Creative Doubt

My friend is a fine art photographer of the natural world, leading classes, publishing, writing about photography, and whatever the hell else photographers do. I'm a words guy and my photos on this blog show I've not developed much skill in composition or technique. He's the images person, but I like when he goes into words and talks about being. Today, he posted about doubt:

Much is written about how for the artist the creative process is more important than the product. Specifically, for the landscape photographer the experience of being in the natural world and exploring one’s relationship with nature matters more than the resulting images. I agree with this. However, as someone seeking to further establish myself as a full-time nature/landscape photographer I have always found it difficult not to feel that results are the priority. I feel a pressure (imaginary or otherwise) to produce a consistent stream of high quality images. To that end I admit to willingly enduring less than Zen-like experiences to “get the shot” at times. And if an outing results in no images I often feel frustrated, regardless of how beautiful the morning or location may have been.

That I experience such feelings despite knowing better leads me to wonder, do the acknowledged preeminent photographers really have it all figured out? Are they able to always live their creative lives according to these ideals? Do they not have moments where they succumb to their self-doubts and insecurities? Do they not sometimes sacrifice their ideals to get the shot? I am left to ponder such things because personal self-doubt and questioning are topics about which they rarely seem to write. Why is that? Are they afraid admitting such vulnerabilities would weaken their standing as master instructors and mentors? I for one would find it refreshing and encouraging to know that they suffer similar doubts and frustrations from time to time. It would make them seem more relatable and honest. 

I've written about the process of writing and where it can take us, but I haven't talked as much about product because I make my daily bread from teaching rather than writing. Also, I've been known to fear my product. This site meant to push me to create and publish more product, but weeks of regular production are followed by weeks of writing almost nothing. Such as this week. Each time I write, it's all drivel. Chris feels frustrated after an outing with no good images; I tear up pages and wonder where my talent has gone.  

Chris knows that preeminent photographers don't have it all figured out. He wants them to talk about their doubts. When I write about writing, I can come off as a know it all. I'm tearing up pages this week and haven't published anything. I'd feel worse, but J.K. Rowling, who is better at writing thing than I ever hope to be, tweeted the following today: 

If she struggles, then I bet all my money the rest of us do too and anyone who says otherwise is lying more than the president. 

What do I do when it's going nowhere, when doubt overwhelms, when I feel too vulnerable to put down the next word? That's easy; write the next word and the next until the pages get better. While acknowledging that I'm producing steaming piles, I tell myself I know how to do this and it will come back to me. Chris, I'm sure, shoots more photos until he finds himself again. 

Creativity is tough because there are so many incentives to stop. It's good to enjoy this work we do while acknowledging that it often leaves us feeling like a sixth-grader sitting alone at lunch looking down at the Spam on white bread with Miracle Whip that we've just noticed has a touch of mold.

This week has been Spam and mold sandwiches on my computer screen, coming out of my typewriter, and somehow worming out the end of my pen. I've felt lousy and hungry for something good which just won't come. Still, I keep going. I mean, what the hell else am I going to do? What else could be this good? 

Forever

On this rainy day I run as if there’s no need to stop. I could go forever. Slowly, sure, but endlessly down this road and that. Through this puddle and under those heavy clouds. Until I’m so far away the rules no longer apply. Even natural law evaporates. Like when I was a kid dreaming in my old bed. I'm the track. Coach has me doing the long jump. But I’m fat, I say. Doesn’t matter, she says. Just don’t put your feet down. I run the cinder path toward the sand. Slowly, sure, but I run. At the two-by-four, I jump. Pull my feet up. Knees to stomach. And I tell myself, don’t come down. The key to gravity is deciding against it. I float. My body slows, but I do not fall. I paddle the air with my hands. Move forward. I flapped my arms and rise then soar on updrafts over a world I no longer recognize. And I can go on forever. Or until morning. When I wake, forty years later, hear rain, pull on shorts anyway and go run. No coach. But a voice says, just keep going to see where the road leads, what's beyond the rain and all these years. 

Lousy Day In The Schools

Lest anyone get the idea I have all the answers or even the right questions, I present today's seventh period class, a fairly complete disaster for your amusement and edification. 

I was trying to teach a lesson ostensibly about a poem, but really about compassion and how we recover from the fight that broke out a few days ago after school. It was the same lesson that went perfectly fifth period. That should have given me pause, lightning not striking the same place twice, but I thought I had planned well enough to weather most anything. 

They came in riled up. The class is mostly seniors with a handful of eighth- through eleventh-graders. Several are challenging and I don't have enough desks so kids sit on the heater and at the back table. It's not ideal. Within the first minute I knew they were going to be difficult. This is how it goes sometimes. 

I reeled in some of them, but not many, not enough. Four were glued to phones. I mentioned that it would be good to put phones away. No dice. Two of them were messaging each other and dissolving into giggles. Within five minutes I asked one to leave, but knew it wouldn't really help. I was losing them. They were pretty much gone.  

I went through the lesson from fifth period, but it was no good. Our special ed teacher took two tough kids to a reading test. A senior came in from who knows where. Each interruption derailed us. Mostly I tried to keep people from talking about other things, arguing, and swearing. 

