Kelly Flowers

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When Art Is As Gross As A Naked Emperor.

mic drop 2

I want to be a quirky, creative artist. And I want to be brave about the quirkiness, about the art. I want to drop the mic so bad. You know, like after I get the courage to actually pick it up.

Back to New Years resolutions… I know what you’re thinking. You’re STILL working on those! It’s July! B-O-R-I-N-G. And you would be right. I am.

I set out this year to soak up creative people mojo, to absorb them, to osmosis-ly grow brave, because that is what creativity requires.

My teenage years scared the weird out of me. Now I have a snarky mean girl on my shoulder telling me how lame this or that is. I cling to social constructs. It’s hard to unlearn.

But I miss my weird. I want my weird back. I’m working on that, committed to being open-minded. So I’m doing stuff that makes me open-minded-ish. Like seeking out the artists.

Where is the line of open-minded and just knowing what’s vulgar base atrocious yuck. Do I have to “appreciate” art I can’t stand just because it’s art?

Fashion, for instance. Is that God-awful runway outfit valuable because it’s part of a new fall line? (I actually have no idea what I’m talking about because fashion confounds me. Yes. Choosing this analogy was a dumb. Onward.)

I like poetry. And bravery. So I like poetry readings. Watching them, I mean. Because I like other people’s bravery.

So, a friend and I go to a little bookshop for a poetry reading. (someday, I will graduate to doing these kinds of things alone). A man approaches the mic. He looks like my old neighbor, the accountant. His name was maybe Doug or Peter. He even stands like maybe-Doug-or-Peter… staunch, slovenly but confident. The I-could-care-less-what-you-think-and-therefore-don’t-shave look.

When the poet speaks, the words pirouette. They’re fluid, a puzzle of sounds. Subtle rhyme from line to every other line. His pace is halting, rushing, pulling back. A tide. I hunch in my seat for what promises to be a work of magnificence.

But it is all about a stream of “piss”.

Okay okay. Suspend judgement. I think. This is celebrated literary art. Open-minded, remember?

The man proceeds to describe a penis, words sashaying together. Words like flaccid, fleshy. Um…

I’m trying not to retract. It’s a siege for my prim mind. Stay present, I tell myself but I can’t help wondering if this guy is somehow related to my old neighbor. I have no idea what ever happened to that guy. Didn’t he move to New Mexico?

The poem is building to a crescendo.

What does this guy do with his days? I muse. Is he an accountant or cable company representative or professor? Does he have a wife who raves about his vivid descriptions of male genitalia, who discusses his work over a glass of Malbec?

Piss. Piss. Piss. It’s every other word. The mother in me winces.

Art is supposed to make us feel something. Conflicted, disgusted, confused? So, is this success?

And yet, I feel wrong about it. Like I’m getting it all wrong. Fine art has a clever way of projecting its own insecurity onto me. Like, am I just too shallow to get this? Am I just too foolish to see the emperor’s clothes? Surely, there is a social theme here that, if I were more scholarly, I’d pick up. What does the penis represent? The hand around it? The peeing? Or is it only acclaimed because it’s gross, because it pushes the line of social etiquette? So its graphic nature makes it raw, groundbreaking. Is that what we’re going for here?

Artists have the self-appointed obligation to scoff at hoi polloi opinion. Artists are more evolved, both more and less desensitized, and the masses are asses. Pollock, Warhol, Picasso. Marilyn Manson, Jimmy Fallon, Lady Gaga, penis-obsessed poet. It’s all art.

There’s a panel out there deciding what art is fine and what’s commercial. Those people have art degrees. And there are people who probably “appreciate” it, even if they don’t like it, because that’s what they’re supposed to do. Especially if only a distinct population likes it. Commercial success is the demise of the edgy artist. They’re not starving for their art.

The bigger the audience, the less fine the art. But what is art without an audience? And who decides this stuff? Obviously, not people like me.

There. That’s what I mean. Kind of. I think.

After the reading, a fellow audience member asked what I thought. Do you think I told him that I was honestly just grossed out? Nope. I said something like “interesting” or “different” or “the prose were elegant.” Because I’m not even brave enough to be the one to point out that the emperor has no clothes! Ack!

So, my exercise in bravery is going well.

Head in Hands

 

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NaNoWriMo Vs. Costume Obsession

It’s that time of year again for us creative types. NaNoWriMo, you ask? Um… actually I meant Halloween, creativity fodder.3

(For those not down with the quasi-acronym, NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month. November, the month in which we writer-folk try, or think about trying, to write a book in 30 creatively-fertile and frenzied days.)

Every year I think. Yeah, NaNoWriMo! I should totally do that! And then I look at my to do list and realize I need spray paint and fabric and well, that’s super important, because you know… costumes.

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8 Ways To Work The Writing Critique Group

Teenagers and Writing Critique Groups = Creativity Killersscared-face

Remember being a teenager? It seemed you had to hide any bit of individuality from the mob of your peers and their judgy-ness.

Maybe that was just me. It wasn’t weird that I quoted Shakepeare, danced to swing music and carried vocabulary flashcards in my purse. No. Not weird.

I have teenagers now and guess what? They’re still judgy! And I’m still weird. (I’m told this constantly.) But now, I like my weird. We’ve grown attached to each other. We clique off and snicker about our critics. In my head, we ARE the popular kids.

I’m all grown up now. But writing critique groups can kill creativity in much the same way as the high school mean girls can.

The first time I went to a writers critique group. I was young, not much older than a teenager, really. The group met in an adorable bohemian café that had ombre walls, sold forty different types of tea and had jam poetry sessions that packed the place. This is being a writer, I said to myself. How romantic! Continue reading


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Writing Lessons From My 4-Year-Old In A Whack-A-Mole World

The other day, my 4-year-old, to a room full of cousins and aunts and uncles, performed her song, an original masterpiece called “Flowers In The Field”.

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It went like this…

Flowers in the field

Where is everything that grows

A girl walks with her daddy

And picks a flower and the flower dies

But she puts it in water and it comes alive 

Flowers in the field

Flowers in the field 

I turned to my friend Neil and said, “Remember being that fearless about your own creativity? Brave enough to write a song and then sing it out for a room full of people?”

“No,” he said.

“Yeah. Me neither,” I replied.

But I was braver as a child. There’s proof. My first “publication” was a poem in my school yearbook. When running for Elementary School Treasurer (laughable, I know) I gave speeches off-the-cuff. And I sang in talent shows, LOTS of blood-curdling talent shows. Now, I can’t even drunk-karaoke without hyperventilating.

And why is that? Surely, I have a better vocabulary; can more likely carry a tune; and have a lot more thoughtful things to say. I just no longer have the guts to say them. What about growing up beat the bravery right out of me?

So, it got me thinking… How do we recreate the fearlessness we had as children?

3 solutions come up mind…

1. Always be amazing, superhuman – a genius even. Get all A’s. Problem solved.

2. Only show your work to people (like your doting parents, spouse, etc.) who will love you, praise you and top off your confidence cup, regardless of what you produce.

3. Just not care. Seriously. Sociopaths aren’t worried what other people think. Continue reading