Why We Create

Before the year ends, read Jia Tolentino’s searing essay Worst Year Ever, Until Next Year:

In any case, someone will tweet “worst year ever” every few minutes until 2016 is over, and then people will begin tweeting “worst year ever” as soon as 2017 begins. They will type “worst year ever” because of spilled drinks and late Ubers, a new Trump story, a new dispatch—if she miraculously manages to survive until then—from Bana Alabed, the seven-year-old girl in Aleppo who’s been tweeting, with her mother’s help, her fears of imminent death. There is no limit to the amount of misfortune a person can take in via the Internet, and there’s no easy way to properly calibrate it—no guidebook for how to expand your heart to accommodate these simultaneous scales of human experience; no way to train your heart to separate the banal from the profound. Our ability to change things is not increasing at the same rate as our ability to know about them. No, 2016 is not the worst year ever, but it’s the year I started feeling like the Internet would only ever induce the sense of powerlessness that comes when the sphere of what a person can influence remains static, while the sphere of what can influence us seems to expand without limit, allowing no respite at all.

Perhaps it is the horror that swells, perhaps it is our awareness of it.

Yet I have friends who agree that this year was terrible culturally, and declare that it was their most fulfilling and happy year personally. This doesn’t diminish the personal pain that many others have gone through, but allows that there is a limit to the usefulness of abstract empathy. Despair is a passive verb. Even anger is more useful. One can both mourn and feel joy.

A shitty year is the most compelling argument for building oneself a joyful refuge. It doesn’t help anybody to freeze out in the cold.

It might be your best year ever. Please, fiddle while Rome burns. More than ever we need your songs.

Why We Create

Ninety-nine times out of one-hundred, pro wrestling storylines are insipid, insulting, and exhausting, and yet pro wrestling is the only narrative form I’ve seen consistently execute the most difficult storyline device out there:

The double-turn.

A double-turn is when a hero and villain walk into a match, and by the end of their fight, the hero has become the villain, and the villain has become a hero.

The most famous example:

In 1997, long-time fan favorite Bret Hart met chaotic evil asshole Stone Cold Steve Austin. Austin had trash talked and sneak-attacked Bret for months, and Bret, a no-nonsense veteran, couldn’t wait to get his revenge. When the two finally met at Wrestlemania 13, the fans cheered Bret to the ring. The match quickly became vicious and intense. Bret expected to dominate Austin with his technical arsenal, but every time he had the upper hand, Austin brawled back.

Bret became increasingly frustrated that he couldn’t put Austin away. While Bret’s hair was a oil-tinted lion’s mane, his personality was all crew-cut: tight-lipped and taciturn. Now, however, he seemed fatigued and annoyed. For the first time, Bret’s straight-laced persona began to crack. His blows became crueler, designed to injure rather than score a victory. It was no longer enough to beat Austin, Bret wanted to diminish him, humiliate him, break him. Twenty minutes in, Bret opened a terrible gash along Austin’s forehead. Blood spilled down into Austin’s eyes. Between the sweat and crimson, the ring mat became an unfinished Pollock.

Austin, for his part, wouldn’t relent. Through the pain and abuse, Austin would raise a middle-finger and claw his way back into the match.

Finally, however, the Bret found his endgame, locking Austin into the Sharpshooter, his brutal submission leglock. Austin writhed to relieve the pressure, but couldn’t reach the ropes to force a break. Bret sat back and wrenched harder. Austin howled in agony. Blood poured down his face, a horror-movie mask. The crowd roared – but were they cheering for Bret or screaming for Austin to fight on? The longer Austin resisted, the more the audience found a grudging respect for his toughness, his courage.

Austin couldn’t make it to the ropes, but he didn’t tap out either. With his spine mangled in the Sharpshooter, Austin passed out from the pain. The ref ended the match, but Austin never gave up. He wouldn’t be broken.

Bret couldn’t accept that. The match over, he stood over Austin’s defenseless body and stomped into him, threatening to tie Austin into the Sharpshooter again until the referee pried him away. Hart sulked from the ring to a chorus of boos. As he walked to the locker room, he turned back only once, to look a betrayed fan dead in the eyes and shout “Fuck you.”

Once awake, Austin limped to the back under his own power, groggy and defiant.

The crowd chanted his name.

Plenty of movies have face turns, where the dreaded villain redeems himself in the climactic moment – Vader throwing the Emperor down a ventilation shaft to end Return of the Jedi.

Plenty of TV shows have heel turns, where the protagonist’s guileless smile curls into a snarl – Walter White watching Jane choke to death to reclaim control over his business.

