Worth a thousand words and then some: the cover for CHRISTOPHER WILD.
Give me whatsoever I shall ask.
Going ever deeper into CHRISTOPHER WILD – the novel is two-thirds complete, now – I’m also writing a companion piece: harsh light and darkness, music and movement, hell and heaven and everywhere in between, a one-night-only performance of Marlowe’s words and mine. January 2017, time for NIGHT SCHOOL.
The patrons have a beautiful, sprawling garden, with flowers and ponds and two blue-metal follies.
To bring Bosch to that garden, we needed music.
We needed masks, and eggs, and fruit.
And a fish.
And we already had nerve.
[Photos courtesy Rena Hopkins (1-3-7-8), Rick Lieder (2), Mary Perrin (4-5-6).]
The giant human hamster ball was not subdued without a fight.
An outtake from the GARDEN’s creation, thanks to the Divine Iguana and her assistant, Henri.
In the flow, things move at their own pace – sometimes with speed, sometimes not, sometimes seemingly not at all – because that’s how things get done and get made. Not by force, though sometimes with struggle – flow doesn’t mean things always go smoothly; rivers have rapids, seas have swells, even storms. Even hurricanes.
But if you trust it, if you align your own actions and attune your own creative compass, flow will always get you there: like a mermaid in the tide, like turning pages in a book, like the mind’s current that takes an idea from imagination to here-and-now reality, if you just, yeah, go with that flow. As a writer and director, I trust that flow in everything I do, because it’s never absent and it’s always right.
[Video at link courtesy Diane Cheklich, from her “Garden of Earthly Delights” making-of video. Photos courtesy Diane Cheklich, Kathe Koja; Rena Hopkins, Rachael Harbert and Marianne Brass onsite; Rena Hopkins, Mary Perrin and Kathe Koja onsite.]
Between writing CHRISTOPHER WILD and working on nerve‘s summer Bosch commission, it could seem like the past is my creative landscape now: the medieval wonders and beauties of that “Garden,” and the dark and subtle, sometimes terrible, world of the Elizabethans.
But the past is always present.
We use and refine technology to remake our physical world, for good and ill, but the basic societal mechanism is the same: humans hunger and lust and work and weep and lie. Strive, feast, ruin ourselves, seek to transcend our bodies, to sate or tame our minds, we are what we are, this never changes.
Artists – Marlowe, Bosch, Rachael Harbert and Marianne Brass, me – take that human condition as our matériel and make of it whatever our disciplines and talents suggest. For Harbert and Brass, it will move. For Bosch it will wear a myriad of faces. For Marlowe and for me, it will speak. And when it does, and when what we make is remade by one who watches and who hears, it will be present in the world anew, it will be the present, alive again and again.
[Photo of Marianne Brass and Rachael Harbert courtesy Rena Hopkins.]