On Creation: Knowing, Forgetting, and the Leap Into the New
Exploring the paradoxical discipline of creativity: mastering what exists while having the courage to forget and imagine what could be
2019-03-14
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Exploring the paradoxical discipline of creativity: mastering what exists while having the courage to forget and imagine what could be
"Creativity is any act, idea, or product that changes an existing domain, or transforms it into a new one." -Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi
To paint, sculpt, write, sing, dance, act, film, or design is to intervene in reality: to add something that did not previously exist. Yet "making new things" is only half the story. True creation demands a paradoxical discipline: mastery of what is and the courage to forget what is known long enough to imagine what could be.
Comprehension. Whether a child belting out Puccini or a seasoned diva singing the same aria, greatness begins with fluency in the canon. Without a mental map of what came before, we cannot locate the unexplored edges. Ken Robinson's famous TED talk argues that schooling too often prizes recall at the expense of imagination, yet he also concedes that imagination needs a vocabulary.
Strategic Amnesia. Picasso's quip ("Good artists copy; great artists steal") is less larceny than liberation: once you've internalized the rules, you are free to break them. Wayne Thiebaud called himself an "art thief," borrowing techniques from Rembrandt to Rothko before remixing them into neon-lit still-lifes that feel unmistakably his.
History is littered with brilliant minds chasing perpetual-motion machines, blithely ignoring the second law of thermodynamics. Expertise matters because it defines the boundary conditions: the physical, mathematical, or cultural constraints inside which novelty must live. Creation without constraint is not freedom; it is chaos.
After the homework comes the heresy. John Coltrane mastered Charlie Parker's bebop language long before he spiraled through "Giant Steps." Miles Davis's Kind of Blue sounded so spare, so modal, that early reviewers were unsure whether it was brilliance or boredom. Today it is the best-selling jazz record in history: a reminder that genuinely new work can feel disorienting in the moment.
When an abstract canvas sells for millions, the arm-chair critic scoffs: I could have painted that. Perhaps, but you didn't. The rookie baseball card analogy applies: its worth lies not in present statistics but in the captured uncertainty of potential. Creation is a timestamp on possibility.
To create is to wager that your understanding of the past is adequate and incomplete: adequate enough to avoid repeating yesterday's work, incomplete enough to let tomorrow surprise you. You cannot prove your idea is original; you can only trust that your grasp of what exists is sharp enough to spot the opening no one has yet filled.
Creation, then, is equal parts scholarship and audacity. Learn voraciously, forget strategically, and trust that in the cleared space something unprecedented will take shape: yours.