Writing About Art: Imagination, Creativity and Expression

Night Cloud Im never well prepared for rain, But when it fell by night It caught me at the windowpane Without the aid of sight. I heard the swift rush swirling, The pelt against the glass, Then from the black the shapes came twirling Like ghouls of shadowy mass. They did not merely cross the sill, But leapt inside my brain That in the time a bolt would kill, They gave my life its bane. Yet soon the storm relinquished With night and youth in tow, And left me old beyond my years Beside the streaked window. - David Conner

It is a little known fact that every artist is born from a lightning strike. Cloud to ground--a momentary, white-hot infusion of celestial possibility into the narrower plight of man. A single bolt is all it takes to never look at a cloud the same way again. Artists like van Gogh, would paint Wheat Field Under Clouded Sky (left), and clouds would represent part of his tormented inner landscape. Joni Mitchell would sing about their illusions: Rows and flows of angel hair/And ice cream castles in the air/And feather canyons everywhere/I've looked at clouds that way. Poets like William Wordsworth wandered lonely as a cloud, and Emily Dickinson lamented in A Cloud withdrew from the Sky her habit of too often merely glancing at clouds, of not holding their angelic glow tighter in her memory. I use the subject of clouds specifically here as a metaphor for all subjects across all art

forms. To the artist, a tree is never just a tree; neither an ocean just an ocean, nor is anything about life, death, and that which exists in between merely limited to their realities. To the man or woman once struck, the artistic perspective is personally reflective, offering unique glimpses into the individuals life, opinions, and worldview. The forthcoming deals with my own propensities as a largely self-taught portrait artist, musician (bari-tenor and cellist), and poet. My experiences in and understanding of each discipline help inform my budding career in journalism as an art critic. I have identified three processes, or mechanisms, which all artists have in common: imagination which leads to creativity which yields expression. Imagination, Creativity, Expression--or ICE for those who like acronyms. Imagination is the capability of forming new ideas, images, or concepts of external objects not present to the senses. Creativity is the use of the imagination in the production of an artists work. Expression is the resulting product of the creative process. I will relate each of these to the three aforementioned areas of my personal artistic expression (painting, music, and poetry), and in so doing, demonstrate the importance of the critics grasp of the artists process in order to be an effective criticizer. It should be mentioned that in order to assess something as personal and as intimate as art, the critic should have several tools at his or her disposal: intuition to help with subject matter, interpretations, and meanings, sensitivity to deal beneficially with artists, knowledge of an artists style and body of work, a grasp of forms and technical elements, familiarity with the art forms history, a manner of expressing opinions which is, in itself, artful, imaginative, and insightful, and possessing personal experience in some kind of creative self-expression. This last aspect is of particular importance because it is inconceivable for one without an imagination to understand (much less critique) the creative product of one with an imagination. In short, it takes one to know one. Art is both confined and limitless. Each medium has its parameters. Painting has a canvas and a color palette; music has keys, notes, and rhythm; poetry is often governed by strict rules. I particularly enjoy the challenge of finding the freedom in the limitations that surround an artistic medium. It echoes my philosophy that in life, though we must live by rules, we still have infinite possibility, and the result is superiorly defined, purposeful, and fulfilling. To me, it is a beautiful irony. There are only so many colors, but infinite shades. A piece of music can be played a thousand times by a thousand different performers, yet each will be unique in its phrasing, interpreta-