Pressing on, we read the poem and tried to discuss it, but I kept interrupting: "please put the phones aside," "don't touch her," "please watch your language," "yes, you can go to the bathroom," "come back together, folks," and a half dozen other ineffective things. I set up the writing prompt and asked, "are we ready to write?" A guy on the heater asked, "about what?!" I explained again just in time for a senior to ask, "what are we supposed to write about?" Before I could answer, a younger kid asked, "can we write about anything?" I pointed to the prompt on the board. Perhaps I should have texted this shit to them. 

Some of us wrote. Two never started. One stopped after two sentences. "I'm done." No, I explained. We write for the whole time (nine minutes today). I had explained this before we began. It has been S.O.P. since September. We write to get from the first idea into the second and third, to see where our pens and minds take us. "But I'm done," the kid said. I may have sighed. I kept my pen moving on the page, hoping it would be enough to keep some of them writing. 

Some did. Some listened to the poem and thought about it. Some even got the idea about compassion and empathy. But that's not what I took away from class. I was angry, frustrated, and wishing most of them would skip class from now on or maybe transfer. I didn't and don't hate them, but I didn't much like them today.  

Am I allowed to say this? 

I'm not a teacher who loves his students. When the school year is over, I move on. Their lives are up to them, not me. I'm happy if I see some of them (especially if I can remember their names). I shrug when the news says they've been arrested, arraigned, or sentenced, Oh well, I say. Who's next? 

I'll have to try and teach that group of students again and again this month and next. Who knows how it will go? It doesn't have as much to do with my preparation as some believe. I was prepared today, just not for them as they were. Success in schools is a lot about their moods (and mine), the weather, and luck. A crowded classroom often tumbles into chaos and disappointment. Today was chaotic. It was disappointing as hell and pissed me right off. 

I blame them. So there. 

To paraphrase Art Buchwald, I gave them a perfect lesson, and they screwed it up. Schools would work just great if not for the damn kids. That's the only real school reform to consider. I'm in favor of it. Today, I am. Tomorrow, I might feel otherwise. For now, I'm pouring a glass of bourbon, adding one ice cube, and going outside with the dog to watch the sun set. 

Understanding In The Schools

There’s this kid in my class—I’ll call him Frank—he doesn’t say much. Each day, I wait outside my classroom and greet each kid by name. Every time I say hello, Frank acts as though he has not heard me, stares at his phone, and passes by. I usually shake hands or bump fists, but Frank refuses. I’ve stopped extending my hand or fist so as not to annoy him, but I still nod and say hello to show him respect and teach him that this is how things are done. 

In class, Frank sits alone at a table he pulls over near the wall. He doesn’t interact with me and usually has to be asked twice to do things. I ask gently and ask too if there is anything I can do to be of use to him. He doesn’t respond.

Yesterday Frank hadn’t gotten out pen and paper and I mentioned it quietly to him for a third time: “If you can, please put down today’s date so we can get ready to write.” Frank was busy on Snapchat but responded softly, “next time that motherfucker say anything, I bust him up.” I said, “you can leave now.” He went. 

Later in the period, I stopped by the office. Frank was there. I stayed more than an arm’s-length away as I squatted so that I was below his level. I don’t want to be threatening or the victim of a right hook. I said, “I’ve been nothing but kind to you. I’ll continue to be kind. Do you know that you abuse me?” 

Frank said nothing. Frank refused to engage, but he heard me. I’m sure he took it as a challenge. I don’t want to challenge him to a fight, but I do want to challenge him to hear someone criticize him without it becoming a fight. I bet that’s rare in his life. I waited a few seconds in case he wanted to talk, saw that he didn’t, thanked him, and went back to class. 

Later yesterday, I asked the social worker to arrange a meeting for the three of us. Frank and I weren’t going to make progress without help. We had that meeting today. We didn’t make much progress. 

I kept quiet, letting the social worker speak first. Frank got his phone out and busied himself with it. The social worker talked. Then I said, “I was hoping we could talk about how you and I get along. I feel I’ve been kind to you but you’re pretty abusive to me.” Frank said he don’t do nothing to me. “Maybe you could put your phone aside so we can talk.” Frank said he was listening. I felt myself getting frustrated. “I wonder if you were trying to tell me something and I had my head in my phone how that would go.” Frank said he didn’t give a fuck. 

This isn’t unusual in my line of work. Still, it gets to me. In two decades I’ve run through most of the reactions to this sort of thing. Only two work well. The first is to nod and wait it out. When I’m at my best, I do just that. However, that also requires something of the kid. Today I wasn’t at my best and Frank wasn’t going to budge, so I got up and left. I told the social worker and Frank. “Please, excuse me” walked out, closed the door gently, and went back to class. 

Frank and the social worker talked without me likely making more progress than if I had stayed. I returned to class feeling frustrated, apologized to the students for having been gone, and said, “if I seem frustrated tell me to get over it.” One shouted, “Get over it!” I smiled. 

I don’t know that I’ve gotten over anything, but I’m not under much of anything either. It’s a thing that happened and I don’t yet understand it much. This is how it goes in schools. Things happen. We react or respond (maybe a little of both). Then more things happen and we don’t understand much of it right away. It reminds me of parenting. 

When I left the meeting with the social worker and Frank did I give up, surrender, choose discretion over valor, or something else? I don’t know. Ask me next October. By then I might have some idea.