By Austin Kleon

Austin Kleon, an artist, writer, observer and thinker gave a talk about what he wished he'd heard as a young creator.

He expanded his ideas and wrote a book: Steal Like an Artist

He said: This book is me talking to a previous version of myself.

These are things I’ve learned over almost a decade of trying to figure out how to make art, but a funny thing happened when I started sharing them with others — I realized that they aren’t just for artists. They’re for everyone.

These ideas are for everyone who’s trying to inject some creativity into their life and their work. (That should describe all of us.) Reposted from Brain Pickings.

Steal Like An Artist on Amazon.

one chinese girl

One joy about self publishing was selecting the cover photograph.

Her image spoke emotional honesty. She was trapped behind the steel grate, a hard grey Chinese educational formation of her childhood in the poor village of Maija in a remote area near the university. Her eyes held world secrets and potential.

She stared at the man, a stranger, a diversion in her universe. Her sisters and schoolmates pushed against her. She was trapped against the gate. It was locked. He was on the other side.

 He held a small black machine up to his eye. She heard a click. The shutter opened and closed, trapping time, trapping her image on a memory card. He smiled, thanked her and disappeared on his dirty black mountain bike.

She had no way of knowing. Her image finding a book cover. Her child eyes there for everyone to see. Stories about stories and the girl in some alchemical manifestation lived breathing and aware of her immortality. 

He’d visited her primary school to sing and dance. Speaking strange unintelligible words. His laughter and kindness were a relief after the autocratic, punishing manner of bored illiterate women teachers. They didn't want to be here any more than the kids.

No one had a choice here. You did what you were told to do in a harmonious society filled with social stability ordered from Beijing.

A long distant dream far away from a poor village where people tilled soil following oxen in dirt, mud and rice paddies. 

Calibrate

Namaste,

Years earlier I meditated on my equilibrium one hot humid Asian day standing in disparate lines waiting for my visa to be validated by a boy soldier armed with an M-60 in the third world.

He had ammunition to spare and the 90-day firearm waiting period was not in effect. His background check bounces. If he is lucky he eats rice three times a day.

If I am lucky I will get through this transformation, derivation, metamorphosis alive. I will emerge on the other side chanting my mantra, ‘Om Gate Gate Paragate Parasamgate Bodhi Svaha.’ 

His bloodshot eyes checked me out as he rifles luggage. He found a mirror. He saw his destiny. Death by starvation. He slipped it into his pocket giving me a sullen, apathetic, malnourished stare. He needs it. My supply is infinite. 

He pointed at my battered typewriter, “What’s that?” 

I smiled, handing him shredded greenbacks.

He opened my passport to a visa page from the Hanford nuclear reactor in Washington State.

It reads, “Passport - Total Exposure System. Radiation Work Permit.”

I am allowed access to non-radioactive areas with an approved dosage of 10 mrem/hr in general areas. My stay time is 500. Radiological conditions allow me 1K of Beta Gamma and 2 mrem of Alpha. I wear a dosimeter badge to monitor my dosage in high/high-high radiation areas, contaminated areas and airborne radioactive areas or particle control areas. 

His well oiled weapon waves me on.

Metta.

Duende

She had duende, a fundamentally untranslatable Spanish word, literally meaning possessing spirit. It signified a charisma manifested by certain performers—flamenco singers, bullfighters, elves, seers, weavers—overwhelming their audience with the feeling they were in the presence of a mystical power.

The Spanish poet Garcia Lorca produced the best brief description of duende: “Years ago, during a flamenco dance contest in Jerez, an old woman of eighty, competing against beautiful women and young girls with waists as supple as water, carried off the prize by simply raising her arms, throwing back her head, and stamping the platform with a single blow of her heel; but in that gathering of muses and angels, of beautiful forms and lovely smiles, the dying duende triumphed as it had to, dragging the rusted blades of its wings along the ground.”

Little Wing followed a tribal trail to Lacilbula, where, after weaving morning pages she returned to the Rio Guadalete river below the pueblo flowing from the Sierras to Cadiz.

The battle of Guadalete was fought on July 19, 711 when 7,000 Yemenis and Berbers led by Tariq ibn Ziyad defeated the Visgoth King Roderic.

Rio needed cleaning. Thick autumn yellow, green and brown leaves trapped between rocks clogged river sections. Liquid backed up to mountains beneath fast gray storm clouds. Using her walking stick, she clamored down a slippery slope and slowly worked her way up the Rio clearing sticks, leaves and stones blocking the flow. One leaf could do a lot of damage.

There were green maple, silver aspen, brown oak leaves. Old black water logged decayed colors danced with fresh green and orange pigments.

She was the unimpeded flow. A child playing near water and rocks in her dream world. Serenity and sweet water music. Rocks, stepping stones. Small pools and meditation zones of where she felt peaceful. Bird music darted up the canyon.

She cleared leaves long past twilight, staggered up the muddy incline facing the Rio in silent gratitude and performed healing chants next to a bare Aspen tree. She passed a ceramic Virgin Mary statue illuminated by melting red candles in a rocky crevice behind a locked gate.

Mary’s blood flowed over jagged dolomite gray stones flecked with green moss. She collected a hemoglobin sample for future weaving, crossed a stone bridge and returned home. She lit candles, started a fire, relaxed in her favorite chair enjoying a deep breath before bleeding word rivers to dye loom fabric.

The loom was her instrument of transformation and wool the hair of the sacrificial beast which women, by a long and cultured tribal process, transformed into clothing. This suggested how weaving skirts the sacred and the violent. Why her power at the loom was both derided and dreaded, transformed, like giving birth, into a language and symbol, a metaphor with new, positive ends.

Dream big - draw big

Greetings,

This is the day of my dreams: The color of a hammer on brick. A trumpet, cement smoothing tool, dance.

A bike. Free wind pushing a child. A clean clear air song. High grey clouds.

Process becoming: Butterflies: yellow, white, brown, black, orange speckled. 

Closing down the connections. Absolving thieves their mysteries. Selling toys.

I am the Rocket Tourist at 20% operating capacity. 

The Marxist tools of production: knife, hoe, axe, elephant control stick, scythe, hammer.

Her daughter's card was the Master. Her card was Intensity. His card was the Rebel. After a dinner of grilled salmon, green salad, black olives, and fresh hot bread in Bursa they went to a cafe high above the smell and music of a river.

The river flowed strong and fast from Green Mountain. Dancing with stars was a silver-white crescent moon. They listened to water as the river cried. It was cold (May) and she wrapped his long soft leather jacket around her shoulders. She was happy.

Her daughter sat across from them drawing in this book (filled with transformations and great powerful understanding. Waves) and drinking hot chocolate. She was happy. Although now, only 8 and a strong willed child, she was a guest performer musician (piano) and character actor. She looked at them and said, Being correct is never the point.

Please put the blue sky on the white table. Unfold it gently. It is fragile and may be slightly creased along the horizon.  

Am I a clown searching along the ground for an appropriate mask?

Am I this or am I dreaming? 

Metta.