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  Alicia, a young actress, has made four films in the past year. Her work, good to begin with, has steadily improved, and yet she is dissatisfied. Her roles have made her well respected but not yet famous. And famous is what she is after. "Is this a smart career move?" actors like Alicia begin to ask themselves each time they are presented with a role. By definition, the smart career move is the one that makes them famous, and then, once they are famous, the smart career move is the one that keeps them famous.

  Afraid of making the wrong move, afraid of aligning them­selves with the wrong projects, many talented actors go for long stretches without working. It is not that they are not offered work, it is that none of the work offered them seems quite "right."

  A hot novelist embarking on writing a second novel faces the same dilemma. Instead of writing another book, he or she must write the "right" book, the one that will keep fame intact. It is no coincidence that our most famous TV/film reviewer, Roger Ebert, uses thumbs-up or thumbs-down to indicate the worth of a piece of art. It is the same shorthand used to condemn or spare Chris­tian martyrs at the Colosseum. Make no mistake, the public prac­tice of art in our culture is a high-risk endeavor. A bad or unfair New York Times review—as I once had—and an artist can feel like leaving the country. Like John Steinbeck, we may remain public but undergo the private hell of self-doubt and self-flagellation. The wise artist makes provisions to survive the reviewing process. Director Hal Prince defensively schedules a first meeting on a new project for the day after opening a show.

  Not all artists will lead public lives. Many of us as talented as those whom fame strikes may toil out our days in relative ano-

  nymity. For this reason, too, fame must be seen as capricious and different from respect.

  In Taos Valley, the rain is moving north to south. It is accompa­nied by bold and sudden lightning strikes. Trees are split top to bottom, and this, too, is a lesson in what sudden fame can do to an artist's life. When an artist becomes very hot, it is easy to burn out. And, too, much that is precious may be incinerated from sheer proximity. It may not be that movie people are shallow and unable to make commitments. It may just be that fame is so difficult, few relationships can successfully contain it. The lightning strikes can set forest fires that burn destructively despite the rain. So, too, can fame rage through a life.

  WAITING FOR FAME

  Try this: The best antidote to the fame drug is a healthy dose of self-worth. Look at that phrase "self-worth." It tells us that our value must be determined by ourselves alone. What follows is an exercise in self-worth. Take pen in hand and number from 1 to 50. List fifty separate things for which you can value yourself. For example:

  I taught Domenica how to ride, when she was

  just a toddler

  I helped my friend Martha through a financial

  fiasco

  1 wrote, directed, and produced a feature film

  I did a poetry album

  I functioned as editor on a friend's creative

  project

  I beat up the class bully

  I nursed Hot-Note's sore hoof

  I wrote to Bob regularly

  9. I wrote to my father regularly

  10. I grew good tomatoes

  Our list of worthy accomplishments will dif­fer from person to person. Take pen in hand and write for fifteen minutes about what your list has taught you regarding your values.

  Creative Cloudbursts

  The sky is molten silver. Some clouds are pewter, oth­ers as soft as sterling. Above Taos Mountain, the gray darkens to black. This is a big rain coming in. A crack of thunder, a bolt of lightning so bold and exaggerated, it looks cartooned. There is a high shriek as the bolt hits home and a tree is sheared in half. The air sizzles with electricity. Another rumble, a roar so deep-throated it seems to issue from the mountain itself, another crack, another bolt of lightning, and then the drenching rains. The drops fall like nick­els, as though with a rain this big, even the droplets are outsize. As water hits the pifion trees, they emit a pungent, piercing perfume. Like the sage fields, they seem at their very best when drenched with rain and giving off their heady scent. Rain in Taos Valley is intoxicating, not only because of the recent drought, but by its very nature.

  Clouds walk the earth, mountains play peek-a-boo behind their gauzy shawls. The rain itself, liquid silver, glistens in the branches and turns the hilly red dirt roads into wild-running creeks. People go a little crazy during a Taos storm. You'll see them splashing in the puddles like children, spinning like dervishes, laughing and catching each other by the hands. Magic is afoot, and many Taos denizens who moved to the tiny town for magic feel their faith reaffirmed. There is at once a great wildness and a great gentleness. It is like a love affair.