tion, and execution. A poem, such as a sonnet, may have just fourteen lines and regulated by syllable count, meter, and rhyme, but the combination of words is limitless. Shakespeare wrote 154 sonnets, each one very different. Art is also unassailable, yet vulnerable to criticism. Regardless of the artistic medium, the expression is a unique experience of the artist conveyed in a personal, artistic way. If a painter wants to express love, whether he paints a red rose or a spider, both are relevant and truthful based on the individual artists experience or intention. In this way art is immune to the slings and arrows of outrageous criticism. On the other hand, art can be judged based on its artfulness, and there the art critic makes his home. I will provide an example of what I mean in the poetry section of this chapter. Mary Ethel, 2003 She was my first oil painting. I had never taken an art class, never worked with oils before. My only experience with portraiture was a handful of pencil drawings of celebrities years before. She was the director of several plays I was in when I lived in New York City and a woman I respected a great deal. Mary Ethel was a striking, highly intelligent woman, complicated, and often inscrutable. She possessed both wonderful humor and an evident dark side. A friendship sprang up between us; we would chat for hours about every possible subject over copious amounts of red wine. The more I got to know her, the more I understood a fundamental aspect of her character: she was a cynic, and despised few things more than herself. She fascinated me. I took it upon myself to paint her portrait. Over a glass of cabernet at our favorite meeting place in the lobby of the Algonquin Hotel, I took her photograph off of which the painting was based. I wanted to challenge myself on multiple levels: to simply paint my first oil painting, to reveal to Mary Ethel my appreciation and admiration for her, to re-

veal what I observed about her, to hold up a mirror so maybe she would recognize her own beauty, to frame a life--moments and years lived out in brush strokes,--and to reveal something about myself as the artist. It was her capturing of my imagination which compelled my creativity. Many of the themes I associated with her are present in the painting. She holds a glass of wine as moonlight enters through the trees and window in the room behind her; the intricate, contemplative shadows creep and twist along the blue violet moonlit floor, representing her mysterious inner being. The nearby bookshelf contains titles of some of her favorite books; she is an avid reader. She has a very Mary Ethel expression on her face, her green/gray eyes focus slightly off center, an eyebrow cocked. She has the capacity to wither a person with a look or win someone over with a smile. As in life, she could be thinking of almost anything, ready to say anything, but her companion is left guessing. Her clothing is feminine yet conservative; she rarely wore jewelry. Her posture is relaxed but contained, never quite restful. The expression of the creativity, or the finished product, is the step in the process most commonly subject to criticism. The painting, realistic in style, is busy, like her mind, but she commands the focus, aided greatly by her swathe of hair gone prematurely white in her early thirties. Strong lines and rich color help maintain the composition as a whole. The light is soft, the colors are warm, the brush strokes are largely invisible, and the painting is overseen by a certain delicacy. There is nothing ugly or hasty about it. One presupposes immediately that she is of importance to the artist. One could also accurately glean, at least from this painting, that the artists philosophy about portraits is that they should capture the subject in a characteristic moment, and should be flattering without being inaccurate. In the end, what the viewer or critic will take away is a sense of who the subject is (or was). Perhaps the portrait artists highest achievement is to make a viewer feel as if he or she knows person in the painting, like a wordless conversation. Cello Aria (To hear the aria, click the link at the bottom of the webpage.) The year is 1802. Thomas is a passenger aboard a creaking British naval ship as it sails around the southern tip of Africa en route to India. He is nearing the end of a desperate two year

search for his brother, Elijah, the last surviving member of his family who fled home in England, never to be seen again, after his wife committed suicide. As desperation turns to despair, Thomas sits alone in his cabin. A nearby crewman plays this aria on his cello, its voice carrying out over the black ocean swells. This is a scene from a screenplay I wrote, which was the inspiration for me to compose and record this piece. The imagination of artists seem most often stirred by the melancholy, the sad, the terrible, the dark, and the hopeless places in life. I admit I am no exception to this. There seems something romantic or glorious in human suffering, perhaps because it so often springs from those areas where we have lost the things most precious to us: the buoyancy of youth, the beauty of love, the seemingly indefatigable strength of dreams, and the brightness of hope and faith. When these things die they often leave a bleak and tenebrous replacement, the likes of which become the fodder for artists. A piece of music could be described as kind of audible portrait--perhaps of a person, a landscape, or a circumstance. Music is one of the most powerful forms of art for communicating the human condition; it has been said it is the language of emotion. For composers, songwriters, and musicians, the question of how to express what is in the imagination through sound is the inescapable allure. In the scenario with Thomas on the ship, the music comes at a poignant moment in the story. The search hasnt quite ended, but the outlook is grim. The music has to capture the loneliness, impending loss, the haunting of memories, the vastness of the sea, growing hopelessness, and the irony of, like love spilling from a broken heart, a beautiful melody from the dark confines of the ships lower decks. It also has to be appropriate in style for the time--having elements of the baroque or classical periods of music. It must be a piece which could conceivably be known by a sailor, perhaps having the feel of a folk melody. And lastly, like most aspects within a film, it has to be brief. I have played the cello for a number of years, starting in middle school. I performed in the St. Louis Youth Symphony and took private lessons with a baroque cellist, learning some of the finer points of music and style from that period. Playing the cello is a unique artistic expression for me, not only in how I choose to interpret the music written on the page, but also because the in-

