Let There Be Art

The world’s creation myths pose an essential set of questions. What is the relationship between the creator and the created? Are the two separated by an unbridgeable chasm, or are they two aspects of one fundamental unity?

         In every story it’s the same. The primal unity splits into a duality, and from the duality a multiplicity pours forth – from one comes two and from two come the ten thousand things – for it is only in this way that the sacred source can know itself: in relationship.

         In Egyptian mythology Atum, all alone, mates with his shadow and expectorates the primal male and female gods Shu and Tefnut. In Greek mythology the primal goddess Gaia creates her own partner Uranos, and from their union all the other gods are born. In the Mayan Popul Vuh God longs for humans who will love him and say his name, and goes through several failed human prototypes before he perfects us. In all of these origin stories one theme remains constant – creation is a manifestation of the generative energy of love. It is a great cosmic loneliness that begets the creation of the world and everything in it. Love, literally, makes the world.

         When we create – whether it’s an artwork, a tech start-up, or a home-cooked meal – we participate in this same sacred unfolding. In any creation process, we become a channel through which pours the primal creativity of the cosmos itself.
        
This dynamic is beautifully expressed in the Vedanta tradition of the Indian Upanishads. In Sanskrit, the sacred source is called Brahman, from the root bhri meaning “emergence.” Brahman is not a personified god – it is the sacred formless source of all things, including the gods. We too are Brahman, and like everything else, are emanations of this divine singularity. It is Brahman’s nature to pour forth ever-new and beautiful forms. This therefore is our nature as well.

         When you feel the creative urge, pay attention. It is a sacred calling, a God-nudge to participate in the one unfolding that arises unceasingly from the primal ground of being. We make use of the things we create, but we do not create for ourselves – we create so that the universe can continue giving form to itself. Your songs, poems, paintings, films, and solutions to problems – all of it – are action-prayers, ritual participation in the birthing of the real. Christian mystic Meister Eckhart put it this way: “We are all meant to be mothers of God. God is always needing to be born.”

         What if you don’t feel inspired? Can you still create if you’re not feeling it? The answer is yes. We must. Creation is not a hobby, a trifle, or a pass-time to while away the hours. It is far more necessary than that. It is self-indulgent to stand idly by, waiting for inspiration. As contemporary visual artist Chuck Close put it, “Inspiration is for amateurs. The rest of us just show up and get to work.”

         Creativity is work. Suit up, show up, and put your tools in your hands. “Inspiration exists,” said Picasso, “but it has to find you working.”

         Stop waiting. Get out of your own way. Take your mind off of the finished product, and put it squarely into process itself. As Robert Pirsig wrote in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, “Sometimes it’s a little better to travel than arrive.” By your participation alone, you are signaling your readiness, willingness, and openness to the creative flow that you are.

         And the final realization is this – each of us is an artist and our masterpiece is our life. It is not the objects and art-forms we craft that have the most lasting value; it is our virtue, integrity, and loving-kindness that best express our sacred origin. When we lovingly participate in the healing of the world we are the divine eternal Mother-Father manifesting in the field of time. When we awaken to this realization we become this realization, and get down to the messy business of birthing the world anew. 

[This piece was originally published in my column called "A to Zen" in the May/June 2017 issue of Unity Magazine, and is reproduced here with permission.]

The Ten Rules of Art

In 1967, Carole King and her husband Gerry Goffin were the hottest songwriting team in the business. As King told David Remnick of the New Yorker, they were walking down Broadway one afternoon when a limousine pulled alongside them. The window rolled down and Jerry Wexler of Atlantic Records stuck his head out. “I’m looking for a really big hit for Aretha,” he said. “How about writing a song called ‘A Natural Woman.’” The window rolled up and the limo pulled away. That night after putting the kids to bed they sat at the piano and banged out one of Aretha Franklin’s most enduring masterpieces.

In the creation of art, what’s more important, inspiration or perspiration?

When I was finishing up my BA in religious studies at UCSB I had completed all of my required courses and just needed a few elective units. I took a songwriting class in the music department. The instructor was a commercial jingle writer and producer from LA with recording credits in pop, rock, and film. He gave us a simple assignment. Every week we were to write, arrange, record, mix, and present a finished song. We were forbidden from recording any existing material – everything had to be written and recorded from scratch that week. We scoffed. “What if the muse doesn’t strike?” we asked. He sighed. “Look,” he said, “when your client comes to you and asks you for a soundtrack, or a jingle, or a cut for the new album by so and so, you don’t say, O.K., I’ll send you something if and when the inspiration strikes. You just sit down and do it.” As artist Chuck Close said, “Inspiration is for amateurs. The rest of us just show up and get to work.”

