Pragmatism

My eight-eight-years old daughter is eager to help me with processing photos from sports photoshoots. She has been looking over my shoulder for a while now and tried using Lightroom herself, to the point where she is fairly proficient at cropping (e.g., she the understands the rule of thirds and has a natural eye for using leading lines in composition) and basic exposure adjustments (e.g., she understands the concepts of black point and highlight clipping). It is apparently a great fun for her, and she treats it like some sort of computer game. This morning, she pulled the laptop away from me and started cropping a selection of photos from the last night’s basketball game.

“You can check them later,” she said to prevent my interfering.

She was clearly enjoying the process, commenting on the photos, the facial expressions of the players and how much fun it was to edit the images.

“I want photography to be my hobby too!” she exclaimed.

Naturally, I was quite happy that my daughter found whatever I do meaningful enough to make it her own. So I encouraged her: “By all means! Why not?!” Or something along these lines.

She kept going through the images, cropping each one and checking exposure. Gradually, she began to realize that the work was pretty tedious and repetitive, and that the image set was rather large.

“Are they actually paying you for this?” she asked after a while.

Enthusiasm curbed with pragmatism – she might be on her way to becoming a pro.

Definition of creativity

Couple of days ago, I listened to an interview with Chase Jarvis, who gave an insightful definition of a creative process. A creative endeavour needs to have an idea-forming stage, a planning stage, and an execution stage. In addition, it needs to involve problem-solving during the execution. This definition is very broad, so it captures activities outside the realm of arts, which if what typically comes to mind when people think about creativity. For example, computer coding would easily qualify as a creative process. Ironically, I am struggling to fit martial arts into this definition, even though it has the word “art” in it. It might be because of how I personally have been approaching my kendo training – literally, not being creative enough to make the practice my own.

Being creative attracts and enables more creativity. When we take photos, sketch or play music, we not only become better at it and therefore can enjoy it more fully, but we also notice more opportunities to engage in these activities. This way, creativity really changes our lives in a tangible way. Chase talked about his mom, who became more outgoing, started to enjoy travelling, etc., because she initially developed an interest in taking photos and sharing them online. We personally met an airport mechanic-turned-painter in Milan, who has been a huge inspiration for my daughter and myself. This idea of exercising creativity like a muscle is similar to the abundance mindset evangelized by Peter Diamandis: doing creative things opens up an abundance of creative opportunities.

Creativity is woven in to the mundane details of everyday life. What matters is doing things with attention and intention rather than forcing a pretentious all-or-nothing artistic lifestyle on oneself, like wearing a beret and moving to Paris to surround oneself with a high art community. Because creativity is hidden in the small details, it makes sense to start small. Case gives an example: if you are an engineer, who dreams of opening a cafe (which would be a very creative thing to do), it would be a poor decision to quit your job, take out a lease on the building and to start running a business, about which you probably know very little. Instead, he suggests to begin baking scones and inviting friends over for brunch for ten Sundays in a row to test how it would feel. Taking things to the next level would be so much easier after you have had some first-hand experience with the core activity of the. Basically, we don’t need to make drastic changes to our lives to live creatively.

Maybe it is easy for me to say, because I am lucky to have both my main job (academic research) and hobbies that squarely fit into Chase’s definition of a creative process. Even so, I find that I often have to remind myself to do what Tim Ferriss’ favourite note to self says: “Notice the best part.”

Work or hobby?

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“First comes interest.”
— Angela Duckworth.

My former PhD advisor used to tell his graduate students that in order to develop expertise in one’s field of research, the study itself, i.e. reading scientific papers, working out the details of math and physics, has to become a hobby. This is what Richard Feynman called “The Pleasure of Finding Things Out”.

I recalled this as I have been reading an excellent book by Angela Duckworth called “Grit” on the importance of stick-to-it-iveness and ways of cultivating it. One point that she makes, which is kind of a truism if you think about it, is that it is easier to stick to something if you love what you do, i.e. if you have a personal interest in the subject.

What is less obvious is that this interest develops gradually. For example, I don’t expect my students to be gung ho about fluid mechanics right away, even at the graduate level. Likewise, my daughter didn’t have much enthusiasm for her first golf lessons.

Curiously, and conversely, what initially starts as an exciting personal interest inevitably acquires less enjoyable (read ‘boring’) aspects of a real job. With photography, for example, they say that to become a professional photographer is a sure way to kill a good hobby.

Personally, I am glad to have an opportunity to do photography at a professional level. I think that it adds a lot of quality to the craft, both technically and in terms of the purpose. It is satisfying to know that my photos have a life beyond my hard disk. This is the answer to the all-important “Why?” question that keeps me chipping away at processing a high-wolume dance photo shoot or getting out to a late-night basketball game.