And yet somehow pro wrestling – baffling, sprawling, incoherent pro wrestling – alone wields the most breathtaking narrative trick of all. The double-turn.

It’s time for Hollywood to catch up.

Why We Create

If you feel like politicians don’t represent your attitudes, it is possible that you are not strange enough.

In the documentary Objectified, industrial designer Dan Formosa describes his lab’s approach to building new products:

“We have clients come to us and say, ‘Here is our average customer.’ For instance, ‘Female, she is 34 years old, she has 2.3 kids,’ and we listen politely and say, ‘Well, that’s great, but we don’t care . . . about that person.’ What we really need to do, to design, is look at the extremes. The weakest, or the person with arthritis, or the athlete, or the strongest, the fastest person, because if we understand what the extremes are, the middle will take care of itself.”

My take: This approach is currently being tested in the U.S. presidential election. We will find out whether speaking to the oddest, the angriest, and the most dogmatic at the exclusion of everyone else is a viable political strategy, or whether you really need to cater those in the middle: independents and undecideds.

More than that, this is a lesson for anybody who has something to say:

Who is your least interested audience? Who are your biggest opponents? Who loves your work? Who are your True Fans? Whether you are crafting a presentation for management, planning a protest, or starting a blog, these are the two audiences you need to consider. Shock your opposition to attention. Nerd out with your homies. No middle ground. No average users. The mean will take care of itself.

To learn about how Tim Ferriss used this principle to learn Spanish in 8 weeks, read The Four-Hour Chef.

Why We Create

“The 8 hours you need to sleep each night, are my opportunity. The time you spend with your family and friends, is my opportunity. If you’re not maxed out, if there’s still a shred of humanity left in you, then you’re just leaving your lunch on the table.”

This brilliant blog post by Elaine Ou captures a common strategy: to expand to the widest possible audience, slash your margins. Instead of making $10 per sale, make $1. Instead of $1, make 10 cents. Instead of 10 cents, raise funding to give it away for free.

We often encounter the same incentives at our own jobs. Rather than money, the margin for our work is time. Instead of leaving at 6, stay until 8. Instead of finishing at 8, work on the ride home. Instead of finishing when you arrive home, work the weekend. Slash your margins. Track your metrics. Eliminate your inefficiencies.

When your team begins talking about efficiency, it’s time to find a new team. Efficiency is an endless war, one measured in minutes and dollars saved, not in people served or missions met.

Every four years, someone sets a new swimming record at the Olympics. Efficiency is an endless war.

And what’s the opposite of chasing efficiency? Spending more time: to listen, to build relationships, to tailor, to take risks. To serve fewer, better. To add humanity to your work. The more you add, the more you keep.

Why We Create

If you understand the difference between a physical book and an eBook, then you understand the difference between religion and atheism.

Why We Create

When you visit Paris, avoid The Louvre. Despite its reputation as the center (or centre) of high art, its massive size and dense crowds create an exhausting experience for many people. Unless you are an art student, a fan of indoor hiking, or a talented pickpocket, just skip it.

The Louvre’s biggest attraction and most upsetting experience is the Mona Lisa. Each day tens of thousands of people crowd into the room where the painting hangs behind bulletproof glass. Only the tall and persistent get more than a fleeting glimpse of the canvas. Most spy it only through the neck-and-shoulder gap of a tourist raising an iPad above their head, snapping a blurry memory that will surely last a lifetime.

Instead, wander the small streets around Rue Vieille du Temple in the Marais neighborhood, and explore as many of the contemporary galleries as you can. Seeing a breathtaking painting up close is an experience at once religious and deeply humanistic. Observe the way the paint rises and falls, smudges and streaks. What was a vivid figure standing before you becomes a series of a hundred million movements of a person’s hand. A marriage of intention and coincidence, perfectly arranged imperfection. Up close, you see the brushstrokes. You see the hand that made the brushstrokes. You see beyond the image that the paint depicts, you feel the fragility of the painter.

Go explore the world and look for the brushstrokes.

Attending a performance by Cirque du Soleil or a fight in the UFC is completely different from watching the televised broadcast. Up close you are overwhelmed by the sense of physical risk. Our notions of courage and harm are largely informed by images on screens. Rarely do we see people risk their life before us. Being in the room gives us a bigger thrill, yes, but also a more profound understanding of their talent and a deeper respect for their defiance of fear.

Since the printing press, reproduction has given us the incredible opportunity to spread our work to millions. Yet, each reproduction distances us from the creator. It is easy to forget about the artist, or worse, to idealize them. To imagine their ability as innate and not painfully, arduously earned. To assume their success was inevitable and not a series of daily skirmishes with doubt and fear. To view them as immortal and not laughably frail; people with sore wrists and gas and bouts of forgetting friends’ birthdays.

