The War of Art (10 page)

 

TERRITORY VERSUS HIERARCHY

 

In the animal kingdom, individuals define themselves in one of two ways—by their rank within a hierarchy (a hen in a pecking order, a wolf in a pack) or by their connection to a territory (a home base, a hunting ground, a turf).

 

This is how individuals—humans as well as animals— achieve psychological security. They know where they stand. The world makes sense.

 

Of the two orientations, the hierarchical seems to be the default setting. It’s the one that kicks in automatically when we’re kids. We run naturally in packs and cliques; without thinking about it, we know who’s the top dog and who’s the underdog. And we know our own place. We define ourselves, instinctively it seems, by our position within the schoolyard, the gang, the club.

 

It’s only later in life, usually after a stern education in the university of hard knocks, that we begin to explore the territorial alternative.

 

For some of us, this saves our lives.

 

THE HIERARCHICAL ORIENTATION

 

Most of us define ourselves hierarchically and don’t even know it. It’s hard not to. School, advertising, the entire materialist culture drills us from birth to define ourselves by others’ opinions. Drink this beer, get this job, look this way and everyone will love you.

 

What is a hierarchy, anyway?

 

Hollywood is a hierarchy. So are Washington, Wall Street, and the Daughters of the American Revolution.

 

High school is the ultimate hierarchy. And it works; in a pond that small, the hierarchical orientation succeeds. The cheerleader knows where she fits, as does the dweeb in the Chess Club. Each has found a niche. The system works.

 

There’s a problem with the hierarchical orientation, though. When the numbers get too big, the thing breaks down. A pecking order can hold only so many chickens. In Massapequa High, you can find your place. Move to Manhattan and the trick no longer works. New York City is too big to function as a hierarchy. So is IBM. So is Michigan State. The individual in multitudes this vast feels overwhelmed, anonymous. He is submerged in the mass. He’s lost.

 

We humans seem to have been wired by our evolutionary past to function most comfortably in a tribe of twenty to, say, eight hundred. We can push it maybe to a few thousand, even to five figures. But at some point it maxes out. Our brains can’t file that many faces. We thrash around, flashing our badges of status (Hey, how do you like my Lincoln Navigator?) and wondering why nobody gives a shit.

 

We have entered Mass Society. The hierarchy is too big. It doesn’t work anymore.

 

THE ARTIST AND THE HIERARCHY

 

For the artist to define himself hierarchically is fatal.

 

Let’s examine why. First, let’s look at what happens in a hierarchical orientation.

 

An individual who defines himself by his place in a pecking order will:

 

1)
Compete against all others in the order, seeking to elevate his station by advancing against those above him, while defending his place against those beneath.

 

2)
Evaluate his happiness/success/achievement by his rank within the hierarchy, feeling most satisfied when he’s high and most miserable when he’s low.

 

3)
Act toward others based upon their rank in the hierarchy, to the exclusion of all other factors.

 

4)
Evaluate his every move solely by the effect it produces on others. He will act for others, dress for others, speak for others, think for others.

 

But the artist cannot look to others to validate his efforts or his calling. If you don’t believe me, ask Van Gogh, who produced masterpiece after masterpiece and never found a buyer in his whole life.

 

The artist must operate territorially. He must do his work for its own sake.

 

To labor in the arts for any reason other than love is prostitution. Recall the fate of Odysseus’ men who slew the cattle of the sun.

 

Their own witlessness cast them away.

The fools! To destroy for meat the oxen

of the most exalted Sun, wherefore the sun-god

blotted out the day of their return.

 

In the hierarchy, the artist faces outward. Meeting someone new he asks himself, What can this person do for me? How can this person advance my standing?

 

In the hierarchy, the artist looks up and looks down. The one place he can’t look is that place he must: within.

 

 

THE DEFINITION OF A HACK

 

I learned this from Robert McKee. A hack, he says, is a writer who second-guesses his audience. When the hack sits down to work, he doesn’t ask himself what’s in his own heart. He asks what the market is looking for.

