THE CREATIVE PROCESS ARTS & LITERARY JOURNAL
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In truth, do we not find traces of ourselves in all things? We collect and are collected. We photograph, we document, Mostly… we try to remember. We like to believe that you are not unlike me. Some of us may even take delight in the belief that we, a celluloid world, are forever coated with a thin translucent film of stardust. That magic is our inheritance. Radiant knowledge--our legacy. What is film if not energy from light? The transference of a memory projected onto a blank space devoid of image. That out of darkness, light however slight, obscure, dispersed or fragmented has the possibility of connecting us to one another in the bigger picture.
A Reflection on Double-Consciousness
In The Bluest Eye, Toni Morrison tells the story of Pecola, an African-American girl who blames her dark skin color and African features for being mocked and ridiculed by her classmates. Hoping to feel accepted instead, Pecola prays to God to give her blue eyes.
She had lived many lives, and here was the burnt offering of another.
Notre Dame’s lace spire sizzled, crumbled, and fell, and the gigantic hole it created became a cauldron. Flames, golden to orange to red, assaulted Paris’s lavender-tinged sky, and smoke billowed in gray explosions. Silhouetted against glowing cinders, her bell towers stood dignified but unprotected.
A response to Chiharu Shiota's Uncertain Journey
we gathered in the same place to worship night shapes
omitted by all color & time
said the dark was a different country entirely
& our eyes, they were the stones there
“Once you leave the traditional constraints of anatomy behind, the way you deform can become a portrait of character or the inner psyche on a deeper level. This play with the human form marked the beginning of something new.” Renowned Romanian artist Adrian Ghenie is currently presenting two exhibitions at the Albertina and the Dresden Kupferstich-Kabinett. Working with a variety of materials and subjects, Ghenie explores the personal, the political, and the art historical, fusing these discourses into expressive abstract and figurative works of art across multiple mediums.
Green Still Life, was made in İstanbul, a reflection of green gardens and forests. I used a monotone, light and dark green. The arts and humanities are essential to the human experience, as they provide a way for us to express ourselves, connect with others, and understand the world around us. They also play a vital role in economic development and social cohesion.
An environmental disaster was unfolding as I was working on this painting. It was the collapse of the Francis Scott Key Bridge in Baltimore, Maryland, in March 2024. I had been listening to news reports about the crisis, and it began to subconsciously influence the way I was completing this painting.
Lacuna was the second piece of art I started after ending a decades long ‘separation agreement’ with art, and the first I completed. The word lacuna can mean a hiatus, a gap, a hole, an absence, a chasm, etc., and titling the piece Lacuna, in part, refers to the long span of time where I wasn't sure I would ever return to art - yet a vital period that has marked and deepened my life and my understanding of what my art, and what art as a whole, is about.
For me, making art is the way I understand the world we’re living in and my place in it. The value of art to all of us, in the making or the appreciation of it, is incalculable. The Creative Process celebrates this. I’m particularly interested in the meeting point of art and science, fiction and truth; when art sits at these intersections I believe it can reveal new truths to us, take us to places we could not have otherwise gone. For this reason The interdisciplinary approach taken by The Creative Process is so important.
I chose to draw friends hugging or simply being with each other where it is intimate - not romantic...but intimate still. The image with two women was based on the grief I was (and still am) going through when my closest friend of 46 died suddenly. Her loss left a huge hole in my life. The loss of friendship is not talked about enough. For me...I believe that continuing to focus on the human figure in all its beautiful forms is a vital way to celebrate the arts. Because without the human interaction in the arts and the contributions we make in the arts then our world would be flat and colorless.
This work represents movement and grace. I used oil to capture the delicacy and strength of nature, fusing realism and minimalism with a touch of oriental art. When looking at it, you will feel a deep tranquility and awe at the subtle beauty. It is a piece that will bring a serene and contemplative energy to any space, inviting the viewer to immerse themselves in a moment of peace.
My work is all about capturing the raw essence of social injustices and struggles, shedding light on significant occurrences that shape our world. Through my art, I strive to be a voice for change, advocating for love, tolerance, and understanding across all boundaries of race, culture, and beliefs. This drive to create impactful art stems from a deep-rooted passion to inspire positive transformations in society, sparking conversations and actions that lead to a more empathetic and harmonious world.
My inspiration comes from my everyday life. How can I use normal things to transform them into something else, something more. Drawing allows me to explore this domestic world wherever I live; I need to carry some pencils and paper. I like drawing simplicity and immediacy. Sometimes, one of your drawings attempts to cross a line, and this normality becomes something different, something that can grab people's attention. Then, this familiar world becomes something magical.
“Even the Poles Move” is an ongoing body of work that explores the emotional and spiritual reactions to change through the physics of magnetism. The title references how something as seemingly stable as Earth’s magnetic North and South poles have radically changed positions over time.
My inspiration for my art is my body and how she experiences living in between cultures.
Give me a fury,
with rusted metal whiskers
and nostrils heaving flame,
something nether-worldly and gnarled.
A beast, that dare I give up on the world,
stares from the darkened corner
and considers eating me
if I do.
My work is always linked to nature, poetry, childhood and surrealist travel. Work must always be connected to nature. A renaissance where man and nature must coexist and live together. An inspiring nature must be the driving force.
I wanted to explore the tension between form and abstraction. The profile of the figure emerged naturally as I layered textures and colors, almost like it was waiting to be uncovered. The swirling blues are meant to feel alive, like waves or currents, capturing a sense of movement and transformation.
I make art to see what the world might look like in art. I am a New York-based artist. I received a Bachelor of Arts degree from Bard College and an M.F.A. from Yale University. I have exhibited in numerous exhibitions and have worked in various public and private collections, including the permanent collection of The Metropolitan Museum of Art. I live with my family in Brooklyn, New York.
The star opens a door in the sky
and leaves. The door dissolves.
The last train whistles a ditty
the lical assassin sings before his acts,
a song he learnt from his mother.