When we get close enough to see the brushstrokes, we restore humanity to the creator.

And only when we get close enough to feel their humanity do we understand their divinity.

Why We Create

“If you want to watch what someone fears losing, watch what they photograph.”

Merlin Mann, Roderick on the Line (1:12:30)

The conventional take is that social media presents us with only half a story. We see their view from the summit of Mt. Shasta, their tiny espresso on Rue Mouffetard, their group photo in Napa, friends arm in arm, wide smiles. We see their joy and their fulfillment (this line of thinking goes), and we miss the other half: the stumbles and struggles, the insecurities, the boredom.

What if our friends have been showing us all along?

Yes, our Instagram feeds our curated. Everything, from our subject, to our framing, to the filter we apply, each choice is the story of a moment – not as it was, but as we need to remember it. Each photograph captures a feeling we fear might slip away.

There is a second half to every photo, a face in the vase.

We may feel closer to our friends when we consider the choices that went into their photos. Why here? Why this moment? Why do they want to hold onto this, remember with this lens? What happened just outside the frame? What is it they fear to lose?

Why We Create

Let’s test some alternative definitions for technology and art !  Let’s see. Simply:

Technology facilitates closure, completion of tasks.

Art opens, creates unresolved tensions, new tasks to complete.

With these definitions, we free ourselves from the thorny cages of silicon versus ink, steel versus string, function versus aesthetic. Can toilet seats be art? Can a poem be technology? Can the camera be a work of art, and the photo be the technology?

A personal essay that helps people find closure in the deaths of their family members? This is technology.

Simone Giertz’ shitty robots, the goofy, miserable contraptions that inspire people to build, to fail, to leap? Art.

Art and technology, questions asked and answered.

Why We Create

How might we resolve the chef’s dilemma, the asymmetry between the effort it takes to make something and the effort it takes to consume it?

Here are three common strategies:

  1. Make it faster: If we reduce the time, care, or attention we spend on our work, then we approach a balance in the amount of time they’ll take to enjoy it. We can make things faster by refining our technique and producing our work more efficiently. Beware, however, that we usually end up hating processes that we try to make more efficient.
  2. Make a million: For some, a million people enjoying their work for a few minutes will be more satisfying than a thousand people enjoying their work for years. To appeal to the largest possible crowd, we may need to make a few compromises, but the reward and the renown are certainly unparalleled.
  3. Make them wait: Here’s a secret – for an artist, a delay is a way of getting even. A chef whose restaurant has a three month waitlist feels no shame. The line around the block, the album delay, each fan’s frustration is a small measure of justice. Once they’re inside, we create ways to slow their experience. We keep them at the table for four hours through fourteen courses. Small spoons. Tiny bites.

A little less care, or a little more. A little less time, or a little more. Chef’s choice.

Why We Create

You prepare your chicken stock by boiling four pounds of excavated chickens with onion, carrot, leeks, and fresh herbs. You simmer that for a full day. The following evening, you reheat the chicken stock. As it warms up, you mince garlic, onion, and red peppers. You crush saffron and add it to the stock. In a large cast-iron pan you heat some oil and sauté some chicken thighs. You slice a chorizo, grate a tomato and toss both into the pan, along with the vegetables. When that browns, you add several cups of uncooked rice and let that sizzle with everything else. Once everything gleams and steams, add the stock into the pan. Let that simmer for 30 minutes. Once the rice has soaked everything up, tuck some shrimp, piquillo peppers, and anything else you fancy in there. Make sure not to disturb the bottom of the pan. Keep the pan over that heat. You want to hear a sizzle. Thats the rice at the bottom of your pan caramelizing. That crust, called the socarrat, is the key to a perfect paella.

You bring the hot pan to your eager friends. They’ve been talking and laughing and sipping (okay, slurping) white wine while you conjured your magic in the kitchen. Exhausted and excited, you plop into your chair alongside them. Salud.

They scarf down your creation in five minutes flat. Noisily, gleefully, gratefully… and rapidly.

The chef’s dilemma: they will spend less time, care, and attention eating your food than you will spend making it.

He spends four years on his followup album. They listen to it once while responding to emails and burp out an opinion over their lunch break.

She spends the better part of her twenties observing, sketching, painting. They walk through her debut gallery, stop in front of each piece for fifteen seconds and nod.

That violent asymmetry of time, care, and attention. A devotional injustice. The chef’s dilemma.