As the semester progressed, it dawned on us. Making art is not a mysterious process. Making art is like making anything else – building a house, cooking a meal, planting a garden – most of the battle is just showing up, getting serious, and demanding results. Of course not everything turns out great. It never does. But if you don’t suit up, show up, and do the work, how and when is the inspiration supposed to strike?

In an interview, great American writer John McPhee revealed that in his writing process, he takes a belt from a terry cloth robe and ties himself in his desk chair with a big double knot, then spins the belt around so the knot is behind him. He stays there until he’s put in his shift. If you only write when you feel like it, you’re not a writer. If you only make art when you feel like it, you’re not an artist. You’re a dilettante. In a word, you’re pretending. It’s time to get real.

If you are really serious about creating something of value, you will fight for it, even if the forces you’re fighting against are your own distractedness, self-doubt, sloth, or adolescent mood swings. Oh, you don’t feel like it? Nobody cares. Do it anyway. Does your heart surgeon walk out of the room mid-surgery because he just isn’t feeling it? Does a farmer plant only half her field because she’s not in the mood? Does an architect leave out the bathrooms because, well, they’re not that fun to design, and he’d rather design high-ceilinged foyers, split-level decks, and grey water reclamation systems?

I spoke with prominent artist Douglas Schneider about his process. He was in his Oakland studio preparing another series of paintings for an upcoming gallery show in San Francisco. Schneider is one of those rare artists who has managed to blend commercial success with autonomy and authenticity. His paintings are mesmerizing dreamscapes anchored by everyday objects bathed in an atmosphere of bottomless longing. It is the beauty of the ordinary world that Schneider paints, thereby returning us to the infinite significance of our own lives, a place where mirage-like waves of memory and perception distort as much as they reveal.

When a gallery show comes along, he starts to paint. He knows people are counting on him – his agents, his curators, his patrons, his fans – and he simply gets to work. He often works on several pieces at once, never knowing exactly where the ideas come from or where they’re going. He just begins. All of the technique is there from years of formal education and arduous training, but it’s the imminence of the deadline that impels him, sparking a workman like sense of humility, obligation, and gratitude – gratitude that he even gets to do this for a living. The shock of that fact alone frequently stops him in his tracks. He knows that all work is service, and that these paintings need to be made, for someone. As the deadline approaches, he paints at an increasingly furious pace with a sacred sense of urgency – get out of the way, get out of the way – sometimes even shipping his large canvases wet, knowing they’ll dry by the time they’re installed. As the paintings are birthing it’s terrifying. And blissful. Schneider, like any real artist, knows that inspiration matters and bliss happens, but only after you find the discipline to pick up the brush.

As you reflect on your own artistic and creative process, no matter your medium, bear these ten truths in mind.

1.      Your work is not your own – it belongs to the audience. Put them first. What do they need?

2.      Your work is an act of service, not a private indulgence. Art is communal – it only exists in the space between us, not in the secret heart of its creator.

3.      Inspiration is overrated. Work is underrated.

4.      Be true to your own aesthetic. Don’t chase trends. Don’t pander to your audience – draw them toward you in communion.

5.      Pay attention to what works and what doesn’t work. Cut, edit, alter, and delete  with brutal decisiveness. Art is no place for self-indulgent sentimentality.

6.     The one rule: authenticity.

7.     Beautiful and pretty are two different things. One’s abiding, the other fades; one’s deep, the other’s shallow; one’s challenging, the other’s facile. Go for beauty every time.

8.     You don’t have forever. Do it now. Finish it.

9.     Perfection is the enemy of the good. As many have said, art is never finished, only abandoned.

10.  Nurture your love of art like a garden – feed it, water it, sunlight it. Care-take your body, your mind, your heart, and your soul. Drink in the beauty of the world. Read. Listen. Travel. Love. Take risks. Timidity has no place in art. Be bold. But be kind, because kindness extended to others strengthens the heart, the instrument of our creating. Let your art come from your loving.

All of us are artists, and our lives are our greatest work. A well-lived life is a masterpiece. The ten rules apply to the creation of any art project, including the most important project of all – becoming fully human.            

Musings on the Value of a Truly Good Producer

[The May 2014 issue of Recording Magazine featured a long and technically detailed cover story about the making of my album Two Pines, written by my producer Sven-Erik Seaholm. I was invited by the editor of Recording Magazine to write a guest editorial about the artist's perspective of the whole process. This is that piece. www.recordingmag.com]

Making an album is not for the timid. It’s going to cost you some sleep, and more than a little money. It’s going to occupy your every waking moment for months. It’ll damage your health, your serenity, and your relationships. Some days you’ll be gripped with self-loathing and the compulsion to throw in the towel. Other days you’ll secretly entertain the thought that you might be a genius and your record a masterpiece. Then your sanity returns and you get back to work.

A journey this treacherous should never be taken alone. You’re going to need a great producer.