I am interested in creating a rich layering of sources: a poetic language where systems of generation and communication are fused to form new languages, continuing to use the tools of the mixed media formats of painting, photography and installation. I am looking to reveal the fractal mirroring of roots, veins, minerals and bone, incorporating multiple layers to reveal the interplay between various life forms representing the cycles of life, death, and rebirth in both our physical and metaphysical worlds.
My work refers to the history of the luminous surface and investigates what it means today, especially since the backlit screen dominates our vision. My attention is on the transformation of common materials by using light and color. I imagine many of the other creatives on this platform have considered the importance of transformation.
After a few years, a seed and then a seedling and finally a sapling rose from Alice’s ashes. I waited each year for the bud to come and then bloom. And it was not a flame tree, with its fiery leaves, but a cherry tree, small with red twigs and in the summer cherries the red of toy soldiers and flowers of white. I ate a cherry each year and each year it was sour and pulpy, its skin hard and thin. Each year I planted one in our backyard which was wild with blueberry bushes and pale blue forget-me-nots overgrown and tangled. We had stopped tending the garden. To tend was to care and mother preferred the lawn unruly, the flowers blown.
We are all creations, human be--ings who are connected to one another and in tune with the Universe. Uni--Verse. One Voice. We mirror one another and our reflections enable us to see who we are to ourselves as well as one another. Our creative expressions, also mirrors;, enable us to empathize to better understand ourselves and the world around us.
In the beginning was the word and it was borne on the breath of Spirit. Just how that spark of spirit is born within us, how it is nurtured by our impressions, sculpted into phrases, how it is shaped-- its rhythm and language-- remains unknown. At what moment does it slip from our lips, does it flow as a river from our hearts, ink from our minds. How exactly does it unfold on that brilliant horizon, that full moon of revelation.
Art helps me love people. Everyone looks beautiful when they are dancing. The process of creating art invites one to explore themselves, their values, instincts, and aesthetics and develop sensitivity as to how we interact with the world around us. Viewing art invites audiences to be curious about other perspectives. Through art, we can better understand how and why people do what they do. It develops our sensitivity to subtext and context. Art enhances empathy for ourselves and each other.
The Creative Process resonates with me because it aligns with the values of preserving and celebrating the richness of human creativity and culture. By exploring the arts and humanities, we can foster deeper connections between people and communities, encouraging shared experiences and dialogue across cultures and generations.
We slip behind projections of prophecies
I tell her could mean nothing. We have
tendered a raging maw with hysterical
sleep. Tonight will be of modest dreams.
S.A. Aguillón-Mata is a Mexican-American author and artist inspired by tradition, circumstance, and whim. He has published the fiction and prose volumes Quién escribe (Paisajista) (IZC, 2004), Tratado (De una zona privada) (Pictographia, 2014), and Envés (UANL, 2016). His work also features in numerous anthologies, compilations, and literary magazines, both printed and web-based, in Mexico and the USA. He has both curated and participated in contemporary art shows in Cincinnati, OH, where he resides.
The arts are fundamental to humanity’s existence and survival on the planet because, in addition to showcasing creations and teaching techniques on how to create, they broaden human perception and thought. Through techniques and methods of thought, one can better perceive the directions of the world and gain an idea of how to act or anticipate situations with previous experiences from other ancient but similar eras. One can also increasingly explore the techniques of effects and technology, which are increasingly present in the arts and in humanity’s daily life.
In my reality, Nature is the purest expression of God (not in a religious way). As we are an integral part of Nature, it acts as a mirror to our inner world, revealing at every moment its profound intelligence, beauty, and infinite mystery. Nature teaches us how to dance with life, embrace uncertainty, and move gracefully within the chaos of change.
Arts, culture, and the creative process help us connect with each other and share how we experience the world. It’s a way to challenge ideas and welcome differences.
The arts and The Creative Process are important because they allow us to connect. Art is a byproduct of the artist connecting with something bigger than themselves. In my case, I connect with nature, and the outcome is a painting. If the connection is complete, then the resulting picture contains a record of that, and a discerning viewer will perceive that and make yet another connection, completing the cycle. Art is a shared energy, and the artist is a conduit.
In light of our world's exponential growth through AI and technology in general, the arts and humanities have never been more critical to our continued growth as a species. Without the arts and humanities to bring us into stillness and contemplation, we would be left with purely materialistic, physicalist views and miss out on the truth of our oneness.
Rosemary Burn is a British figurative painter based in the UK. Her works have been exhibited widely in Italy, Germany, the United States, and the United Kingdom and are held in several notable collections.
On a physical level, we have the ability to influence only as long as we are alive.
We are alive as long as we are in an environment that can support our life.
By destroying the environment, which is a necessary condition for our existence, we deprive ourselves of the ability to influence.
My work is driven by spontaneity and intuition and I have to restrain myself sometimes from throwing everything at the painting. However, I also like to paint purely for the act of painting, and the tension I feel between the two is where I need to find the right balance, hence the name of this painting.
My heart is a river And like a river
I cannot enter myself in the same way twice
I carry your river in mine–one heartbeat at a time
The arts possess the unique ability to simultaneously present multiple perspectives that can spark challenges, create community or prompt profound questions. As someone recently observed and shared with me, 'Your work makes visible what we are all feeling.' This encapsulates the power of art and the creative process: to bring to the surface the often-unseen or unresolved dichotomies of the human experience – joy and sorrow, strength and vulnerability, humor and anger, beauty and darkness. I believe as a society, especially in this age of extreme opinions, algorithms and the loss of civil discourse, art can speak to the complexities of our shared experiences.
Creativity is our fundamental, inherent need - it defines us as humans and serves as a unique way of self-expression. We must cherish and nurture this trait as it is essential to our survival as a species. Art is a universal language that eliminates artificial borders between people, offering a powerful tool to address the crucial issues for our civilization in a profoundly unique way. For me, as an artist, it is invaluable to have access to the insights of the leading voices in the creative field, to feel the relevance, and to have the opportunity to share my thoughts. I believe that adding perspectives of young creatives into this platform will not only enhance its reach and add a fresh perspective but also build a bridge to the future. Every child is an artist, free from constraints or prejudices. As a mother of two, I draw immense inspiration and positivity from my children.
I sit here in my little garret, once a servant's quarters, and wonder who served whom
and how, and what thoughts he or she might have had in this space before me.
