How to start when you can't get started

Photo: Kelly Sikkema

I’ve been in a bit of a creative slump recently. It happens to us all. I thought I’d share something I’ve found that helps get the juices flowing.

This is going to sound a little silly but: start by intentionally creating something bad. Just do something random. If you’re a photographer, start by taking random photos. If you’re a musician. just loop some random audio and work it a little or record some random guitar and lyrics. Do anything you need to do to just get started.

This may not sound like much of a strategy, but I’ve found that once you get the ball rolling, it’s a lot easier to keep going. That jump from zero to one is incredibly more difficult than going from one to two. You’re overcoming inertia and giving yourself license to jam.

By giving your creation no intention, you set the standard by which you can actually create something decent, with intention.

Kill the critic. You need to silence that part of your brain that tells you that you need to create something perfect, or it’s not worth creating at all. Get into that experimental mode of creation.

This technique starts you down the path where anything is allowed, nothing is bad, and it’s all just raw material that you’re creating. it’s an incredibly liberating place to be—and exactly where you need to be to generate something interesting. You can always come back later with your critic’s hat on and slash and burn all the crap. But you need to get that crap out of the way, prime the pump so to speak, in order to make way for the good shit.

Plus, if you start by creating something intentionally bad, there’s only one place to go -- up. Let me know how this works for you.

Who's the Genius - the Artist or the Observer?

jean-michel basquiat

“All human creativity is a desperate attempt to occupy the brief space or endless gap between birth and death.”

What’s the difference between good and bad art? 

I’m reading A Year with Swollen Appendices, Brian Eno’s 1997 memoir. (In February, a 25-year anniversary edition is being re-published.) 

It contains a terrific essay about placebo cures. Eno explains how though there are believers and critics, the fact remains — placebos cure about 30% of patients scientifically administered the false cures. 

He then recounts the story of Melody Maker music critic Richard Williams, who in the 1970s was sent a John Lennon + Yoko Ono record to review. The first side was normal enough—five traditionally arranged songs. The other side was more unusual—20 minutes of a pure sine wave. Just a long, unwavering, unaccompanied tone. 

Williams wrote his review, concentrating the bulk of it on side B, noting how bold Lennon and Ono were for putting out such brashly stark, minimal music. He later learned the second side was a test tone, used to calibrate and detect abnormalities in record players. 

Was Williams’ experience with the test tone any diminished, knowing the sound over which he rhapsodized was unintentional? 

What composes a satisfactory art experience? What makes it good for some observers and poor for others? I’ve explored this topic before.

Thinking about the believer and the critic, it becomes clear—it’s less about the stimuli and more about the experience going on inside the patient/observer. 

“We can say that there is nothing absolute about the aesthetic value of a Rembrandt or a Mozart or a Basquiat,” Eno writes, just as there’s nothing special about the sugar pill the doctor gives the anxiety-ridden office worker. In the end, anyone who can convince you by any means, including outrageous fakery, that what you are about to experience is THE CURE to your issues can be called a healer. Anyone who can convince you that this thing in front of you IS art is by definition an artist.  

Art says as much about us as it does about the artist. We as observers believe the myth. We drink the Kool-Aid. We willingly give the art its power and we’re under its spell. It’s a dance between the artist and the lovers, the creators and the observers.

“Is the act of getting attention a sufficient act for an artist, or is that a job description?”

— Brian Eno

Why do some artists fly and others flail?

Why are we attracted to the music we like? What makes the art we appreciate and consume interesting to us? What distinguishes it from the art and media we dislike? When art doesn’t speak to us, why is that? Is it ‘bad’ art? Can we blame the artist, or is it a fault of the viewer—a failure to ‘see’ ourselves in the work?

I have a theory that all art is valid, and can even be popular—it just needs to find the right audience. It needs to find its ideal group of people, and once it does, it can blossom in that community of like-minded folks. But finding those people takes work.

Let’s say there are two artists, Poppy and Margaret. They both make very similar brands of competent folk music, play the guitar beautifully, and even sing in a similar, attractive intonation.

Poppy has one million followers on her streaming platform of choice, Margaret has 70.

Putting aside the politics of streaming platforms, what’s the difference between these two artists? On the surface, the only difference is that Poppy is very popular, and Margaret is not. 

But why? Does it come down to marketing, PR, promotion? Perhaps. Or is it the way Poppy executes her music—the chord changes she uses, the tones she employs, the subject matter of her songs? Does Poppy’s art speak to people in a way that Margaret’s does not?

What can Margaret do to achieve a wider audience? Invest more heavily in promotion? Perform in more venues? Gain wider exposure by fostering more relationships, investing in playlists and radio? Does she just need more runway, and to keep on doing what she’s doing, or is there something inherent to the music that she makes that just doesn’t resonate with people?

In the abstract, it’s impossible to judge. But this is a real conundrum for many artists, and all humans, frankly. How do you get along in life without comparing what you do to others—and is that comparison even valid? Can we listen to it, should we listen to it—or would it be better for artists to just put their heads down and keep plugging away at creating beautiful work?

What is the balance between creativity and self-promotion—and at the end of the day,  which is more important?

I have a lot of questions today, and very few answers. These are things that have been bouncing around in my head for years. I still don’t have clear solutions. All I know is that when I make music, and it sounds good to me, it feels good to me. And that feeling is everything. Everything. It’s what all artists are chasing after. And honestly, that should be enough. But it rarely is.

We want more. Artists want recognition. And that requires work—work that many of us don’t enjoy or would rather not do. Self promotion for feelers like myself is tough.

I can happily promote others. Hell, I do it professionally. But ask me to write a bio or artist statement about my most recent work… yikes. I just bottle up. The words disappear. But none of us can deny that this is a really important part of this whole artist thing. You got to get out there. You have to represent yourself because no one else will. At least, not until you can find the right kind of person and pay them what they ask.

So today I’m working on finding that balance, and finding an audience, and making work that speaks to people. It’s all about amplifying the voice and finding the people who want to hear it.