strument itself is a work of art. It is art played upon art. So with my imagination brimming with Thomas scene and possibilities, I sat down with my cello and began playing around with chords. (I am by no means a composer; in fact this is one of my only attempts at it. The notation is not written down.) Some of the influences that went into the short piece are the cello suites of J.S. Bach, the etude no. 8 of Jean-Pierre Duport, various pieces for viola da gamba by Marin Marais, and the folk tunes of 18th century fiddle player, Neil Gow. Of course should the screenplay ever be made into a film, the recording of a professional cellist like Yo-Yo Ma would be far more preferable! The resulting expression of the creative process is what you hear. The critic will judge on the success or failure of the piece to meet the needs of the scene. Is it effective? Is it a necessary component? Does it add or take away? Does it lend a voice to Thomas difficult circumstances as is the intent? Is the playing itself technically perfect? Aside from matters of opinion, critics should share their subjective experience of when encountering a work of art. What is the personal impact? Does it recall other related experiences or memories? Would the critic be willing to pay for the experience? Is it worth telling others about? Ultimately, art requires an audience; the ideal critic is the liaison between audience and artist. Sonnet, 2009 To the Irwins of Griesebank House Ballitore, County Kildare, Ireland So plays the gray refrain upon the roof Of Griesebank Housethe old percussive rain Upon her moss and vine, high and aloof, Upon her weathered stone and window pane And there, behind the streaks, a searching face Looks out across the dim and dreary lea Toward looming ruins of an ancient place Reclaimed by earthits emerald destiny. With grassy holds and broken ivied walls, So restful in eternal quietude, It falls in contrast to these living halls The shadow of this lifes brief interlude. So plays at Griesebank House the gray refrain The proof of life is in the sound of rain.

Few things stimulate the imagination more than travel. To be immersed in a place where history, language, culture, custom, architecture, landscape, and food, among innumerable other details are completely different is to make fat the imagination on rich, new fare. In 2009 I visited Ireland for the first time to visit friends, the Irwins. On their rambling homestead called Griesebank, nestled in the green hills outside Dublin, there is a ruin with craggy gray ramparts which jut up from the earth. It, like many nameless monuments to forgotten ages, litter the island. I was fascinated by the sense of history which came over me as I walked among the fallen stones. I couldnt help but wonder how many footfalls preceded mine. What was the place like when it was first built? Who lived there? What happened to them? In stark contrast, the nearby Griesebank House, also deemed an historical landmark, but still much newer than the ruin, was pulsing with life. Children ran up and down the halls, chasing pet dogs. The old AGA stove was constantly churning heat. With a vein of lovely eccentricity, books, paintings, and heirlooms climbed furiously up almost every wall and corner. This contraposition between the ruin and the house became the subject of the above sonnet, which, along with a small portrait of the eldest daughter, I gave to the Irwins as a thank-you when we left. Clouds billow over the Irish landscape, and rain is a frequent visitor. It is the gray refrain. But it is only heard where there is life around to hear it. When it taps and sighs in old forlorn vestiges of humanity, it falls unheard. When the living have gone, their old abodes fall under the ownership of nature, which over a silent and steady march of years, slowly erodes all traces of former occupancy. Eventually, like wind over a sand dune, even the most stalwart ruin or vibrant bastion of living energy will disappear. In the meantime, the rain falls, and where it is heard there is life and all the beauty that accompanies it. From my perspective, the critique of poetry, more than any other art form, leads to the greatest frustration. On one hand poetry can (and should) express anything the poet desires and in whatever form desired. The criticism comes into play when determining the artistry of connecting words and thoughts in an original and meaningful way. Call me an elitist or narrow minded, but the majority of poetry which has been penned since the early 20th century is complete garbage. Im compelled to give a short example: William Carlos Williams This Is Just To Say.
I have eaten