She is sitting next to me on the carpet in my living room and I tell her I was attracted to her from the moment I heard her sing and I knew together we could make music and love, and in response she shows me the LP in her tote bag, Jazz Raga, where inscribed in the inside cover in blue-ball point pen it says “To Jo Rae- the swingingest lady on air, sincerest Gabor Szabo,” and she tells me, You could be like Szabo, famous and inspired, and I could be Jo Rae, and together we could experience musical nirvana, and she leans forward and her long hair brushes against her cheek and she pushes it back from her face and the gold bangles slide up and down her slim arm, and she says, will you play for me? and I say yes, yes, because I’m thinking I'll do anything, anything, if only she'll let me kiss her, just once, or twice, and she says…
Setting and historical note: The following story takes place in 1st century Rome, during the reign of Gaius Julius Caesar, colloquially known as Caligula. The year is approximately 38 CE.
SCENE I.
NARRATOR: With a swift, anxious tread, comely Drusilla proceeded through the lavish halls and chambers of the new mansion on Palatine Hill. Under other circumstances, she might have been waylaid by any one of the two-score retainers that her brother the emperor routinely kept on hand. Most everyone knew that Gaius Caesar’s second sister was by far the gentlest member of the imperial family. Her sweet and indulgent smile drew petitioners like moths to a flame. But that morning she strode more quickly and frowned more deeply than usual. Even Agrippinilla, with all her quiet authority, struggled a moment to secure the girl’s undivided attention.
I am drawn to The Creative Process because it resonates with my belief that art is both personal expression and an evolving conversation. I believe that images are not merely representations, but catalysts for introspection, provoking reflection and challenging perception. This project feels like a natural extension of that pursuit: an opportunity to share my vision with others who, like me, value the subtleties of individual perception over the noise of passing trends. It might also be interesting to consider how different perspectives shape the narrative of the human experience.
It turned out that she was a relative, a cousin of her reclusive uncle, an intellectual, obsessed with books, whom the Nazis had deported him to a concentration camp. A man of honour, he had been made the heir of his Jewish publisher when the latter’s firm had been ‘Aryanized’, but had neglected to reinstate the owner afterwards. This part of the legend surrounding the company had passed into oblivion however, leaving only his own tale of hardship.
Since I’m demanding honesty from racists, I must confess that part of my Marechera question was projection. I’ve been selfish. I’ve been more grateful for the personal fury of changes that the Fallists churned up and mirrored inside me than for the actual movement itself. Even if I was as presumptuous as Brenda Marechera in her political metaphor, I don’t know if I’d call my leaving Joburg for Cape Town a personal exile. The only other way I can explain it is as a form of masochism.
The light in the window must give you a courage,
lights are not faded away yet, children shine in streets,
the Western wind will color them gold, every mother
feels her child as the rays feel the way out of darkness,
mother’s voice echoes in the dark: Where are you, Lord?
Where is my son? Where is my daughter? Where is their kingdom?!
I am sinking into a lake
So cold, it aches
Whatever I say People hold it against me and my brain
They expect me to say
What they hear
And not something they can't hear.
The dead writes on the dead’s body.
He inks the pilgrimage to find sanctuary
From that dull, dismissive, charcoal night
Toward the afternoons of extravagant delight…
Glacier Bay is surrounded on three sides by a horseshoe-shaped rim of high mountains: Glaciers still form on these mountains and flow slowly down to the new sea. Nowhere else in the world are there so many tidewater glaciers. Nowhere else are the glaciers in such rapid retreat. A warming trend that started at the beginning of this century has made Glacier Bay a master of the ice.
The sound of the ocean, its roar, is the leitmotif of my childhood.
The ocean seethed like molten lead. It could disfigure your heart. In the sand, your feet became roots of water and of iodine, your bones accretions of silicon and salt.
In December of 1944, the German army attacked Allied troops in Bastogne, Belgium, igniting the Battle of the Bulge. My father was a paratrooper with the 82nd Airborne Division. I‘d always assumed he had killed people. He’d never talked about it, and I’d never asked him. I’d never had the nerve.
It was the ancient love for fire seared the hearts of the
first humans—In the middle of kindling they found
each other. Inside a cave was born
all sense of belonging.
The creases on the man’s forehead are shadowed in the firelight but the skin over his cheekbones is smooth, the color of caramel. He begins to speak in the language of his own Berber tribe, sounds rolling up through his throat. He punctuates the end of his sentences sharply and lifts his chin for emphasis. When he leans forward on his cane, his cape flurries, then settles on his shoulders.
Spilling over the ranges near the coast, the sun sets the valley floor awash in gentle morning light. As though roused from slumber by a refreshing splash of cool water, the arid countryside comes alive with a thousand hues.
Spanish poet Federico García Lorca spoke of duende: “A mysterious power which everyone senses and no philosopher explains. There are neither maps nor exercises to help us find the duende. We only know that he burns the blood like a poultice of broken glass.”
The raft hits the first wave hard and straight. We break through that first crucible and power through the V of the second wave. Several 8-foot-high waves curl over our boat; then we hit a wall of whitewater as the bow rises.
I stood at midnight by railroad tracks on the island of Sri Lanka, looking at a sky full of stars. The moon was gone, the darkness so complete I could barely see the outlines of the surrounding forest. Above, pinpricks of light so filled the sky that I felt I could see in three dimensions, into the depth of the cosmos, layer upon layer of stars. A trickle of sweat meandered down my spine and I wondered if it was caused by the tropical heat or the awareness of my utter insignificance.
A Saga of Three Generations of Balkan Woman
Safety was unfortunately transitory. Yugoslavia fell apart in World War II, pulled back together for forty years, then tore itself up in bitter wars at the end of the 20th century. My grandparents and their descendants repeatedly lost everything because of the endless conflicts that just wouldn’t let go of their homelands.
To the old man with the gentle gaze in the corner of the souk in the medina of Fez, Morocco: May a drop of the love with which you serve your spiced coffee to strangers be returned, overflowing, to you.