A producer is many things. A friend, a technician, a guide, a strategist, an organizer, a cheerleader, a shaman, a mom, a barista, a host, a roadie, a therapist, a confidant, a diplomat, a savant, a maker of sandwiches—but more than anything else, a producer is a trusted collaborator whose decisions at a thousand forks in the road could mean the life or death of your record. Sure mic placement matters. EQ, preamps, signal paths, and compression settings are all important. But the single most important element in any successful recording project is the relationship between the artist and the producer. If you don’t trust, rely on, respect, and admire your producer, you’re doomed.

I hadn’t made an album in seven years. Life got in the way. My day job as a philosophy professor and the demands of my expanding work as a writer and speaker pushed music off of center stage. I’d even fired myself from my own band The Coyote Problem. It was just all too much. But the songs kept coming. Seven years is a lot of songs. I had to do something. It was time to make an album.

As the song list came together I realized I needed a title song, one last piece to tie all the themes of the record together. I tuned my Taylor to a double drop D and wrote “Two Pines.”

I decided to call Sven-Erik Seaholm, the producer of The Coyote Problem’s two albums, Wire in 2005 and California in 2007. We’d worked well together, we had exceptional rapport, and most importantly we got great results. The two trophies for Best Americana Album from the San Diego Music Awards didn’t hurt. Art contests are weird but hey, I’ll take it.

At our first meeting we talked about what kind of record we wanted to make. Like Stephen Covey says, begin with the end in mind. I wanted a raw, warm, open sound. I wanted three things front and center—the holy trinity of acoustic guitar, bass, and drums. We talked about Neil Young’s “Out on a Weekend.” We talked about Tom Petty’s “You Don’t Know How it Feels.” We talked about Nashville vs. Austin, hi-fi vs. lo-fi, and Steve Earle. We talked about the nearly impossible goal of getting a recorded acoustic guitar to sound like an acoustic guitar. Sven listened carefully, took it all in, and found a way.

As our first scheduled session grew near I upped my practice schedule. I wanted to be ready. I searched deep and long for the soul of this album. In any artistic project or process, the most important question is always the same. What to leave in and what to leave out? The pressure began to build.

I wasn’t nervous in front of the mic. I know how to play my songs. In fact, recording is really fun. It’s the editing that’ll get you. Especially when it came to guitar overdubs...

I’d do nine takes of Dobro on a song, and then Sven and I would start editing. It’s agonizing—which licks of which takes to put where. Thankfully, Sven has the uncanny ability to remember all of the moods and feels of all of them, and deftly moves through the song mousing and clicking and splicing and blending and bringing the best of the best together into one seamless performance. I’m always torn by indecision and haunted by the takes not used—what if there’s a gem in there we’re leaving out? Watching your producer edit is like handing him a scalpel and closing your eyes. This is why trust is so important.

I came to rely on Sven to do the right thing, and nine times out of ten we agreed. When we didn’t, he’d listen and either change his mind or gently make his case. It often felt like we were one person, one man with two heads and four hands, and we were making music together. People who don’t make records have no idea how deeply embedded a producer is. I was there for every edit, but there isn’t one note on this album that Sven hasn’t touched, nurtured, birthed, and brought to life. Sure, I sang it and played it. But in a very real sense, so did he.

In the end, that’s the greatest gift a producer gives an artist—a safe place to be who they really are. It’s the little things. Having the coffee ready. Knowing when you need another take and when you don’t. Supporting you through a thousand decisions, sometimes leading, sometimes following, until you don’t know who’s in charge. You just know that something good is happening, and you’re thrilled to be a part of it.

Peter Bolland is an Americana artist, writer, and educator who lives and records in the San Diego area. Keep an eye on peterbolland.com for information about the upcoming release of his new album Two Pines.

Two Pines

When I turned 12 in 1972 my brother John gave me a very important birthday present – Neil Young’s brand new album Harvest. From the opening notes of “Out on a Weekend” to the haunting atmosphere of the closing track “Words” I was caught by its spell. I had never heard anything so achingly beautiful before in my life.

In the years before ’72 it was all about the Beatles, the Doors, Jefferson Airplane, Jimi Hendrix, and even the Monkees. But behind the façade of all that glamorous rock and roll a quiet movement was building, a rootsy, acoustic, country rock feel with more debt to Dylan and the folk scene than to anything else. Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young were its standard bearers, and when Young left the supergroup he fled to Nashville and began working on Harvest with a core group of seasoned country players. The album’s success took Young by surprise and maybe even frightened him. Harvest became the best selling album in America in 1972 and when “Heart of Gold” went to number one, his first and last number one single, he backed away from the fame fearing he was becoming middle of the road. “I headed for the ditch,” he later said, “a rougher ride but I saw more interesting people there.”

