An Unnecessary Disclaimer

All of these good intentions and thought out notes to you aside, I do want to define where these thoughts are coming from: I am a fantastically flawed, imperfect, reactive, and sensitive person who has sacrificed a lot to feel right about my world. I’ve rebelled against a safe, conservative script, never settling down and throwing myself into the work and ideas that I want – no, I need - to champion. I’ve isolated myself from the norm and battled all of the things that creatives go through: Lonely excitement about ideas followed by the tireless pursuit to chase them, the full weight of watching something I’m responsible for fail, and on the flip side, experiencing incredible moments of success and fanfare when everything comes together. I’ve worked with actors, musicians, dancers, writers, directors, all kinds of beautifully unique and creative people, and I’ve wrestled with people who are only looking for a shortcut to fame or money, or worse, just being done with the process as quickly and efficiently as possible. Sometimes it’s just not that simple. 

The people I really feel for and want to help are those in the middle of it all, the ones who have the talent everyone wants to be in the audience of, have influence over, sometimes even stand in the way of. It is altogether much too easy to feel like nobody appreciates their talent in an unbiased, somewhat detached sort of way. People are always putting a label or price tag on talent, a value to it versus other artists. The question of how to monetize the effort begins to cloud the whole experience, and the original spark gets lost somewhere inside. You really can’t compare art, especially when it comes from a deeply personal point of view. As an artist, I had always wished the people who were affected, who resonated with whatever I put out there had stepped forward to say so. As an audience member, I want to commit myself to giving an artist that response, genuinely and honestly, coming forward without bias or logic. As a coach, I want to help them navigate things but ultimately define their own path and lessons. I’ve found that regardless of where they are in the process, that artist is still at the center of everything, sometimes bouncing around in that bubble at the mercy of the world that has been constructed around them. The heart beats in the middle of a body of work, regardless, so I find myself rooting for them to survive. 

When I was living in the world of theater, people often wondered how I, as a director, could watch the same show with the same actors so many times and still find notes, new challenges for the actors, and deliver them enthusiastically. How could I, when I was studying classical guitar, play the same piece for a few hours in a pitch black room, restarting when I made a mistake, sometimes working on a specific section? How was I able to walk outside my office after a long day’s grind with spreadsheets and decks and then listen to a street performer I’ve known for five years play songs I’m familiar with, and still get chills when I surrender to their talent? It’s easy. I love the process. There is no finished project. There is only the process with milestones and a body of work. The whole thing is a never ending search to find your voice and define the moment with truth, and I will always be here for it. 

That’s why the creative process is SO important. In a modern world where people are stuck to four inch screens and are perpetually thinking about where they’ve been and where they’re going, there are very few things that snap people into the present. Anything that manifests through the creative process is our modern burning bush. It jars the passerby into the present and reminds us all that we’re alive. It celebrates the individual and the human experience, something we can share and take away with us. It is unfiltered, unframed, unexpected, and impossible to recapture because it’s spontaneous and lives in the moment. If you can’t be fully there when it happens, you can’t have it and take it with you. If you do, things will change for you. 

If I can encourage more artists to sound out, to create, to be brave and live with us in the present, can you imagine a world where we’re all able to stop and share that moment? In the end, what we find out is that we’re all fantastically flawed, imperfect, reactive, and sensitive, and that’s why we fit in everywhere. That’s why none of us are truly alone. That, to me, is a beautiful world.