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Tipping for quality

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Recently, there has been some discussion in North America on whether it is feasible (indeed, appropriate) to eliminate tipping at restaurants and other service-type businesses. This custom is much less common in the rest of the world. In Japan, for example, it borders on offensive to offer a tip or to negotiate the price of a service or a product. It is assumed that the providers of services are already doing their best, so offering additional pay for better quality is inappropriate.

This brings up an important fundamental question about quality in professional photography, which in many cases constitutes a service-type business. If you are doing a high-volume project where financial compensation per image is not high, is it appropriate to lower the quality of your work?

Perhaps, the answer depends on the definition of quality. Incidentally, I found one of the best explorations into the subject of quality in Robert Pirsig’s “Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance“. It is tempting to say: “Of course, compromising quality is never Ok. It is a staple of professionalism.” Realistically though, something has to be sacrificed in high-volume/low-cost shoots, like run-of-the-mill school portraits. I think that it is creativity that suffers, which allows technical quality of the photos to be maintained. After all, it is impossible to establish effective communication with the subjects, to experiment with various poses, lighting arrangements and camera settings, when many images need to be taken in a limited time.

On the other hand, it can be argued that creative content is an integral, if not the fundamental, part of quality. If this is the case, and if we agree that quality cannot be compromised, then the logical conclusion is that high-volume/low-cost projects should never be undertaken. If the volume of work is high, the price has to be high too.

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On risk aversion

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Adam Grant in his book “Originals” cites recent studies, which show that most successful entrepreneurs start their businesses as side projects. They do not quit their day jobs or studies until the side business is mature enough that it can support a living. In doing so, the successful entrepreneurs hedge the risk of failing in the new project.

There are exceptions, of course, and the individuals who go “all in” into their startups and succeed (Elon Musk with his Tesla company comes to mind as an example) receive the lion’s share of media attention and public admiration. Still, the percentage of failure is higher among such people. Perhaps, their propensity to taking risks reflects on their style of management and communications, which ultimately has a negative effect on the entire enterprise.

And side projects that are pushed alongside the main job don’t have to be small in scope or amateurish. Perhaps more importantly, the hobby projects can be very satisfying even we don’t have goal of developing them into full-time jobs. Just yesterday, I had an opportunity to photograph a heavy metal band, in which my kendo friend is playing a bass guitar. All of the band members have “normal” lives outside of the hard rock world, but when their makeup is on and they go onstage they make a tangible contribution to the community, which is obvious in the reaction of the loyal fans, who gather around them. I personally had a great fun at the concert, mostly just through exposure to an atmosphere that is quite foreign to my typical photoshoot routine. After all, I am not often concerned about being sprayed with fake blood from stage effects while trying to compose a shot.

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Publishing your art

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Our new publication, The Black Light Magazine, is accepting first submissions from artists. This made me think about the benefits of sharing art in general, and the parallels between publishing/exhibiting art and public communication.

Making your work public is an integral part of a creative process. The concept is simple and hardly new, but actually making it a reality is not trivial. A work of art is inherently an expression of something that the artist closely associates with, but exhibiting or performing a piece of art is an equivalent of a public statement. In this sense, publishing your work, as any form of public communication is a skill that can be developed and that requires regular practice.

There are many well-known benefits of showing our creations to other people. Artists, who regularly exhibit, share, perform or otherwise publish their work develop a sense of connection with the audience that becomes activated even at the earliest stages of the process. Publishing our work also allows us to develop an ability to receive feedback, both positive and negative, and use it in a constructive way. And of course, if you create and share something new, there is an exciting possibility to build a community around you and your art (not that being in the centre of it actually matters – often, making a contribution to an existing area is most rewarding.)

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Moving on

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In martial arts, for example, in kendo, the term zanshin (literally, ‘remaining spirit’) refers to the state of being brepared to continue to fight immediately after completing a sword cut. At one seminar, an 8th dan kendo sensei explained that this continuous focus and the abcense of breaks in the present moment awareness is the reason why a match that lasts only a few minutes leaves the kendoka dripping with sweat.

Cultivating this ability is important in other aspects of life, from business to research to creative endeavors. For example, Brian Koppelman, the screenwriter of “Rounders“, “Solitary Man” and, more recently, “Billions,” told in an interview that he and his writing partner began researching the next movie idea literally the following day after “Rounders” was released in theatres. They specifically planned for this immediate engagement in routine work to avoid allowing themselves to marinade in their emotional reaction to either the success or the failure of the movie. In another example, which, incidentally, I heard the same day, Barbara Corcoran, the founder of one (if not the) largest real estate company, said that in her experience, the best businessmen/women are different from their peers in that they can recover from setbacks quicker. These “superstars” do not dwell on their emotional reaction to an event in the past. 