Harvest went on to influence an entire generation of country rock folkies like me. My own guitar playing, singing, and song writing began to turn in that direction. It just felt like home. It’s all there in the opening track, “Out on a Weekend” – that emptiness, that loneliness, that simplicity, that bare bones honesty. A kick drum, a snare, a bass guitar, an acoustic guitar, a harmonica, a pedal steel, and simple lyrics about the redemption of the road – what else could you possibly need?

Many years later when I began making my own records I kept looking for a way to emulate that feel. I didn’t want to imitate Neil. Where’s the joy in mimicry? I wanted to find my own sound, my own voice, my own truth. But an apple never falls far from the tree.

My first album, Live at a Better World, was recorded live in the 90s at a wonderful folk music venue we were all playing at called A Better World Café. My folk duo partner at the time Mark Jackson and I stripped it down to two acoustic guitars and two voices – a simple, spare approach that let the songs shine. For my second album Frame, produced and recorded by Michael Krewitsky, we took advantage of the emerging technology of Pro Tools and the freedom it gives you. We both learned a lot about making rootsy Americana music with computers and software.

When I formed the Coyote Problem we made two albums with producer Sven-Erik Seaholm – Wire in 2005 and California in 2007. I told Sven I wanted a simple, dry, straight forward sound with minimal production sheen. I wanted it to sound like, you know, a band in a room. We succeeded. Both of the albums won Best Americana Album at the San Diego Music Awards in their respective years, a humbling honor.

It’s been seven years since California. Life got in the way. The Coyote Problem had a great run, but it was hard for me to keep up with the demands of running a band and a challenging career as a philosophy professor. I fired myself from my own band and focused on writing and teaching. I kept doing solo acoustic shows. And of course the songwriting never slowed down. In seven years a lot of songs piled up. I had to do something.

There are a lot of great producers. But in the end I went back to Sven-Erik Seaholm. We work well together, and I feel at home in his studio having made two albums there already, as well as spending countless hours as a session player on other people’s projects. We had a meeting and talked about the vision for this album. We talked about Neil Young’s “Out on a Weekend.” We talked about Tom Petty’s “You Don’t Know How it Feels.” We talked about acoustic guitar sounds and kick drums and amplifiers. We came to an understanding about what the goals for this record were. Like Steven Covey says, “Begin with the end in mind.”

Sven worked really hard to get a rich, authentic acoustic guitar sound using a complicated array of three microphones and signal paths (I try not to pay attention to any of that stuff – it just makes me feel stupid).  In many ways, getting a good acoustic guitar sound is the most difficult thing to do in the studio – the sound comes off the guitar in so many places and so many ways. But Sven did it.

Listening back to the initial tracks I realized something was missing. I needed a title song to unify all the themes of the record. So I wrote one. I tuned my guitar to a double drop D (the tuning Neil uses on “Cinnamon Girl,” “Ohio,” and “Cortez the Killer”) and I wrote a song called “Two Pines.” It came out so good we decided to open the album with it.

There are a lot of great drummers and bass players. It was an agonizing decision. But I finally decided on Bob Sale and Jim Reeves. They both have this amazingly powerful, muscular, confident feel and they play with the most arresting of all qualities – simplicity. They never clutter things up with busy, fussy, unnecessary flourishes. They find the essence and bring songs to life. We tracked them together while Sven and I sat in the control room. Our jaws hit the floor after the first song. I had goose bumps. This was it. They showed up early, stayed late, came in prepared, and exceeded all expectations. They tracked all 14 songs in one day, many on the first take. It is such a joy to work with professionals.

That session was followed by weeks of overdubs. I played Dobro, lap steel, 12 string, electric guitar, percussion, harmonica, and of course sang the vocal parts. We brought in Melissa Barrison to play violin on one song, and Sven played a piano riff on another. But the album is mostly bass, drums, guitars, and vocals. Our arrangement philosophy was “When in doubt, leave it out.”

In many ways, Two Pines is the album I’ve been trying to make all along. I’m proud of all of my earlier work, but with each album you learn a little more. You get closer and closer to the truth. The songs get stronger. The playing gets better. The singing gets truer. You relax more and more. And when you relax, the real you finally shows up.

All any singer-songwriter wants is to hear their songs recorded well, and to share those songs with anyone who’s interested. Real musicians don’t chase fame or money – they do it because they’re drawn into the spell that music casts, and they simply want to add their voice to the chorus. We all love music. We love what it does to us, how it frees us, unlocks our heart, opens our eyes, and shines light on the beauty of our own lives. We all have our favorite genres, styles, and artists. But beneath all the surface variations, it’s all just one song – our song. Music is memories; music is a new friend you haven’t met yet. Music is a feather bed and a field of stones. Music is many things, and one thing – a way to know a truth beyond words, a truth our soul is asking for, a truth that sets us free. That’s what your favorite music does for you. Let it.