A white crescent moon passes behind the long slope of Sultan Ahmet’s mosque, glazing ancient Istanbul with silver light. The medieval stone archway in the pine-bowered garden frames the six needle-shaped minarets and twenty-four blue tiled domes like a border in an illuminated manuscript.
A dark silhouette looms ahead in the sea, floating a dozen feet high, undulating. As I coast toward it, I begin to see the creatures within—hundreds of shimmering silver graybar and yellow spottail grunts, moving en mass like an underwater planet. I swim into the cloud, engulfed in tails and beady eyes. Currents of fish stream above, below and beside me as I snicker bubbles out of my dive regulator. Jacques Cousteau called Baja’s Sea of Cortez “The World’s Aquarium.” In Cabo Pulmo, the aquarium is interactive.
José Luis keeps pulling us to the dance floor. He is vibrant, joyful, smart and funny, wrinkled around the eyes and missing a tooth or two. He looks older than 66, but he’s undeniably younger than his years—and at last, at last, so are we.
You were mumbling when I sidled up next to you along the river. Bodies shrouded in white cloth and draped in marigolds were dipped three times into the holy water, then cremated, thus releasing the individual’s spiritual essence from its physical form, and allowing it to be reborn.
As a young man, Paul Cézanne painted directly upon the walls of the oval-shaped salon in Jas de Bouffan, the house where he grew up in Aix-en-Provence, between tall windows, allegories of the four seasons, landscapes of Aix, to gain the attention of his father. This was written on my visit there, after a series of slides were projected upon the walls.
I put my head down and scribble into my notepad, hoping no one can tell that I’m rattled. As part of my story, I’m supposed to ride with Mariam and the team on the same highway where she was attacked. But after hearing about her assault, combined with the Taliban having launched their spring offensive, I’m losing confidence.
We drove to Nyamata, the church where ten thousand Tutsi were murdered in the place they had gone to seek protection. The below-ground crypts were stacked top to bottom, end to end with bones. Upstairs, the clothes the victims were wearing were stacked limply on the pews. On the side of the church was a statue of Mary, looking helplessly down from her perch.
I have seen Ryoanji in spring, when the cherry trees bloomed, and in fall, when their branches were bare; in winter, when snow covered the moss, and in summer, when cicadas buzzed beyond the wall. I have been there among giggling teenagers and gaping farmers, bemused Westerners and beatific monks. By now it has become a part of me—and it still eludes me.
There are moments on our journeys when we meet a person—alive or long vanished from the earth—and time and distance morph, bringing characters of place and past close enough to look us in the eye, and touch us with fingers that pulse with life, as when I ‘met’ Paul Cézanne in Aix-en-Provence.
Nothing makes the sun come out quicker than a night full of tales, and I know you are waiting for it--just like we are. Perhaps it is now time to finally tell our story as we want, and as we lived together before, not as they tell it. Now, after everyone is gone, leaving us here with you, we can tell it.
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus, I would have loved to have a baby like the Virgin Mary who conceived him with the Holy Spirit, without carnal contact with a man…
“Only connect,” E.M. Forester famously advised novelists—and this is the governing principle of the International Writing Program, which brings the writers of the world to the University of Iowa for three-month residencies. In retrospect, the IWP, as it is known, was a natural outgrowth of the Writers’ Workshop, and yet at the time it seemed, in the words of its co-founder, Paul Engle, “the craziest idea” he had ever heard.
This story is from the chapter, The Storykeeper, which is about the documentary film made by Erin Byrne and Rogier Van Beeck Calkoen. René Psarolis was seven years old in 1944, in Nazi-occupied Paris, when a USAF B-17 bomber crashed in his neighborhood. What René ultimately did shows how we can take the stories that touch us and offer them to the world in a way that unleashes the power of the universe.
Film Director
Art is never enough. The problem is now and it’s still not solved, but we don’t need to be scary or mean. You can engage people gently. Art, of course, is a way to get people engaged and to touch people.
I’m six years old in ballet class in Geneva, breaking my point shoes.
The Russian master ingrains in me the correlation between pleasure and pain.
I now know the two centers sit next to each other in the brain.
I’m seven years old, in the Swiss Alps, making snowmen, skiing, hunting for Easter eggs.
My mother laughs then says, your father can’t be left alone.
My mother sacrificed so much.
I try to mend fractured relations,
let light flicker into the sheltered past.
We packed whole lives into bundles
in search of what chooses us,
what wants to come back to the surface,
what needs to be said.
My father was a god, though he looked like any other old man. He had a thick white beard, and a bald head with tufts of hair above his ears. He had no wrinkles. His ribs showed. His gait was slow, shuffling.
It is so bitter that I have begun to ignore the darkness. The metaphor which has played the role of almost an eternity for my mortality. I cannot even see, rather sense, darkness anymore. It is just my breathing which has kept me bothering about gazillion useless yet valuable issues. I have shared this plenty of times before, not with you, not with anyone else but, with him that I don’t want to breathe anymore.
International Writing Program at University of Iowa
The down-home Iowa people I knew always thought proudly of Paul Engle and loved and considered him as the friendly, local farm boy from Cedar Rapids who had made good and had become a kind of legend in his own day, though not just anyone from there could say exactly what he had done other than become an outstanding and beloved American poet and true patriot.
In the dark political times I found the work and existence of the International Writing Program a speaking metaphor of resistance. While the US pulled itself out of UNESCO, IWP was celebrating international voices, poetry, music, film, art and literature. The idea of paying respect to the world literature is fascinating in itself but it becomes more meaningful when it has certain associations, connections and memories to offer. Hence, in my mind, whenever I try to relive my experience in Iowa as Fall Resident, I have bulk of memories to relish and share.
I’m youngest son, a poor man; nobody marries a poor man. But then, one Saturday I am fainting on the roadside and waking to see the fat lady’s servant Melli-ann holding a yellow umbrella over my head…
Remember that they met on a dance floor at the Sheraton, and how different they were, who could imagine that they would take the high road together for any length of time. It was by chance—like most of the significant events in our lives…
Today everybody can play the guitar, everybody can buy a gun.
We expect a better future from ourselves.
When I don't have a friend, I make a friend of attachment.