 

The hack condescends to his audience. He thinks he’s superior to them. The truth is, he’s scared to death of them or, more accurately, scared of being authentic in front of them, scared of writing what he really feels or believes, what he himself thinks is interesting. He’s afraid it won’t sell. So he tries to anticipate what the market (a telling word) wants, then gives it to them.

 

In other words, the hack writes hierarchically. He writes what he imagines will play well in the eyes of others. He does not ask himself, What do I myself want to write? What do I think is important? Instead he asks, What’s hot, what can I make a deal for?

 

The hack is like the politician who consults the polls before he takes a position. He’s a demagogue. He panders.

 

It can pay off, being a hack. Given the depraved state of American culture, a slick dude can make millions being a hack. But even if you succeed, you lose, because you’ve sold out your Muse, and your Muse is you, the best part of yourself, where your finest and only true work comes from.

 

I was starving as a screenwriter when the idea for
The Legend of Bagger Vance
came to me. It came as a book, not a movie. I met with my agent to give him the bad news. We both knew that first novels take forever and sell for nothing. Worse, a novel about golf, even if we could find a publisher, is a straight shot to the remainder bin.

 

But the Muse had me. I had to do it. To my amazement, the book succeeded critically and commercially better than anything I’d ever done, and others since have been lucky too. Why? My best guess is this: I trusted what I wanted, not what I thought would work. I did what I myself thought was interesting, and left its reception to the gods.

 

The artist can’t do his work hierarchically. He has to work territorially.

 

THE TERRITORIAL ORIENTATION

 

There’s a three-legged coyote who lives up the hill from me. All the garbage cans in the neighborhood belong to him. It’s his territory. Every now and then some four-legged intruder tries to take over. They can’t do it. On his home turf, even a peg-leg critter is invincible.

 

We humans have territories too. Ours are psychological. Stevie Wonder’s territory is the piano. Arnold Schwarzenegger’s is the gym. When Bill Gates pulls into the parking lot at Microsoft, he’s on his territory. When I sit down to write, I’m on mine.

 

What are the qualities of a territory?

 

1)
A territory provides sustenance
.
Runners know what a territory is. So do rock climbers and kayakers and yogis. Artists and entrepreneurs know what a territory is. The swimmer who towels off after finishing her laps feels a helluva lot better than the tired, cranky person who dove into the pool thirty minutes earlier.

 

2)
A territory sustains us without any external input
.
A territory is a closed feedback loop. Our role is to put in effort and love; the territory absorbs this and gives it back to us in the form of well-being.

 

When experts tell us that exercise (or any other effort-requiring activity) banishes depression, this is what they mean.

 

3)
A territory can only be claimed alone
.
You can team with a partner, you can work out with a friend, but you only need yourself to soak up your territory’s juice.

 

4)
A territory can only be claimed by work
.
When Arnold Schwarzenegger hits the gym, he’s on his own turf. But what made it his own are the hours and years of sweat he put in to claim it. A territory doesn’t give, it gives back.

 

5)
A territory returns exactly what you put in
.
Territories are fair. Every erg of energy you put in goes infallibly into your account. A territory never devalues. A territory never crashes. What you deposited, you get back, dollar-for-dollar.

 

What’s your territory?

 

 

THE ARTIST AND THE TERRITORY

 

The act of creation is by definition territorial. As the mother-to-be bears her child within her, so the artist or innovator contains her new life. No one can help her give it birth. But neither does she need any help.

 

The mother and the artist are watched over by heaven. Nature’s wisdom knows when it’s time for the life within to switch from gills to lungs. It knows down to the nanosecond when the first tiny fingernails may appear.

 

When the artist acts hierarchically, she short-circuits the Muse. She insults her and pisses her off.

 

The artist and the mother are vehicles, not originators. They don’t create the new life, they only bear it. This is why birth is such a humbling experience. The new mom weeps in awe at the little miracle in her arms. She knows it came out of her but not from her, through her but not of her.