  If most creativity has a calm daily quality, with practice fitting comfortably into our quotidian lives, there are some stretches of creativity that do contain the sudden heady drama of a mountain storm. We experience this amped-up voltage very much like a storm. The very onset of a project may come as a sudden torrential outburst, image after image, thought after thought, crashing into our consciousness with velocity and force. Sometimes the velocity lasts long enough that an entire rough draft gets completed. Other times, the initial voltage fades, leaving us to labor for years to bring in what we saw in that flash of inspiration. A project may move along routinely, only to suddenly pick up speed and intensity as we enter the homestretch. Suddenly the book, the painting, the film, is a downhill slalom that finds us struggling to keep our feet as we make the gates. The power of our creative forces can be frighten­ing. It helps to remember that like the sudden storm, the energy will spend itself and freshly washed normalcy will return.

  Seasoned artists develop strategies for coping with the strong bursts of creative energy as they come. One such strategy is Morn­ing Pages. The pages keep us tethered to our daily life, grounded in the needs we have for current actions. "Call the bank. Call my sis­ter. Remember to buy dog food. Remember to get Windex." Details are grounding, and so are duties. Canny artists know that it is best to stay grounded in the flow of daily life even during a rip­tide of creative activity.

  Veteran artists come to recognize the symptoms of a creative surge. There is a quickening, like the scent in the air just before a storm. This quickening is a warning, and the wise artist passes it along. "I think I'm going to be pretty absorbed for a while," they learn to warn family and friends. "I'm just at that stage." Fore-

  warned family and friends cope better with an artist's storm of self-absorption. "It's not that I don't love you," we need to say, "it's just that right now my work has my attention." The wise artist doesn't sever ties completely. He simply asks for a longer leash. "Can I tap base with you later? Could we talk on the phone? Can I give you a call when I'm through this?" A web of loose connec­tions serves us, allowing us to keep our bearings as the creative compass spins. Certain friends are true north for us; the steadiness of their voice, even at a remove of a thousand miles, brings us to ourselves. These are friends who can function like ground control, eager to hear our flight plan and trajectory. It takes time to dis­cover such friendships, to learn who among our acquaintances can withstand a bout of turbulence without fear. Our communication is often the key. We need to send up warnings—"Going down the rabbit hole; I'll be back as soon as I can."

  For those who love us, such intense visitations by the muse can feel a little like we have run off to have an affair. Our understand­ing this and our vocal appreciation for their understanding this can go a long way toward easing troubled waters.

  Just as the world is washed fresh after a sudden storm, so, too, can our regular life appear to glisten with wonder after the squall of a creative surge has passed. Our spouse, our children, the dog— who could ask for better companions? Gratitude seizes the heart as dailiness is restored. All that remains to remind us of the sudden storm is the deep quiet once it is over.

  CREATIVE CLOUDBURSTS

  Try t
his: When we are in a creative cloudburst, we need to take special care to nurture our­selves, but often we do not know quite how. Take a blank sheet of paper. Once again, draw a circle. Divide it into six wedges. Label them as follows: sleep, nutrition, creativity, spontaneity, service, recreation. Place a dot in each wedge indicating how well you care for yourself. The outer rim is very well, the inner area is not well at all. Connect the dots. Is your self-care a healthy mandala? Or is it a jagged shellburst? In what areas do you need the most improve­ment? How can you give yourself that growth?

  Creative Weather

  After a drenching rain, water runs in small rivers along the border to the Native American lands. The sage is wet and fra­grant; the sky features snowy thunderheads and clear patches of blue. Tranquility reigns as the valley, refreshed and washed clean, settles into a long twilight. Creativity has seasons and weather. A good day's work, like a drenching rain, leaves us washed clean and refreshed. There are corners of the artist's mind that are swept clean only by working. It is working that brushes away the cobwebs. It is working that unclutters the furniture and hangs the clothes in a more orderly fashion. It would seem that working takes energy, but often, a good day's work brings energy as we turn to our neglected chores with a fresh eye and new enthusiasm. Many therapists would be quick to tell you that artists are complicated beings driven by complexes and neuroses. I think that may be true—of blocked artists. But not for an artist who is working freely. That artist tends to be happy and user-friendly.

