The Creative Crisis

"Let me explain. I have reached what we in a world somewhat different from your own simple round of duties, describe as the creative crisis. It may be described as the crisis at which you want to create something and can't. In most distinguished artists it lasts for a lifetime. It is then called the artistic temperament." -the Poet, "The Surprise" by G. K. Chesterton

This artistic temperament has often manifested itself in the artist as a struggle with depression. I have often wondered why it is that great artists wrestle with such darkness, and in pondering this question, I have reached one thought that I believe sheds light upon the answer.

In creating a work of art—whether it be a painting of the meeting of dear friends, or a poem that speaks of love's pain, or a novel that traces an epic journey, or a play that explores the nature of surprise, or any other form of art—the artist pours forth more of himself than anyone can ever understand who is not an artist. In any other vocation where one is called to give of himself, he receives some return. For instance, a woman who enters a religious order and devotes her life to serving the poor as a sister sees that through her efforts they receive the care they need and the love for which they have longed, and that is fulfillment enough for her. But the artist sees no such reward. It is true that on occasion he may see the popularity of his works or hear some acclaim for his work, but the majority of his time is spent striving away in solitude to create something beautiful, not for himself, but for others, not knowing whether it will ever be cared for, or appreciated, or even whether he shall be able to communicate the brilliant vision at which he aims in his dark labors. This is a task too great for man. Is it any wonder then that the artist should battle so against despondency?

And yet, this task too great for man, is also our common vocation: to give and not to count the cost, even as did our Saviour who died upon the cross. As Christians we are called to deny ourselves, to take up our crosses, and follow Him. This is the path of the artist. So perhaps in a sense we are all called to be artists.

Those, however, who tread that self-giving path—the artist's road—must struggle more forcefully with that deep need to be heard, to be recognized, to be loved.

This is at odds with the way our modern society treats art. When art is regarded as a commercial venture and the artist is valued only insofar as he can produce revenue, it undermines the selfless nature of his vocation. I cannot help but wonder if in the days of old when the troubadours wandered about for the sake of their art, they were happier. I rather fancy that if artists did not need to be so concerned with earning money from their art but instead gave it freely, that they would be happier; and even perhaps that all would be happier then. Perhaps it is a vision too great for this world, but great vision must ever strive for the highest beauty.

What path is left then for the true artist who heeds not the wages of his trade, but creates for love alone?

Aware of his own brokenness, he must either throw himself upon the mercy of the world in all humility, willing to give until it hurts and embrace that pain out of love for his work and for those whose hearts he hopes to touch. Or else, faced with too great a sacrifice, he must withdraw in black bitterness as a recluse.

For the artist's path is the life of a servant. Thus, for the sake of his art, he must become as the least of all, not merely giving his life in service those around him, but pouring out all that he has and is to serve the whole world.

"We are actors, you and I."

To play a part and play it well is a task so inherently satisfying and fulfilling that the two hours of glory can make all the days of stress and rehearsals and the months of preparation worth it. I wonder sometimes how that can be. What is it that makes the dramatic arts so compelling that the actor will give up so much of himself, sacrificing so much time and effort—perhaps until his entire soul cries out in agony that this is too much—in order to produce a single performance? It is a strange thing: this way of the actor.

There are others who have put this far better than I and I daresay my thoughts have been much affected by what I have heard or read, even if I cannot credit all. At least I can say that my thoughts come partly from Kevin O'Brien of Theater of the Word, and partly perhaps from G.K. Chesterton, and partly too from J.R.R. Tolkien, and many others of which I may not even be aware.

It is in a sense an act of creation—or a participation in creation, what Tolkien called subcreation—or what one might call the incarnational aspect. For we actors embody what is beyond ourselves.

That I think is the thought—out of all the many thoughts surrounding this subject—that I would center upon. When an actor stands up to play his part, there may come a time when he realizes that what he is attempting to do is something so great that his ability may not match his vision, and he knows that he may well fail. That possibility of failure broods within, creating a vacuum of emptiness in which he might turn away or embrace its pain—like Christ in the garden—surrendering himself to a greater will than his own.

It is that risk that has often brought such great victories. One may speak of it as genius, or skill, but when cast in the brilliant light of faith, it is the witness of faith: an act of trust.

That risk brings a strange awareness: a feeling that at any moment we might fall. This feeling of discomfort is one from which every man in his right mind would wish to flee at once by instinct, and it is only the rational mind that restrains him. One might say that this is a necessary part of acting. I would have to add that it is a necessary part of life. For this is where humility comes in. It is pride that would have us do nothing except that which we knew we could do perfectly, relying only upon our own strength; humility is willing to take the risks, and to submit all to a greater good.

For we act not for ourselves only. If we did we should soon lose all desire for it. We cannot help it—whether we know it or not—that this embrasure of the life of an actor is for God inasmuch as whatever we do for the least of His brethren we do for Him. For an actor cannot escape that his life is one of service. No matter how much he may gain from it in fame or money or glory or pleasure, he cannot escape the fact that he acts for others to see, that he may communicate to them some beauty, some truth.

What we act may have profound influence upon us, as it did for Saint Genesius, bringing about his conversion to Christianity. And it is he whom I quoted as he spoke in the play "The Comedian" for the title of this post. Although I take this quote slightly out of context, I think it rings true: we are all actors, you and I. Even if we were never to set foot on a stage, everything we do is an act, and therefore because we act, we are actors.