I turn my eyes to heaven and see a flock of vultures flying eastward.
French/Polish Artist and Designer
The starting point for Jaga’s works is photographic media: a photo found on the internet, in an archive, taken by herself or a photographer; a photo cut out and digitally manipulated, rasterized to make it barely recognizable. Jaga often mixes techniques, combining screen-printing with painting and drawing. She prints on canvas, paper, fabric, glass and wood.
Painter · Videographer
The questions of movement and fiction are at the heart of my practice. Throughout my projects, I wonder about the very technique of animation, going from experimental video to creating complex stories.
JONATHAN YEO
What are you trying to do with a portrait? On a basic level, you're trying to communicate something about the essence of who someone is. You're trying to figure out who they are, not necessarily who they present themselves as. The two things can quite often be different. You're trying to find ways of showing that through their face, their posture, or any other context. My instinct is always to try to reduce down to the essential elements. We read faces. It's obviously very, very deep in our DNA, really our survival instinct. We are programmed to read faces in a very fine-tuned way.
Pregnant with my master who lies sweating in my cocoon
The details of rain when it wails on tired faces take me
To him. . . the distant one who is united with me
Broken as I am. . . Tired as I am. . . Lonely as I am
And so it hovers there like Man Ray’s lips, red over the ancient roofs of the city. Wide and calm and mysterious. We pass people dancing and singing drunkenly in the street, but even holding hands is too much for us. We huddle in the doorway waiting for the rain to pass. It is a cliché moment, one set up by God to tempt us. This is your cue to kiss me if you had a clue and weren’t so polite, and so I die inside waiting and waiting for something that never comes.
I hear the slamming of a door, bolted shut, which belongs to a house with a weather-beaten chimney. On the street tinkles the sour moaning of the windows’ metal bars. Street lamps are shining in a depressive state. A seventy-two-year-old helpless loner walks past me.
Tony is from Liverpool: he is a boxer, and an actor, and of formidable size. I hardly know him but he takes me to the Turkish Baths on East 12th Street. He throws me in the cold water, then the hot, then the ice.
Andreas* is in Greece. I meet him on his yacht, the 218 foot Rosenkavalier, built in 1929. He is one of nine children born to a shepherd. He made his fortune in donuts, and later cream-filled pastry puffs. “Come,” he says, “Sail with me. I will give you your own suite. You can do your work on the aft deck.”
I was at a job interview the other day &
they asked if I wasn’t doing what I was doing what
I would like to do &
I told them be a mermaid &
they looked up at me like, what the—? &
“URGENT!” Giovanni’s text said, “Call now,” and the list of catastrophic fears that a person lists went through my mind. He picked up right away: what took you so long, been trying to call for hours, ovens on super sale, you want one, tell me pronto, before someone else takes them, only two left, OK got one in my hands RIGHT NOW, store is closing RIGHT NOW.
I remember our hotel & its smell of rattan & sand & rain
I remember seashells on shelves & mantles
& that big piece of driftwood in the darkened sitting room
No one ever sat in there
I remember American History Class in eighth or ninth grade
I remember the boy in front of me much better. (He sat near the front.)
When my grandfather died of diabetes, I was just glad I got to leave camp early. I’d tired of swimming in the brown water of the lake. There were no bathrooms at the camp and the latrine smelled of urine. I had to pee into a hole in the dirt with flies flying all around me.
“Once you leave the traditional constraints of anatomy behind, the way you deform can become a portrait of character or the inner psyche on a deeper level. This play with the human form marked the beginning of something new.” Renowned Romanian artist Adrian Ghenie is currently presenting two exhibitions at the Albertina and the Dresden Kupferstich-Kabinett. Working with a variety of materials and subjects, Ghenie explores the personal, the political, and the art historical, fusing these discourses into expressive abstract and figurative works of art across multiple mediums.
Artist
What are you trying to do with a portrait? On a basic level, you're trying to communicate something about the essence of who someone is. You're trying to figure out who they are, not necessarily who they present themselves as. The two things can quite often be different. You're trying to find ways of showing that through their face, their posture, or any other context. My instinct is always to try to reduce down to the essential elements. We read faces. It's obviously very, very deep in our DNA, really our survival instinct. We are programmed to read faces in a very fine-tuned way.
The Soul Trembles
The exhibition at the Grand Palais offers visitors a poetic immersion into her unique universe, where threads weave stories of human connection and the ephemeral nature of life. The visitor is taken on a journey into an ephemeral world where they are posed fundamental questions about life and death. The threads you follow are up to you, and each visitor must answer that question for themselves. Where are we going? Are you ready for the journey? What is a soul? What do you believe? Why did you go on this journey? What gives your life meaning?
Can silence be painted? How can artists capture interior states, solitude, and the passing of time? How are the homes we live in a reflection of the people who inhabit them? How can we read a painting to piece together the life of the artist?
Author · Executive Producer · Showrunner
The Sandman American Gods · Good Omens · Coraline
Neil Gaiman is the #1 New York Times bestselling author of more than twenty books, including The Sandman, American Gods, Good Omens, Stardust, Coraline, Norse Mythology, Neverwhere, and The Graveyard Book. He’s adapted many of his books for television and film. Among his numerous literary awards are the Newbery and Carnegie medals, and the Hugo, Nebula, World Fantasy, and Will Eisner awards. He is a Global Goodwill Ambassador for United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees (UNHCR). In this episode, Gaiman reads his poems “A Writer’s Prayer” and “These Are Not Our Faces”.
Artist · Interviewer · Creative Educator
Founder of The Creative Process international educational initiative, podcast, and traveling exhibition
Her varied work sees her leading workshops and mentoring students around creativity, critical thinking, environmental ethics, arts and humanities disciplines. Her work appears in public and private collections, including the U.S. Library of Congress, Dublin Writers Museum, Office of Public Works, and other museums and culture centers. She has received awards and honors, including the Prix de Peinture from the Salon d’Automne and exhibited in the Grand Palais. Her paintings of Francis Bacon have won prizes and were exhibited in Paris and Brussels for Bacon’s centenary. As a writer and interviewer, she contributes to various national publications. Funk served on the National Advisory Council of the American Writers Museum and serves on the advisory board of the European Conference for the Humanities.