  What does it take to work freely? First of all, it takes the gift of proportion. When an artist is able to see himself as part of a larger whole that works through him, a great deal of stifling ego is siphoned away. It is no coincidence that much great art was cre­ated in a spirit of service. To God, to the why, to the patron, or to a higher cause. Anything larger and grander than the self draws us to scale, allowing us a useful humility. The tiny town of Taos is

  dominated by its views of Taos Mountain looming visibly over the community. The beauty of the mountain, the day's weather wreathing the mountain—these are constant reminders that our lives are led in relation to a Great Creator capable of infinite mag­nitude and grandeur. The Great Creator works through us as we create. To the degree that we are able to conceive of our creating as a form of listening to what would be created through us, we are granted freedom.

  When we are working well, it is always tempting to take credit for the work. "I am so brilliant!" we want to say. But if we do, we then put ourselves in a position of judgment rather than neutral­ity. One day, we will not seem brilliant. One day, striving to be brilliant, work will be difficult. One day, exhausted from striving, work will be impossible. When we allow work to work through us without the ego's constant judgment, we often produce work of a steady caliber. We are less bedeviled by the ego's ups and downs. We are less affected by mood. If it is our job to take care of the quantity and God's job to take care of the quality, then we can produce our work more readily, the way an apprentice chef serves a master chef, preparing the vegetables without knowing the full recipe.

  It can be said that our talents are gifts from God and our use of our talents is our gift back to God. The degree of happiness we experience when working well, the sense of Tightness and har­mony, all argue that creativity is God's will for us. When we cre­ate, we work hand in glove with the Great Creator. Creativity is its nature and our own. We think—and manifest—from the mind of God within us. Artists throughout the centuries have known this and said this. They are not speaking in metaphor. Ours is one of

  the few world cultures that does not routinely honor higher forces, and yet, working at our art, we do experience inspiration, although we may call it an intuitive hunch or leading. Something within us leads, and we follow. Painter Robert Motherwell speaks of the brushstroke taking the next brushstroke. All artists experience this form of leading when our ego has stepped aside and we follow our inner muse with a childlike innocence and enthusiasm. Time falls away. We spend hours at the easel or the page, and time seems to pass in minutes. We have entered another, spiritual dimension. With our ego set aside, we lose our sense of separation from the source. We experience a time of communion, a conscious contact with a power greater than ourselves. We have touched the Great Creator, experiencing it as a power within ourselves. Is it any wonder that artists emerge, fresh as the valley after rainfall, from a sustained period of work?

  CREATIVE WEATHER

  Try this: During a sustained period of work, artists require special care. We must be vigilant to not abuse our health and well-being. We must actively nurture ourselves. For each of us, the act of nurturing differs. Take pen in hand. Number from 1 to 10. List ten concrete ways in which you can support your artist during a season of hard work. For example:

  /. Go to bed an hour early

  Stay in touch with dose friends

  Buy good groceries

  Cook real meals

  Continue to write Morning Pages

  Double your number of Artist Dates

  Continue to take Walks

  Set a modest daily quotient

  Quit while you're ahead; do not exhaust

  yourself

  10. Plan and execute a reward for work well done

  Telltale Temperament

  The morning light in Taos Valley is even and clear. Chicory stands sentinel by the roadside. Red-winged blackbirds dart among the willows. Ravens and magpies sail overhead, crisscrossing the sky with their cries. After a rainfall, the valley is washed clean. Everything looks new. You would think, from the sheer racket of birdsong, that we were celebrating the first morning of all. When Mabel Dodge, an heiress and socialite, married a Pueblo Indian, Tony Luhan, she began inviting her far-flung cosmopolitan friends to come and visit her new homestead. D. H. Lawrence came—and is buried north of Taos. Georgia O'Keeffe came, paintbrush in hand. Artists of all stripes followed, drawn to the valley by its great beauty and the quality of the light.

