I saw it off my brother's blog, whom I, incidentally, think is terribly gifted in a gut-wrenching way. Gut-wrenching because I feel those who are in the "creative" arts bear a weight that most typically don't; Gilbert describes it well. If you don't have 20 minutes to watch this (and I know you are either lying or mistaken because you're going to spend 20 minutes after this going to espn, craigslist, and facebook), Gilbert describes how the ancients of the Roman world used to look upon creativity.
Creativity today is seen as a product of the individual. It is a gift that belongs to a single person and when we see it, we applaud it and we quickly bronze the person and put them on a pedestal. In ancient Rome, though, those who were tasked to invent and create did not do so on their own. The common wisdom of that day acknowledged that there was something else at work in the place of the artisan; an artisan had a helper, a spirit which enabled them to do their work. This spirit was known as a genius. So when one's work amazed and delighted, there was an acknowledgement that though the artisan had a part in the creative process, it was also through the channeling of this daemon that contributed to this work. On the other hand, when it totally sucked, well it wasn't all your fault either.
Glibert points out that as we have moved away from this way of thinking. As we have embraced scientific rationalism, we have placed more and more of the burden of genius upon the individual. Today, a person is not seen as having a genius but as being a genius. This is an undeniably painful crown to wear, Gilbert points out, because what happens when your work isn't that awesome anymore? Well, you stop being a genius.
I've been doing a lot of thinking about the church lately. Mainly because I have to preach in California when I get back, but my thoughts have been whirling about on why the community of believers is so important. And while I disagree with Gilbert on the source of creative inspiration, I completely agree with her that many of the problems associated with the burden of creativity are sourced in this individualistic approach to it.
At the end of her talk, Gilbert describes the origin of the word "Olé". It was a transliteration that the Moors brought into Spain of the word "allah", a word used to give praise to God for instances when one saw a work so wonderful, so amazing that it was as if God himself had done it. There is a little discomfort with that idea on my part, but it doesn't seem so far-fetched.
The things that we consider amazing, wonderful, inspiring.
Those things which cause us to gasp and exclaim.
Those things are glimpses, shadowy reflections of the divine. And they are a footnote to the creative and beautiful world we live in. A reminder that there is something, no someone, out there whose genius is not ephemeral and fleeting.
We are mistaken about genius. Genius does not occur in a vacuum. We are able to recognize genius because it reflects values that we already have. It is an expression of something we already knew but didn't know how to say. Genius requires a context and that's where this community comes in. The community of believers, in the presence of genius, removes the burden of glory from us and reminds the individual that it comes from God and that whatever feelings of passion and ecstasy are evoked in a particular work, it reminds us that this will pass, but genius will continue to be seen in glimpses and flashes amongst us as a sign that the genius of the divine is eternal. It will continue to be expressed amongst those that are made imago Dei. And when that which we create and do is not considered genius, this same community removes the stain of shame, reminding us to not to look within and but to look without and that which we labored on and for does not find its value intrinsically within itself but instead finds its value in One who himself creates. It is no wonder, then, that offerings made, in the Christian tradition, are embraced and accepted not because the thing given but because of the one giving.
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