the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold

I dont provide this example to compare my poem with his. In their form, subject matter, individual expression, or complexity, each is equally relevant. The problem here exists in the lack of artistry. Like a formless splotch of paint on a canvas or stream of atonal chords, by definition its all art. But one should not kid oneself. Just because its in a museum, played in a concert hall, or published in a book doesnt mean its worthy of the honor. It is for this reason, I believe, that critics and artists have always had an apprehensive relationship, even though they are chips off the same block. Since the beginning of time artists have been making artless art and artful art. Its the voice of the critic that decides which it will be in the moment. (I say in the moment because critics often disagree with each other, and criticism is always based on the tastes and mores of the time in which a work is judged. Many of Tchaikovskys compositions, for example, were considered unplayable or just plain bad at the time they were written. Our opinion differs considerably today.) Some artists are offended when their work is called artless; others do not care. But in truth, the critique is intended for popular consumption, and is not an occasion for the artists egocentric reaction. Again, critics are the liaison between the artist and the audience. Oscar Wilde once quipped, All art is quite useless. He was quite wrong. Others believe that art should only be provocative. It can be, but if its limited to merely one effect we have cheated ourselves out of the other 359 degrees of potential. Though the act of criticism is not a creative act, I believe the best critics are also artists. They must be intimately acquainted with the motivation and means of creation. They must have an imagination in order to critique an imagina-

tive expression. The critics understanding of the creative process, from imagination to creativity to expression (ICE), is the foundation upon which a fair and just assessment is based. The most memorable pieces of art are those which blossom from the fertile ground of human experience. In the universality of art we are all connected and affected. Art appeals differently to everyone who experiences it. While most recognized forms are either visual or audible, no two people will be affected or will internalize in exactly the same way. Each will relate it to their own individual experience. Like the cloud that passes above us in the sky, each of us will see or experience something different. Some might not even notice, while others are struck. Regardless, it is there, and day and night it pours forth speech, revealing in silent wisdom something about the imaginative relationship between creation and creator.

Writing About Stage Acting The moment has arrived. I creep forward, pushing a serving cart, inching toward the furthest limit of the heavy black curtain where the light intersects shadow. My entire body is charged with energy; my nerves feel like they could freeze me in place, like the Tin Man on a rainy day. But my focus is not on myself. I am listening intently to a blind man named Bobby speaking to a large, darkened room, waiting for him to finish his last line, cross, and exit the stage. There is piano music being played in the distance. BOBBY: ...He would be waiting for me on the raft when I swam out there. Bobbie drops his robe and walks offstage. With a surge of flamboyant animation, I break into the intensity and heat of the lights, the iced tea glasses clinking on the cart ahead of me. I feel the stare of countless unseen eyes focused on me. Laughter rises from the audience, presumably reacting to the pink apron and heels Im wearing. I respond to them with uncertainty at first, then, understanding, I let off a laugh of my own. JAMES: Its not who you think. Im the other one. When John stops playing the piano, you can start getting nervous again.

