the pure pleasure of the art (though I really do enjoy the process). I am selfish, self-absorbed and want to be noticed. I want to be that person, that example that other people turn to for inspiration in something.

I am not one of those Pollyanna types that insist each person is unique and special in their own way. The truth is that people, by and large, are depressingly similar. We spend our lives, living day to day and dealing with “the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to” and manage to be happy enough. The only hope for immortality among the common man lies with their children (a haphazard and decidedly unrewarding endeavor in most cases.)

It is also true that one in a million rises above the herd and forges a new path. One in a billion becomes that shining star, the epitome of their particular field and an inspiration to others. Like almost every other person on the planet, I want to be that One.

“It’s not the destination, it’s the journey.”

“You never know until you try.”

Blah, blah, blah.

Tweet  Print This Post

Tags: art & entertainment, ends & odd // Add Comment »