I find it interesting that the concept applies equally to a positive result (completion of a painting, receiving a promotion, publishing a research paper, winning a kendo match, etc.) and a negative one (harsh review of a paper, losing a match, etc.) In either case, as soon as you find out the outcome, it becomes a thing of the past. After that, it is time to move on to the next thing.

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Not giving others what they want

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In any creative endeavor, it is important to take an initiative rather than to be led by the situation. In kendo, this concept is summarized in a maxim ‘Bogyo no tame no bogyo nashi’ (No defense for the sake of defense). In a modern economic context, Seth Godin differentiates between spending one’s life ‘on the offense’ and ‘on the defense’. The difference is between seeking to change other people (through our work and our interactions with them) and willing to be changed to accommodate the views or desires of others.

Taking initiative does not necessarily imply being selfish and insensitive to others. On the contrary, the active attitude requires situational awareness. From a creative perspective, being on the offense means not giving the audience (the clients, the sponsors, the opponents, the reviewers, the critics, etc.) what they want and expect. Instead, we should strive to give them what is authentically ours, what represents our vision and our style.

Doing so is extremely difficult by definition, not only at the initial stages of one’s career, when we lack credibility and authority, but at any time. The inertia of the convention is a great force. But not seizing the initiative is simply not an option. Staying on the defense may be easier at the given moment, but it would not lead anywhere (good) in the long run.

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Designing a logo

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Brainstorming ideas for our new magazine’s logo (which needs to incorporate letters “B” and “L”) is a new experience for me. Being outside of my comfort zone, I am forced to go way back to basics and research the fundamental principles of logo design. Here are some basic concepts of what make a good logo.

A company logo is intended to convey a distinctive identity, but achieving this on something that would be printed on something as small as a postage stamp or as large as a billboard is not trivial. Perhaps, it is not surprising that distilling the principles of a good logo design to a concrete recipe is challenging. After all if it would be easy, everyone wold be a great logo designer. Still, some basic principles can be discerned by studying the common features of famous logos.

Perhaps, the most important attribute is simplicity. Being simple achieves two objectives: it has a potential of being effective (i.e. visually appealing) regardless of size and it can be easily recognizable.

Another important property is versatility. A good logo should be recognizable and effective when printed in one colour or in inverted tones, for example. Many designers suggest starting the process of designing a logo in back and white only. Doing so allows one to concentrate on the concept and to express it in a shape, rather than relying on colour, perception of which is inherently subjective.

Here are some early sketches of mine – exploring the smooth and edgy curves…

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Why art needs to be applied

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Derek Sivers, who famously donated most of the proceeds from selling his first company, pointed out in an interview with Cal Newport that people should pursue a radical shift in career only if there is a concrete evidence that others would be willing to pay for the product of the intended work. He said that “Money is a neutral indicator of value. By aiming to make money, you’re aiming to be valuable.”

Personally, for a long time, I have always been attracted to applied art – commercial photography, industrial design, architecture, etc. Even the art that doesn’t seem to be very applied on the surface, such as classical paintings and sculptures of the Renaissance masters, for example, upon closer consideration appears to be quite closely link to applications. Majority of the works of Rafael and Michelangelo were explicitly commissioned to promote the idea of Christianity and the might of the Church.

Of course, assigning a dollar figure to a piece of art is a tricky business, which is influenced by many, often irrational factors, such as fashion or political conjecture. Still, I believe there is at least a grain of rationalism in the idea that what is useful is necessarily valuable. For photographers, for example, capturing human emotions and commemorating life’s milestones is an obvious way to be useful to other people. This why, among the variety of possible niche genres, portrait and wedding photography is considered as the most straightforward way to start making money.

At the same time, I believe that in science, the idea of necessarily linking the scientific pursuit to a well-defined practical application has become overused. Often, the most significant scientific progress starts with pursuing something for pure fun or out of curiosity, without worrying whether the result could be immediately applied or even is something like this has already been done. Richard Feyman, for instance, decided to look into the dynamics of a spinning and vibrating dinner plate, as away of recapturing the excitement of his childhood scientific pursuits. Eventually, this work developed into something, for which he was awarded the Nobel Prize, but the connection was not obvious to him at the time.

Artists, for some reason, are expected to do things for the sake of creating itself, and the opportunity to differentiate oneself from the mainstream is to do think differently (i.e. start with the practical application standpoint). In scientific research, the current paradigm seems to be the opposite, so the logical way to go is not to follow the majority, but to do fundamental work (“deep work” in Cal Neport’s terminology) and let the applicability emerge naturally.

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