This area of experience is writing about stage acting as a theatre critic vis--vis my experience as a professionally trained actor. No critic can hope to critique the craft of acting better than the one who has himself treaded the boards. The above scene is from the play Love! Valour! Compassion! by Terrence McNally, wherein I played twin gay brothers from the UK: James and John. In this essay, I will weave together my experiences of preparation and performance in acting in this show, support them with experiences from my personal life, and, from a critical point of view, demonstrate the areas of vital importance which a theatrical production must possess in order for it to be deemed successful. James, making his first entrance in the above scene, is loved by everyone, but is dying of AIDS; John, playing the piano, rubs everyone the wrong way and is pretty much despised. I was cast in this role(s) in the autumn of 2001, a member of the professional acting company of the American Academy of Dramatic Arts in New York City. It presented the greatest and most rewarding challenge I would ever face in my acting career. It would demand not only a practice of the theories and methods of acting learned over the previous years of study, but also the compliance of my imagination to inhabit the shoes of two men who were very different from myself. A decade later as an aspiring critic, I look for the specific choices the actor makes to breathe life into whatever character he or she is playing. In other words, I want to see the evidence of good theatrical training. I look broadly for three primary aspects: firstly, for the physicality of the actors. Each person has a unique way of walking, standing, sitting, and gesturing. I look for how time and place affects their physical performance. Secondly, I watch for their handling of dialogue: the language of Shakespeare and Moliere is very different from that of Mamet or Shepard. Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, I look for solid moment-to-moment actions and reactions which are fed by the given circumstances as they happen. Are the relationships believable? What does each character want? What will he or she do to get it? Are the moments real, or are they pushed? (There is a misconception about acting that actors fake everything. To the contrary, nothing is faked; acting is the solid reality of honest moment-to-moment work.) I look at other nonacting related aspects as well, such as the direction, the writing, the production values, and the overall effectiveness of the show or film in telling the story. Each of these areas is equally critical;

a single blunder or mishandling of any one element can remove the audience from the reality set before them. Its clear, then, that as an actor playing two leading roles in Love! Valour! Compassion! I had a lot riding on my shoulders. To find the physicality, or physical being as its called in acting classes, I had to explore different kinds of movements, paying close attention to any which seemed to fit the characters of James and John based on the clues written into the text. Experience is stored in the muscles. Injuries and illnesses alter our bodies. Emotional baggage and insecurities change our comportment, perhaps bringing our heads lower, slumping our shoulders forward in a posture of defeat; or perhaps we over-compensate and stand up taller than natural in a false air of superiority. Clothing affects physical being. Childhood experiences, lifestyles, and careers also influence how we carry ourselves. I am reminded of my great uncle, Kenneth, whom I used to see very occasionally growing up on family trips to Kansas. In my mind he never changed. He was always quiet and old, resembling a toad; his face was deeply lined from years toiling in the sun. He was tall and wiry and walked very stiffly, his arms dangling at his side when he wasnt resting in his rocking chair. Though not necessarily strong looking, I could see there was a forged strength, like steel cables running beneath those long-sleeved flannel shirts and straight-legged denims. He was a farmer. Everything about his body attested to that. So when I heard the story of how he died, I wasnt surprised at the strength he displayed. He was burning some brush and rubbish on his land when there was an explosion, and he caught on fire. All of his clothing was burnt off him save his cowboy boots. But somehow he managed to crawl to his nearby pickup and drive to his sons house a few miles down the road. He died the next day in the hospital. That is a story of physical being. It permeates, it defines, even to death. The first thing I did when beginning the quest for John and James was to try on different pairs of shoes and begin walking the space (a.k.a. the stage where the characters live). I added layers of physicality based on the personalities. I didnt know much about my alter egos at the beginning stages, only that John was a pianist and was hated, and James was loved and had a fatal disease. I began delving into the script, looking for character clues. Pianists are nimble, I thought,

and more reserved than, say, violinists. (Ive known a few violinists, and they have been anything but reserved!) I felt his strides were long and purposeful, and his head was often bowed, like he was studying sheet music. I gave him the sidelong glance of a cynic and pessimist. His brow was knit from thought, unhappiness, and deep insecurity. Many of his gestures were quick and jerky, like he expected people to try and snatch things from him. In contrast, James was much softer, warmer. His disposition was always one of kindness and cheer. He constantly referenced literature and musical theatre, and I began to think of him as having the qualities of many gay musical theatre guys Ive known. James was effeminate--a showman--but with the onset of AIDS, faced with his mortality, he lost his confidence. He tried his best to keep it masked until his body began breaking down. The characters physicalities started taking shape over the weeks of rehearsal as I paced back and forth on the stage. Language became the next hurdle to jump. I had two things from my own life going for me which helped in grasping the sometimes heightened language of John and James: a musical ear, and a comfort with words. As a singer and cellist, having a musical ear enables me to easily pick up dialects. With the help of voice and speech classes, and having learned how to phonetically approach the consonant, vowel, diphthong and triphthong sounds of accents, mastering the British dialects came relatively quickly. I chose a standard upper middle-class London dialect for John, whom I saw as being more educated and putting on certain pretensions. For James, I chose a more authentic lower class London dialect, completely without affectation. John had many more lines of dialogue written for him in the play, including some very lengthy monologues. But where some actors may have been intimidated, I welcomed the onslaught of words. I love language. If I had lived in the 18th or 19th centuries I think I may have been that classification of man who has sadly become extinct in our day: a man of letters. My love of words is reflected in the poetry I write, which is often rhymed and metered, as in sonnets. Many of my poems reflect the influence of the great poets of those literate years. The following poem is a sonnet I wrote as part of a screenplay set in the late 18th century. The character who wrote it, an English aristocrat, has died in a duel, leaving this poem as a farewell to his lover. If you, my dear, do hold this verse in hand, You hold the last of me, but not the end;