  As surely as the Tewa Indians, whose pueblo is the oldest inhab­ited dwelling in North America, artists, too, constitute a tribe. Just as a trace of Native American blood may show in the shape of a cheek­bone, there are telltale signs that identify the artist. All beings are creative; that is our nature. But artists are committed to their crea­tivity, dedicated to serving it. This vocation brings a certain vividness to the personality. In Taos, where many artists live and hold a variety of day jobs, it is not uncommon to discover that a waitress or clerk is a painter of estimable power. Because so many artists gravitate to Taos, and so few support themselves solely by their art, it is dangerous here to assume that a waiter is "merely" a waiter, or a clerk a clerk.

  Shambhu Vaughan, a waiter at Lambert's, paints still lifes and plays blues guitar. A fine waiter, he is distinguished by his precise service and upright bearing. His dignity is instantly apparent. "Like being waited on by a king," visitors have remarked. There is, in most artists, a lively attention and quicksilver humor. These quali­ties are found in abundance in Taos. So is an attitude of "We're all in this together," "this" being the art of making art. Not all artists are quick-witted and emotionally nimble. But many are. A smile lurks at the corner of a mouth, the eyes wrinkle with laughter. Sometimes, a renegade red slip peeps roguishly out from a waitress uniform. Halloween, with its emphasis on costumes and creativity, is the town's favorite holiday. Artists have a capacity to look at things differently, to see below the surface to the quick of things. And that word "quick" is no accident either. Alive to the moment, artists are quick and responsive. They have to be to make art. Art is a matter of receptivity. We become open both to the muse and the moment. Is it any wonder artists find so many things amusing?

  The morning light in Taos Valley is so clean, it emphasizes partic­ularity. Every blade of grass, every Russian olive tree gleaming sil­ver, every grosbeak, every tiny finch demands "Notice me! See what a miracle I am!" As artists, we are all miraculous, ever-changing, always making something new from w
hat has come before. Our eye might light anywhere. That gray satin river rock, does it sug­gest a sculpture? That gently lofted tuft of cottonwood, is it time for a note of whimsy? That artist lives in a state of readiness, open to the world around him, well aware, as M.C. Richards writes, that "inspiration enters through the window of irrelevance." With the bright, clear light of a Taos morning, is it any wonder the windows are flung open?

  TELLTALE

  TEMPERAMENT

  Survival Lessons

  Try this: All artists need encouragement. We need the sense of support that comes from tribal elders. And yet, too often we are isolated from other art­ists. And so we must strategize to reinforce our artist identity. Scrutinize the following list, select one action you can take, and take it.

  Buy and read an autobiography of an artist

  working in your chosen arena

  Rent and view a video about another artist

  working in your chosen arena

  Subscribe to a magazine related to your chosen arena

  Attend a conference in your area of interest (for

  example, Romance Writers of America)

  Attend a workshop in support of your art

  Any action taken in support of our artist is an action that strengthens us. Sometimes the act of supporting another artist by attending a gallery opening or play reading is an act that reinforces our identity as well as theirs. It is important as an artist to nurture a sense of belonging and shared burdens. A simple coffee date with another artist can often break our sense of isolation. Schedule one such date.

  When the student is willing, the teacher appears, spir­itual sages tell us. Another way to put it is that when we are willing to be taught, we become teachable. We always move ahead in our art when we open our heart to willingness. In order to do some­thing well, we must first be willing to do it badly. We must have the humility to be once again a beginner, to admit what we don't know and admit that we wish to know more. It could be argued that it takes an artist to teach an artist. It is certainly true that the voice of hard-won experience is always educational. But artists can learn from nonartists as well. A master chef, choreographing a perfectly served meal, might teach us the value of presentation. A kinder­garten teacher might teach us the worth of patience. From a master baker we might learn tenderness and precision. Teachers are every­where when we are open to them.