This is a continuation of our previous post, ‘Writing And Creative Genius‘ in which we reflected upon the various aspects of creative genius, its source and the variability associated with it, along with the improbability of putting a leash on it.
A Brief Account :
In the field of Arts especially writing, creativity often occurs/presents itself at an undefined time or context. It is something that passes through us, as if it were a divine revelation unraveling the mysteries of the present. But, the temporal and random nature of its occurrence and continuity is seen in many cases. As mystic as it may sound, it is often associated with anguish, especially of the creator/artist himself.
Creativity may be looked at as a discriminator, something that sets apart one from the rest. Something that lights up the creator with divine magnificence. Though that is one perspective, I doubt it is the intended result. I feel that it isn’t about winning or setting one apart from the rest. It is a form of expression. May be, a reaction arising due to a life filled with persistent imposition of restrictions and order through repetition and persuasion coexisting with the diffused presence of inherent and overlooked randomness or disorderliness.
I feel that it is a way of identification that defines the creator and enables him to portray himself in the truest of his forms. That may just be the reason those creative people persistently pursued their work in spite of the anguish that was bound to it. You hold tight onto something that is dear to you, but that is the same thing that is sucking you of blood. So you hold tighter, and eventually it becomes undoing. I may be wrong, but based on my experience and understanding of things this is what I make out of it, I feel it is that way.
Those who were burned of anguish by their own work never stopped what they did. Maybe it was their way to understand things or a way to cope with the past or to express what was left unsaid. Maybe they had realized that there would be no one to understand them and this was the only way to seek comfort in their own pain or maybe it was the fear that the ones that mattered most would never be able to comprehend.
Maybe that’s why they did what they did. And continued till the end. Maybe they knew and were aware of it. But the immensity of the bearing had changed them. Pain became an integral part of their creative exploits. Maybe they found this ability to express themselves out of their torment and internalized it along with the part that was tearing them apart. Anguish became a part of the routine as it required them to revisit it to harness their new found ability. Soon, they started loving their pain.
After whatever had happened that put them through this, and it’s consequences were internalized, it would be too late for the existence of what was needed before, to matter now, at a time past their ruin. It was too late for it. For an element to be missing when it was needed the most. What good is air after you have drowned?
These gifts were an expression of their anguish, and they bathed in them only to escape the past. This is just me thinking out loud, I may be wrong, but if what is killing you, is what you love the most, then what else could be your undoing.