U.S. Poet Laureate · Host of The Slowdown podcast
This poem was written when I was having a real moment of reckoning, not that I hadn't had it earlier, but where I was doing some deep reading about the climate crisis and really reckoning with myself, with where we were and what was happening, what the truth was. And I felt like it was so easy to slip down into a darkness, into a sort of numbness, and I didn't think that that numbness and darkness could be useful.
I still have problems today. Some people call it stage fright. I don't know what it is, but I'm always right before a concert thinking, Why am I doing this? I should be doing this. I should be doing that. Why am I here? What am I going to do? And I walk up to the microphone, I'm still thinking this, and I start playing. And I'm still thinking, What am I doing here? Why, why, why? All the questions of how I'm going to sustain playing for 45 minutes or an hour, and I'm still playing and playing. And then all of a sudden I go, Well, Mr. Landry, you've got people sitting in the audience. You're getting paid for this. So enjoy yourself. So the next thing I know, the concert is over, and I don't know where I've been.
T.S. Eliot Award-winning Poet, Novelist & Musician, Lead vocalist of The Spasm Band
Author of Sonnets for Albert
The life of Caribbean people is not really documented. So this idea of Caribbean life being fragmented is something that I've had in my mind for a long time. So when I came to write this collection for my father, I realized that it was the same process and what I had were fragments, especially with him, because he wasn't around in a physical sense all the time. So all I had were little photographs, scattered memories, and remembrances. They're little parts of his life and parts of my experience with him... I never disliked my father. I always loved him and always was fascinated and captivated by him.
Einstein on the Beach, it's a masterpiece. America, in 1976, was to be celebrating its 200th year of existence, and Michel Guy, the French Minister of Culture, came to New York to offer a commission to Philip Glass and Robert Wilson to write an opera. This was the gift that France would give for America's two-hundredth anniversary. That was the first time I met Robert Wilson.
I still have problems today. Some people call it stage fright. I don't know what it is, but I'm always right before a concert thinking, Why am I doing this? I should be doing this. I should be doing that. Why am I here? What am I going to do? And I walk up to the microphone, I'm still thinking this, and I start playing. And I'm still thinking, What am I doing here? Why, why, why? All the questions of how I'm going to sustain playing for 45 minutes or an hour, and I'm still playing and playing. And then all of a sudden I go, Well, Mr. Landry, you've got people sitting in the audience. You're getting paid for this. So enjoy yourself. So the next thing I know, the concert is over, and I don't know where I've been.
Explorer, Presenter, Author of Into The Planet: My Life as a Cave Diver
She is a veteran of over thirty years of filming, photography, and exploration on projects in submerged caves around the world. She has made TV series, consulted on movies, written several books and is a frequent corporate keynote speaker. Jill is the first Explorer in Residence for the Royal Canadian Geographical Society, recipient of Canada’s prestigious Polar Medal and is a Fellow of the International Scuba Divers Hall of Fame. In recognition of her lifetime achievement, Jill was awarded the Sir Christopher Ondaatje Medal for Exploration from the RCGS and the William Beebe Award from the Explorers Club.
Journalist, Essayist, Author of A Hard Place to Leave: Stories from a Restless Life
100 Places in France Every Woman Should Go
I started looking over the stories that I had done. I would say the majority of the essays were not really about travel. They were more about aging and marriage and memory and all of those things, but I did find in the travel essays those kernels of things that I wanted to explore - bigger kernels of things that were sort of scratching at me from the inside like a piece of sand in my pocket that was irritating me and that I wanted to explore. What I found was that the theme of coming and going, the theme of arrivals and departures, the theme of entrances and exits, and the theme of home and away seemed to repeat itself. I felt that whenever I was somewhere, there was always a tide home. And when I was home, there was always the urge for going. And so I just weeded out and weeded out and really wanted to keep this theme of home and away.
Artist · Interviewer · Creative Educator
Founder of The Creative Process international educational initiative, podcast, and traveling exhibition
Her varied work sees her leading workshops and mentoring students around creativity, critical thinking, environmental ethics, arts and humanities disciplines. Her work appears in public and private collections, including the U.S. Library of Congress, Dublin Writers Museum, Office of Public Works, and other museums and culture centers. She has received awards and honors, including the Prix de Peinture from the Salon d’Automne and exhibited in the Grand Palais. Her paintings of Francis Bacon have won prizes and were exhibited in Paris and Brussels for Bacon’s centenary. As a writer and interviewer, she contributes to various national publications. Funk served on the National Advisory Council of the American Writers Museum and serves on the advisory board of the European Conference for the Humanities.
Ecologist, Founding President of Safina Center
NYTimes Bestselling Author of Becoming Wild · Song for the Blue Ocean · Beyond Words: What Animals Think and Feel
So we tend to take living for granted. I think that might be the biggest limitation of human intelligence is to not understand with awe and reverence and love that we live in a miracle that we are part of and that we have the ability to either nurture or destroy. The living world is enormously enriching to human life. I just loved animals. They're always just totally fascinating. They're not here for us. They're just here like we're just here. They are of this world as much as we are of this world. They really have the same claim to life and death and the circle of being.
Novelist, Poet & Activist
People who take care of sick people and AIDS and teachers and garbage collectors and people who work in daycare…all the things that have to happen in society we pay shit for. We pay an enormous amount of money to people who can throw a ball through a hoop. We pay an enormous amount of hedge fund people. All the people who take over corporations go in and destroy get immensely rich while the people who do what we actually need doing, what we must have to survive, the people who grow food, the independent farmers that used to exist…
Poet
It's all-inclusive – poetry– and everything is poetry in a certain way, and poetic measure is like what we're composed of. It's what we are. I mean, we're poetry.
Alice Fulton’s books include Barely Composed, a poetry collection; The Nightingales Of Troy, linked stories; and Cascade Experiment: Selected Poems. Her book Felt received the Bobbitt Prize from the Library of Congress, awarded to the best book of poems published within a two-year period. She has received an American Academy of Arts and Letters Award in Literature and fellowships from the MacArthur Foundation, National Endowment for the Arts, Guggenheim Foundation, and Ingram Merrill Foundation. Her other books include Sensual Math, Powers Of Congress, Palladium, Dance Script With Electric Ballerina, and an essay collection, Feeling As A Foreign Language. She lives in Ithaca, NY.