For death, tho full of power, cannot command The lovers soul to leave his own to mend. I had no other worthy cause than love, My dear, but love was cause enough, and more, To risk my all for happiness above A life without the one I most adore. So like a sudden gale at sea were we Caught up in loves tumultuous embrace; Twas heavenly winds which carried you to me, And winds which swept afar my wistful face; Think not of me as sleeping where I lay, But near you, whispering your tears away. This is the sort of language thing that gets me going! As a voiceover in my script, this would be read aloud, which I did many times as I wrote it. Its one thing to write the words, and quite another to perform them--yet in both cases, an ease with the language is necessary. When performing complex or heightened speech, the intent must be crystal clear and rooted in the needs of the character. In the third act of Love! Valour! Compassion! the character arc of John reaches its zenith in the form of a nearly two page monologue. It actually begins with the character of James, who, quite ill, is sitting in a chair, wrapped in a blanket. I stand up from the chair as John and begin talking to James. As John begins his catharsis, describing how he hates and envies his brother for the love he so easily received in life, he interrupts himself to describe what James is doing--tears falling down his face, taking Johns hand in his and kissing it in forgiveness. John also describes how he is talking to himself, how he is touching his own hand, looking at his own mirror-image. It is an incredibly complex monologue, heightened not in an olde way, but in a technical and emotional way. The intent of every individual moment and layer must be mapped out in order for it to make sense to an audience. Apparently I managed to pull it off. In each performance, during the close of the monologue as I returned to the chair, switching once more into James, I could hear the audience sniffling. What a uniquely thrilling and unforgettable theatre moment! Acting is a reflection of life. The primary differences are: life is not scripted and you only go though each moment once; acting has a script and must be performed time and time again. One might believe that rehearsal and spontaneity are incompatible. They are not, but living truthfully in

the moment and keeping those moments fresh performance after performance is the greatest challenge to actors. Believable moment-to-moment work stems from a fierce and unwavering focus on the present circumstance and relationships. Actors are thrown into situations and settings that may never be experienced in real life, and yet they are required to make them believable. Oftentimes when actors are cast in a play, show, or film, they have never met the other members of the cast, and yet are required to create authentic, believable relationships--some of which quite intimate--in a very short period of time. Essentially, acting is the painstaking recreation of what happens effortlessly and naturally in life. The manner in which life naturally plays out moment-to-moment becomes intensely clear during the most heightened experiences in life, such as childbirth. The participants are acutely present; the expectation and unpredictability of every moment feels like each is lived on tenterhooks. When my son, Finn, was born in October of 2010, my wife, Ursula, and I had planned on a home birth. Our midwife and doula came to the house when Ursulas contractions began early on a Sunday morning. Every two and a half minutes or so a contraction would come, gradually building in intensity. Between each contraction was the present expectation of another contraction. The midwife monitored closely. As the discomfort increased, we all did what we could to make Ursula comfortable--until we went outside for a harrowing 45 minute walk around the block to speed things up. Each step, each moment, full of intent and keenly felt. Once back inside, when it came time to push, Ursula heaved heroically with each contraction. Ultimately, Finn never entered the birth canal. After 12 hours of labor and 2 hours of pushing, we went to the hospital for a caesarean. Moment to moment to moment to moment. In life there is no other choice. Looking at this experience objectively and through a theatrical lens, the stage was set with a very specific set of circumstances, place, and cast of characters. The relationships were established. The stakes were high. Each character had identified needs and clear objectives. In Love! Valour! Compassion! there was no childbirth scene, but there was another world which demanded the same spontaneity, authenticity, and high stakes which are inherent in life. But how to recreate that purposeful, moment-to-moment believability? To answer the question in part, it is essential that the relationships are established. This was a tall order for me playing the character John, as I was required to be in a romantic relation-

