You Can’t Think Your Way Out Of A Creative Block

"Sit as little as possible; do not believe any idea that was not born in the open air and of free movement - in which the muscles do not also revel... Sitting still... is the real sin against the Holy Ghost."

-Friedrich Nietzsche

There is one question you should never ask a creative person: "Where do you get your ideas?" At best they'll tell you that they don't know, and at worst they'll give you a long lecture full of bogus advice. If we're honest, no one has a clue where ideas come from, not even the person who conceives them.

The same is true in academia where people love to claim that they reasoned their way to the depth of their conclusions. The ideal setting for academic work is Descartes' fireplace, where he sat down for six nights straight and cogitoed his way to God. This image of the "solitary genius" inspired many students to commit the same asceticism, where watching movies, hanging out with people and going outside turn into contaminants to their pure reason. The intellectual instinct becomes a passion that grants access to transcendence (Han). And this dimension, for solitary minds, is only accessible via a melancholic estrangement from ordinary life (Felski).

In my experience, however, ideas tend to click and come to me during the most bizarre times. Sometimes they hit me when I'm in line getting a coffee before a shift at work. Sometimes I'd miss a stop because a great idea took hold of me during a long train ride. They came to me when I was completely immersed in the world. I did not reason my way to these ideas in a pristine setting. Rather, a great idea pierced through all the mess of life and revealed itself, leaving me with the task of articulating the missing steps retrospectively. Whereas during those times when I attempted to force an idea, I found myself staring blankly into nothing but frustration.

This tricky truth about ideas is annoying because it takes our pride away. We can no longer claim that we came up with the idea or assume that we're the author. All we can do is set up conditions for thinking and hope for the best. We can only plant the seeds that may or may not germinate into a branch that reaches beyond the limit of what we know.

In this case, the history of art is our friend because it's filled with artists doing bizarre things just to get an inch closer to a new idea. One of my favourite examples is Robert Rauschenberg who rejected the notion of viewing art as something outside the world (Han). Instead of viewing art as a result of solitary probing into unknown territories, his art prefers a calm friendliness, and "affection" toward the world. And he did this by immersing himself completely in everyday life.

"I don't want my personality to come out through the piece," he said in an interview, "That's why I keep the television on all the time. And I keep the windows open."

Instead of reaching deep and bleeding out onto the canvas in a heroic gesture, Rauschenberg leaves the window open so that no monadic inwardness may seal off his view of the world. Instead of being estranged from everyday life, he embraces it and draws inspiration from the mundane. His art inspires a serenity before the world in the place of a melancholic probing, manifesting as a friendliness that draws his material closer to him.

This certainly has been true in my experience. During those times when I am, in my friend Hano's words, getting too far up my ass, I know that I have to leave the library and take my work to a boisterous cafe, a sports bar or near a dog park. Sitting alone in these environments makes it impossible to get caught in a solitary thought bubble because I'm usually too immersed in observation.

If and when a good idea does pierce through all the noise, I'd know that it was the world that inspired this idea. It came to me and I can't possibly claim total authorship. And the only way for me to pay my due is to return to a quiet room, trying to articulate the moment of revelation in words.

There is time to be alone, but there's also time to be completely immersed in the world. Doing the former too much will drive us mad, and indulging in the latter will produce no work. And the lifelong task of a creative is to discover a balance between these two paralleled worlds.