Award-winning Memoirist & Poet
The Magical Language of Others · A Lesser Love
I had delayed speech, and I had quite a bit of trouble with speaking. I think I must have been five before I was uttering some of my first words and trying to articulate. Simple communication was very difficult for me and my family, especially in a family where we were speaking several languages. They hoped to instill English. It’s the language of survival. There was a lot of frustration and fear in my relationship to language, and the relationship these languages had to each other, that was something I felt very sensitive to since I was young. Since before I could speak.
An extended creative essay for The Creative Process and One Planet podcast
Growing up in Zimbabwe to British parents, Doris Lessing often imagined herself into the landscape of modern England. In it, she saw the possibility of freedom, the horizon of an emergent literary life, and the promise of a prodigal return to the homeland.
The real issue with the island was his wife. She had never known it as well, perhaps not appreciated it as much either. She was a bit slower now, her memory was no longer what it once was. As much as it pained him to admit it, he knew that this could be their last trip.
In my dreams there are no clocks, only shadows and cries of love, and arguments which end in lovemaking. In my dreams there are no mornings, only nights and late afternoons…
Nino Sarabutra · Artist
There is a proverb from the North Eastern region of Thailand where I come from that says ‘Death follows you every step. Until waking up in the morning and seeing each other’s face, it’s uncertain we are still alive’. It reminds people to be aware of the present. To be thoughtful about their actions and responsible for what they are doing at every moment.
Artist
My two most recent installations, Driven From Their Homes and Arrival: The Rohingya, are anti-war travels and stories and a call to mercy.
He heard the woman yelling his sister’s name. The yelling was shrill. The next thing he knew, his mother was rushing him out into the fenced backyard.
Dance Video
One thing the crisis has made us all appreciate more is the importance of the arts. I’m so honored to be a small part of this great big community whose whole purpose is to encourage us to feel, to think…and to love.
Etiuda Wspomnienia Klaudia Folga
from our Collaborators at Łódź Film School
You are an old fashioned person. You believe in keeping things and not forgetting the old ways. You are honest. You always said exactly what is on your mind. At a time when being an immigrant and being a woman wasn’t easy, you became a businesswoman. You didn’t succeed by making yourself invisible, you spoke out and spoke up. You are a spontanous speechwriter, never at a loss for words - everyone knows this about you.
In the fading twilight,
Everything in the world becomes one and the same,
Silhouettes of the same shade
In her face, he sees the moon, serene and still. Inching closer, Lucas carefully pulls their covers up around her shoulders, so her sleep turns sweeter, as morning blooms.
Come, have a seat!
Would you like to sip from the glass I just have had drank water?
Or shall we begin without it?
In my dreams I became mad too many times,
Interview with Mariam Al-Ali
When one thinks of calligraphy, the first words that come in mind are preciseness, distinctness, measure, and beauty.
At the crossroads of Africa, Europe and the Middle-East, Morocco’s musical culture is at the image of the country’s ethnical diversity. In his Tableau de la musique marocaine, Alexis Chottin reminds us of Morocco’s unique spot as both a “member of the Muslim family” and Northern-African country. As such, its musical culture bears witness to its complex history of slavery, racism and Islamic spirituality, interwined in Gnawa culture.
As the entire globe experiences the difficulties and dangers of Covid-19, many areas of life are being affected. Not only have restaurants and malls closed to promote social distancing and prevent further spread of the virus, art galleries, museums, and artist all around the world are struggling to show their work.
I open John Ruskin’s “Work” which he delivered at the Working Men’s Institute at Campbell. I try to tempt myself with the deception that I would enjoy preparing for this class as the topic of class disparity is close to my heart.
Time is one of the elements that everybody in the world experiences. As we encounter time in the present, this moment instantly becomes the past and the future becomes the present. However, according to the spacetime continuum, time is relative to space on a constant world line.
During this quarantine period, the world seems extra surreal. The outside is unsafe, close contact with other human beings are discouraged and the digital world is taking over our lives more distinctly than ever. All of these resulted in forming hyper realistic but highly stressful and disruptive dreams.
For me, I like that I can create images that connect with other people as well as educate them on the forgotten history of American History. I focus on Black history and the Black experience because that is the history I grew up with but as I got old I realized that others around me had no idea what I was talking about.
Artist
Art will remain important after the era of transition to digital sources. Again, the price will be created by the hands of art.
Artist
Art and the creative process allowed me to return to a deeper identity than the one I had built for myself to survive. In doing so, I was able to discover the energy that inhabited me beyond the vicissitudes of life.
I believe deeply in art as a tool of transformation, both individually and socially. Contemporary artistic practices enable dialogue with issues that affect all of us as inhabitants of the same world, affected and affecting by the same imaginaries, symbols and dreams.
Artist
Yumiko Ono’s theme is utopia/utopian architecture, an ideal world that exists in imagination.
Painter · Engraver
It is the desire to express my emotions through my works that makes me the creator that I am. For this I left Japan to fully live my passion: creation.
I am artist because I can not not other things. My artwork is the fruit and the result of an art research. I try to give to see what can be in the order of feminine.
Artist
My country is a country of legend
It’s the land of wind, sand and sun
This is the region of Sistan and Baluchistan
The women of my land are beautiful, kind
What do we know about Mary Shelley? Do we know that she was nineteen years when she wrote Frankenstein novel?
You are covered in a thin layer of sleep
At any minute the eyes in your skull may open
In the asphalt-paved night you open a door for us
I am pregnant with myself
Pregnant with my master who lies sweating in my cocoon
The details of rain when it wails on tired faces take me
The ocean seethed like molten lead. It could disfigure your heart.
It is so bitter that I have begun to ignore the darkness. The metaphor which has played the role of almost an eternity for my mortality. I cannot even see, rather sense, darkness anymore.