ship--not with just anyone, but with a Puerto Rican character called Ramon, played by an ItalianAmerican acquaintance of mine, Matt. The play calls for very intimate scenes involving kissing and nudity on the part of Ramon. Willingness to be an actor is like enlisting in the military: be prepared to do as directed and to face mind-bending challenges. I had to set aside my natural feelings--which were reticent--and replace them. An actor can never judge the role he is playing; to judge is to assume a place of objectivity, and objectivity is the enemy of the craft. I had to find the beauty in Matt, imbuing him as Ramon with qualities of attractiveness. Out of the attraction arose a desire to be around him and stemmed emotional feelings for him, particularly successful, as in life, when the feelings were reciprocal. Over the rehearsal process, I grew to care deeply for Ramon. He had beautiful brown eyes, a handsome face, a muscular body, and a zeal for life. The character of John found trust and love exceptionally difficult and constantly berated Ramon, so I didnt have to go as far as truly falling in love, but I did have to go deeply enough that when John ties Ramon to a chair and straddles him, it isnt the most awkward situation in the world. This is required relationship work that all actors must go through in order to portray believability. Sometimes the leap isnt far; other times its a veritable gulf. Once the relationships are established, the actor can begin the process of discovering what the character wants from the others in his world. John was a desperate character. His cynicism and frequent offishness was the result of a vicious circle of self-sabotaged effort. His deep need for love was matched only by his penchant for offending and repulsing the very ones he sought love and acceptance from, even Ramon. This inner conflict set the backdrop for the high emotional stakes in the cathartic monologue between John and James at the end of the play. Johns greatest needs were to be loved unconditionally and to have that love expressed. The needs of the character are what drive the action; they provide the motivation. It is up to the actor to discover what those needs are and to make them meaningful and deep enough to drive the scene. If the needs are shallow and weak, the action is weak; conflicts and obstacles which keep the need from being met become superfluous, and the bored audience leaves at intermission. A need is deep enough when it reaches life and death magnitudes. Only in this place of deep neediness does genuine, honest, creative moment-to-moment work become possible. While I, as the actor, had not experienced exactly what John had, I had to delve into the deepest areas of personal pain in my own life in order to relate to the pain of John. I adopted Johns circumstances and carried the weight of his suffering in the same way as I carry mine.

As I pointed out earlier, acting is rehearsed while life is not. But there is a great deal of repetition in life. In fact, 90% of life is monotony. My father-in-law used to humorously describe life as day-to-day drudgery punctuated by the odd burst of ecstasy. And yet, each day is quite different from the day before. No two days experiences are ever the same. Yes, sometimes we must make concerted efforts to change things up, to keep things fresh and interesting. This is a challenge to do, as our perceptions tend to rob us of the happiness of daily variations. The stage actors challenge is not so different. No two performances are ever the same. Different performances hit different highs, different lows. Some drag on while others find a timing groove that produces magic. Some audiences are responsive and receptive; others seem to drain theatrical energy like black holes which only consume, never giving anything back in return. But when all the parts of the machine are functioning--the physical being components, the skillful inner-workings of intent and language, and the moment-to-moment fundamentals--lifes truest reflection can appear like a beautiful mirage in a darkened room on a wooden stage. I always preferred to act onstage than on television or film. The theatre is an actors domain, an actors medium. Production values, which are limited on stage, should only enhance the actors performance. TV and film, having much more production, are different beasts. What work I did in those mediums I enjoyed (mostly because it was so hard to come by), but something about it was never quite satisfying. Sets belong to directors and cameramen, to editors and technicians. The actor performs by the same craft, incorporating different techniques to befit being in front of a camera, but the end result is always another persons show. Thus, each repetitive take exists in a vacuum, each scene in isolation. There is little to no continuity. But as a critic, I accept both film and TV equally as legitimate and artful media, and the same rules apply to them as to the stage: I never want to be distracted by the production itself. Unless Im specifically looking for the different elements, I never want to notice the camera movements, the editing, sound equipment entering into the frame, excessive special effects, or anything else which detracts from the story and the characters playing it out. Each additional element should be carefully executed to assist in the storytelling.

