True art requires utter commitment. That applies to creativity of any type. The artist is a vehicle to “body forth” the new idea.
Here is Martin Buber’s take
“This is the eternal source of art: (I) am faced by a form which desires to be made (by me) into a work. This form is no offspring of (my) soul, but is an appearance which steps up to it and demands of it the effective power… The work does not suffer me to turn aside and relax into the world of It; but it commands. If I do not serve it aright it is broken, or it breaks me.”
I think that “bodying forth” is an accurate description of creative birth. I also have a note to myself on commitment. My wife (a psychoanalytic psychotherapist) talks of “claustro-acrophobia”, roughly translated as – sitting in the fence. Well, true originality requires utter commitment to the relationship with the idea. Otherwise the idea is broken and so am I…
Empty shell? Today is the birth day of joy. Yet so many people just don’t get it. Your Easter egg isn’t just a shell of chocolate, empty inside; it’s a symbol. You, I, we – are surrounded by love. Happy Easter x
So… it is observation that crystallises concrete reality from infinite possibilities. So says Neil’s Bohr’s Copenhagen interpretation of quantum mechanics.
(In quantum mechanics, wave function collapse is said to occur when a wave function—initially in a superposition of several eigenstates—appears to reduce to a single eigenstate (by “observation”). … In 1927, Werner Heisenberg used the idea of wave function reduction to explain quantum measurement.)
In effect we, our conscious selves, are engines of observation and therefore at the cutting edge, creating reality.
What of mindfulness? This is how to jet propel or nuclear power this process. Why? Simple, as observation intensifies , by the living in the present in connection with life around, so does the creative crystallisation process.
..a tale of a fruct’d toffs wife
Richard, a Viscount was somewhat dyslexic
For Knightly his sucking sour fruit made him sick
He’d mistook what he’d read
For he thought it had said
Was “for verses get your tongue round a lime Rick”
His wife said “my brick, your lipstick is citric
Our unfructiful life is missing its kick
When you come to our bed
Whither pencil of lead?
Oh Rich, oh my Ricky, my limey lick’d Dick”