An investigation on time
As we move forward, time in a physical sense changes with us, but our mind can still be trapped within a certain time.
When I’m painting I don’t think about gender. When I’m doing artwork, it’s about the only time I get to forget that I’m a woman, that I’m Asian, and I belong to a certain social class. These things that define me in my waking life disappear when I’m painting.
The first time I saw her she was in a window. Under her left breast was taped a cardboard sign: Love, For a Limited Time Only. That’s what caught my eye, the sign, not her breasts, though those were nice too. I stared at the sign a moment, reading it over like a poem, to reveal its secret meaning.
If someone asked Mother what she thought Daughter would grow up to be, she wouldn’t in a million years have guessed this.
And when this will be solved in a believable and natural way, it will create new forms of narratives, unlike anything we’ve ever seen before.
The woman sits on a bench overlooking the sea. Below, the child runs along the deserted beach, arms outstretched…
When she was young it was the sick room, post-war green painted walls you could chalk on, where you were quarantined if ill. She’d sit at the open window singing to the house next door – she loved folk tales.
‘Do you know where dead birds are?’ the child asked the stone, because no one could answer her question.
Almost all the passengers / stare at their cellphones / solemnly attentive / to kindling screens
Drive the brain into books like nails
Fix the heart to the Muse's chest
Golden sepia shades
goodbye trains leaving my thoughts
I meet people
I observe their shoes.
They say a lot.
None. No one is not connected to someone else in the city who was hurt that night or dead. It is
the no-degrees of separation or escape. Or times we’ve been borne to. Everyone knows someone
The shiny red leather. The silky red ribbons. The silver toe and heel taps. At school she pictured herself wearing the shoes and imagined how they would sound on the old wooden floor of her dancing class.
That’s how the child fed the stone to let it live.
I was a very active child. My mom said that I started walking very early when I was young. I loved to go to long hiking with my father and dogs. I remember that I just loved being physically active.
She scrambles over rocks to where a solitary rowan survives – a rowan, shaped by the wind, spindly, struggling. She runs her hand down its smooth silvery bark, ties red thread to its branches and, between arriving and leaving, stops for a moment.
She opens the door to the library and walks barefoot, following the arrows marking the way; turn right, turn left, straight ahead. Row after row of memories, stacked, classified, catalogued, labelled – shelved. Her fingers, playing moments like a harp, release the fragrance of sweet peas, damask roses. She has brought ribbons with her.
I favor the left side a smidge.
I read with my left eye, write with my left hand,
So that my friends / might love me more / perhaps I should stop / writing about them
The Creative Process is collaborating with film schools and universities on intensive workshops and 4th-year courses combining film and literature. Multi-disciplinary artist Bronka Nowicka is directing one such program at Łódź Film School, and we are honored to showcase the imaginative works of their students and faculty.
I am in love / Without you / Infatuated with a thought / Born and raised within fiction / I am in love with a story
Intimacy requires time and closeness. Intimacy emerges when we dare to surrender to ourselves and each other with no need to defend or judge.
The Creative Process is collaborating with film schools and universities on intensive workshops and 4th-year courses combining film and literature. Multi-disciplinary artist Bronka Nowicka is directing one such program at Łódź Film School, and we are honored to showcase the imaginative works of their students and faculty.
When my grandfather died of diabetes, I was just glad I got to leave camp early. I’d tired of swimming in the brown water of the lake. There were no bathrooms at the camp and the latrine smelled of urine. I had to pee into a hole in the dirt with flies flying all around me.
They made love in the dunes by the old Air Force base—gone the war games there, gone the men who played them. Miles of high dunes, as in old films where some sunburnt Brit garbed in white has come to set things straight.
For years the young man had passed them—she had, too—he in his gray car, she in her red. They met one night at a blues bar, had their first date on a weekday.
Was it hard to get the day off? he asked.
Don’t have it off. Had to switch shifts.
What’d you tell them?
She looked at him.
I told them I ached. That knocked him back, & for a long time he was mute as they walked those dunes, turned once in a while to see their tracks. They chose a smooth dune to spread their quilt on.
This sea’s too blue, she said, as they laid out their food, poured the red wine, leaned back.
This is an old bomb range, you know, he said. They’ve cleaned it up, but I bet if we looked hard we could find some shells.
So how would the headline read, she asked: “Two Felled by Sheathed Shells at the Seashore?” I’ll pass. But I guess if you make a pass at me…
Late that day he said You know, I could just stay, end my life right here, let gulls pick me clean, let sand blow past my bones for years, and I’d be gone—all of me, gone. I mean, don’t you just feel it? The thrill of it?
Oh, for Christ’s sake, she said. I’m late for work.
They picked up their things, found their tracks, walked back to the car.
–
OTHER VOICES
The traveling exhibitions are augmented by projection elements (a variety of interviews, stories, poems, artworks, essays, creative insights, short films and dance) by contributors from over 50 countries, alongside documentation of art and educational initiatives The Creative Process is involved in. Below is a brief selection.
IN CONVERSATION
I have been trying over the past twenty years to balance the serious and disturbing information I absorb at my job about human suffering, the earth's failing environment, and the atrocities of unnecessary wars, in a way that allows me to also, sometimes, feel joy.
I think what is going on now is we are being forced to recognize that this paradigmatic Western civilization, what we are part of, that we have been indoctrinated with, has fundamental flaws. And the most fundamental flaw is this automatic assumption that everything coming from the West always came from the West, had no other origins, whereas it’s almost the opposite.
The English way of saying, well, you meet a new person and what was he like? "What was he like?" is a very strange thing to say. It's saying: don't tell me how he was. Tell me what he resembles. Isn't that weird? It says: tell me a story.
PURE IMAGINATION PROGRAM for YOUNG WRITERS
OUR VOICES, OUR STORIES, OUR LIVES
"IMAGINATION is not only the uniquely human capacity to envision that which is not, and, therefore,
the foundation of all invention and innovation. In its arguably most transformative and revelatory capacity,
it is the power that enables us to empathize with humans whose experiences we have never shared." –J.K. ROWLING
It is for the profound originality of this approach that the Panthéon-Sorbonne University is pleased to showcase the inaugural exhibition.