 

When the artist works territorially, she reveres heaven. She aligns herself with the mysterious forces that power the universe and that seek, through her, to bring forth new life. By doing her work for its own sake, she sets herself at the service of these forces.

 

Remember, as artists we don’t know diddly. We’re winging it every day. For us to try to second-guess our Muse the way a hack second-guesses his audience is condescension to heaven. It’s blasphemy and sacrilege.

 

Instead let’s ask ourselves like that new mother: What do I feel growing inside me? Let me bring that forth, if I can, for its own sake and not for what it can do for me or how it can advance my standing.

 

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN

TERRITORY AND HIERARCHY

 

How can we tell if our orientation is territorial or hierarchical? One way is to ask ourselves, If I were feeling really anxious, what would I do? If we would pick up the phone and call six friends, one after the other, with the aim of hearing their voices and reassuring ourselves that they still love us, we’re operating hierarchically.

 

We’re seeking the good opinion of others.

 

What would Arnold Schwarzenegger do on a freaky day? He wouldn’t phone his buddies; he’d head for the gym. He wouldn’t care if the place was empty, if he didn’t say a word to a soul. He knows that working out, all by itself, is enough to bring him back to his center.

 

His orientation is territorial.

 

Here’s another test. Of any activity you do, ask yourself: If I were the last person on earth, would I still do it?

 

If you’re all alone on the planet, a hierarchical orientation makes no sense. There’s no one to impress. So, if you’d still pursue that activity, congratulations. You’re doing it territorially.

 

If Arnold Schwarzenegger were the last man on earth, he’d still go the gym. Stevie Wonder would still pound the piano. The sustenance they get comes from the act itself, not from the impression it makes on others. I have a friend who’s nuts for clothes. If she were the last woman on earth, she would shoot straight to Givenchy or St. Laurent, smash her way in, and start pillaging. In her case, it wouldn’t be to impress others. She just loves clothes. That’s her territory.

 

Now: What about ourselves as artists?

 

How do we do our work? Hierarchically or territorially?

 

If we were freaked out, would we go there first?

 

If we were the last person on earth, would we still show up at the studio, the rehearsal hall, the laboratory?

 

THE SUPREME VIRTUE

 

Someone once asked the Spartan king Leonidas to identify the supreme warrior virtue from which all others flowed. He replied: “Contempt for death.”

 

For us as artists, read “failure.” Contempt for failure is our cardinal virtue. By confining our attention territorially to our own thoughts and actions—in other words, to the work and its demands—we cut the earth from beneath the blue-painted, shield-banging, spear-brandishing foe.

 

 

THE FRUITS OF OUR LABOR

 

When Krishna instructed Arjuna that we have a right to our labor but not to the fruits of our labor, he was counseling the warrior to act territorially, not hierarchically. We must do our work for its own sake, not for fortune or attention or applause.

 

Then there’s the third way proffered by the Lord of Discipline, which is beyond both hierarchy and territory. That is to do the work and give it to Him. Do it as an offering to God.

 

Give the act to me.

Purged of hope and ego,

Fix your attention on the soul.

Act and do for me.

 

The work comes from heaven anyway. Why not give it back?

 

To labor in this way,
The Bhagavad-Gita
tells us, is a form of meditation and a supreme species of spiritual devotion. It also, I believe, conforms most closely to Higher Reality. In fact, we are servants of the Mystery. We were put here on
earth to act as agents of the Infinite, to bring into existence that which is not yet, but which will be, through us.

 

Every breath we take, every heartbeat, every evolution of every cell comes from God and is sustained by God every second, just as every creation, invention, every bar of music or line of verse, every thought, vision, fantasy, every dumb-ass flop and stroke of genius comes from that infinite intelligence that created us and the universe in all its dimensions, out of the Void, the field of infinite potential, primal chaos, the Muse. To acknowledge that reality, to efface all ego, to let the work come through us and give it back freely to its source, that, in my opinion, is as true to reality as it gets.