Love! Valour! Compassion! does not end happily. As the ensemble dances the Pas de Quatre from Swan Lake like it was the dance of life, each character breaks away, soliloquizing, to describe how he dies. James admits he wasnt brave, that he went back home to Battersea and took pills. John says that he never changed despite his efforts. No one mourned him. No tears were shed for him. But for me, as actor and critic--like brothers played by the same man--all characters die when the lights go down for the final time, and all that remains is the memory of a story. Happy or tragic, was it well told? Did the actors breath life into the physicality, into the language, and into the reality of moments onstage? Those are the questions which matter; as actor and critic, the answers are determined by both of us.

Conclusion It is my belief that we, as human beings, are ourselves works of art; we are the greatest expression created by God in all the universe: the only beings in existence capable of imaginative and creative self-expression. For me, God is the greatest source of inspiration, for He is the uncaused first cause. Existing outside of time, He found delight in creating everything that is, from stars to starfish. Through His creation, He reveals wisdom and an unlimited imagination. When I think back on those years spent wandering the woods in Missouri, my mind sparking with vitality, I see them as a living, three-dimensional brushstrokes on Gods great canvas. Every day before then

and since then, I am a work in the making until the day of glorious completion when I will see, with my own eyes, Gods work of art in its grand entirety. In the meantime, I look around me for the fingerprints of the Creator. They appear everywhere I look, often unexpectedly, in the form of people, forests, distant countries, and yes, in clouds. Imagination is stirred, forming new ideas and images in the mind based on the source of the inspiration. Creativity uses those imaginative beginnings and begins the process of production. Expression is what results as a work of art. ICE. I am reminded of the poem by Robert Frost about how the world might end by ice, but in this context, I am inclined to believe the world began by it. There are some mediums in which an artist can enter into the work of art to begin the process of expression. The dancer moves in time, capturing through choreography the essence of music and story in an individualistic way. The singer or musician or poet finds freedom to express in the notation, rhythms, and formulas of the art form. Actors inhabit the lives of characters and find their expression by three different means: by finding the physical being of the character using clues from the text, by the skillful use and handling of dialogue, and by working moment to moment to find the truth of relationships and the needs of the character. The actor is the great creative interpreter, living in the space of the stage or set and creating a believable life from nothing but words. The result is a highly individual expression. And then there is the critic, who lives with the artist in a kind of symbiotic relationship. He is intimately acquainted with the ways of the artist, with styles and forms, with technical elements, and with the creative process through which the artist arrives at the expression, or the object of critique. There is a saying that everyones a critic, but the saying could not be more misleading. Everyone has opinions; a true critic has more than just opinions: he is educated, an expert in his field, and has personal experience with imagination and creative expression. The true critic is an apologist, a defender of beliefs; his scope is focused. He cannot accurately or fairly critique beyond his own breadth of experience. If I were to go to a ballet and write a critical review, I might be able to sell it, but it would be rubbish. I know too little about the art form. I could not show a man with a gun to my head the basic ballet foot positions to save my life.

Having reflected on the greatest areas of creative experiences in my life, I am left now in the present moment. My greatest creation and blessing, my thirteen month old son, Finn, is sleeping soundly in a nearby room. Through the window in front of where Im seated typing, a bougainvillea grows wildly over the neighbors fence, its fuchsia blossoms bursting vividly into the light of a Southern California morning. I can feel my imagination tugging somewhere in the recesses of my brain. There might be a poem or a painting here somewhere, for the moment though, just a cloud in the cranial sky.