How to Spot a Creative Idea

I recently made the case (“On Craftsmanship,” Sept. 2010) that a classical artistry rests upon two mighty pillars: craftsmanship and creativity. The second of the two, I wrote, cannot stand without the first. Here’s why:

WE ALL KNOW that making art has something to do with creativity, so it seems easy to believe that an artist’s job is to search for creative ideas. After all, some of the most celebrated masterworks in history also seem to be some of the most creative, which might suggest that the artists who made them were champion idea hunters.

Maximalist artists believe this, too. In the competitive world of maximalism, an unconstrained artist will often find himself thinking, “Gosh, my rival is so popular. They all love his latest idea, so I should come up with something that’s similar…but even more creative!” And it doesn’t sound silly at the time.

CLASSICISTS NEVER SEARCH for creative ideas, because plenty of creative ideas find them. Yes, that’s right. A classical artist needs merely to reach out and take her pick of the best creative ideas that happen to float through her head. That may sound like an unreliable process now, but by the end of the article, I hope to convince you otherwise.

Although there’s more to this process than meets the eye, nothing mysterious or otherworldly is going on. When an artist stumbles upon a creative idea, it’s simply called SERENDIPITY—the discovery of something unsought. As you might know, serendipity has been the source of many of the world’s biggest breakthroughs. The Oxford Dictionary of Medicine reports that even “the Nobel Prize, the ultimate accolade for scientific development, has been awarded to many [scientists] for their serendipitous discoveries.”

So far, my message has not sounded very helpful. In fact, you probably feel a bit discouraged. Should we just sit on the sofa and wait for ideas? Is there nothing an artist can do? On the contrary, there’s a very good reason why the serendipitous discovery of a scientific idea is usually made by a scientist—not by a banker, not by a lawyer, and most definitely not by a couch potato.

"Louis Pasteur" by Albert Edelfelt (1885).

“CHANCE FAVORS THE PREPARED MIND,” declared Louis Pasteur, who discovered a new method of vaccination after making a research error on one serendipitous day in the 1870s. With those words, Pasteur observed something very important about the nature of serendipity: unexpected ideas will come most readily to a scientist who is so very familiar with what he’s doing—and with what he expects to find—that he can easily recognize and evaluate the unexpected idea when it strikes. Without a prepared mind, the brilliant idea would simply go unnoticed.

Of course, there’s a more obvious factor involved here as well, the one that rules out couch potatoes: As a scientist, you’ve got to be doing something, not only to gain the mastery of a prepared mind but simply to ensure that ideas of some sort will continue to pop into your head. Not all of them will be brilliant, and you will pass over dozens of the less spectacular thoughts that drift your way, probably without even realizing it.

That’s okay. When your mind is well-prepared, you won’t miss the big one.

THE SAME IS TRUE for artmaking. And how can painters, composers, and writers go about preparing their minds? With the craftsmanship and routine of a constrained classical artistry.

“The theory is simple enough,” write David Bayles and Ted Orland in their insightful little book, Art & Fear. When making art, “respond automatically to the familiar, and you’re then free to respond selectively to the unfamiliar.”

In today’s world, many cash-strapped artists might find the thought of working in a familiar style over and over again foolhardy. To allow creativity to seemingly take care of itself can be terrifying.

The author Elizabeth Gilbert has become one of the most outspoken critics of this anxiety, this maximalist worry that your creative productions won’t measure up to your neighbors’. She shares her wisdom in this heartfelt video.

Like Gilbert, fellow author Stephen King has a clear understanding of how artists should—and should not—spend their time: “Don’t wait for the muse,” he advises in On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft. King practices his own classical artistry by requiring himself to write no less than ten pages every morning. Although both authors make reference to a “muse,” King’s following remarks remove any doubt that he is actually speaking of serendipity:

This isn’t the Ouija board or the spirit-world we’re talking about here, but just another job like laying pipe or driving long-haul trucks. Your job is to make sure the muse knows where you’re going to be every day from nine ’til noon or seven ’til three. If he does know, I assure you that sooner or later he’ll start showing up…making his magic.

Artmaking isn’t easy. But with a classical artistry, you have the power to find not only creativity but also another word that begins with “c”: confidence.