Methods & Muses Vol. 9

Collaboration and Completion

In the Land of Collaboratia

My friend Jen first coined the word ‘Collaboratia’ during one of our phone conversations. 

At the time, both of us had had collaborative projects fail, and this failure changed our relationships with our collaborative partners. We found it difficult to stay friends with them. We were sad and disappointed. Jen and I vowed that we would never enter the land of ‘Collaboratia’ together, because our friendship was too important. 

We made that promise years ago, and we’ve stayed mostly true to it. I say mostly because we do collaborate, in our own way. Jen and I send each other mail art, random collages to make each other think and laugh. We do not put pressure on each other in terms of timeline or quality, our exchanges just naturally happen. 

Despite prior failures, and fear of more failures, I am wired to collaborate. I have a Master’s in Interdisciplinary Art. My field is wildflowers, colorful, buzzy with pollinators, open and rolling under a big sky. My program at Columbia College Chicago encouraged the cyclical, the break down and resurrect of art. It emphasized the importance of process, knowing yourself, your flow as an artist, and our study involved a lot of collaborative work. Essentially, I have two degrees, one in Interdisciplinary Art and one in Collaboration.

Just kidding. 

I don’t have a degree in Collaboration, but I have been working with a variety of artists for years. 

I started in Tampa around 1989. At first, I worked with fellow poets, writing together in critique groups, reading at open mics or other literary events. 

Then, I started to combine my words and voice with visual art and movement, collaborating with print and paper makers, handmade book artists and photographers, and later, installation artists, sculptors and modern dancers.

I also began performing with musicians. I worked with an improvisation jazz band- you know, the kind of music one typically associates with poets. I did not wear a beret or tap a bongo, but I did dress up in vintage lounge dresses. Of course I did. 

After I met my love, bass player, Benjamin, and then my friend, singer/film maker/fellow writer and interdisciplinary artist, Kelly, and more friends, drummer Mark and pianist/violinist Rachel, music hugged me tight, and music has been hanging on ever since. This is my favorite form of collaboration. I have been damn lucky to have been part of a quintet (Lounge Car), duet (The Dwindlers), trio (Born in Snow) and most recently and adoringly, another trio (Half Wild). Thanks to my talented collaborators, the music that I’ve blended my voice with has evolved from jazz to ambient and modern classical, folk/singer-songwriter, and to what we are calling in Half Wild, earth hymns and echo poems (more on this genre below).

With each collaboration, I strive to connect my primary medium (poetry) to whatever the other artist’s might be. To do this, I have to be flexible, willing to revise, break or totally abandon my original vision. Why? Because the focus of collaborating is to serve the work, allow it to become whatever it wants to become. 

This requires trust. Sometimes the vision for a project is clear, so trusting is easier. Other times, and I would venture to say many times, it’s unclear because it’s mixed with other brains, so trust needs to live in the fog, the we -don’t- know- what- this- is- but -let’s- all -come- along- for- the- ride-because- making- stuff -is -fun feeling. 

Collaborators learn as we go. 

We wander together, and along the way, we reach for common language.

My printmaker friends might say layer and composition. I translate these to voice and points of view. To dancers, a phrase is a ‘short choreographic fragment that has an intention, a feeling of a beginning to end.’ For me, a phrase is part of a line, that also fully describes from beginning to end. When I work with musicians, I understand verse as stanza, rhythm as a pattern of stressed and unstressed syllables and melody as lines that work with rhythm to contribute to mood.

Once we are speaking together, the joys of collaboration thrive. We get excited. We fall in love with learning from each other. We can’t believe the associations and we believe in the magic. We roam in the collective unconscious, seeing connections like, “You’re writing about alligators? I’ve been dreaming about alligators! How crazy is that?” We say ‘crazy’ and then we say ‘of course.’ It’s lovely and thrilling, and we twirl, twirl, twirl! Like any new love, it’s a honeymoon in the beginning, and with the right lovers and shared promises, it can stay this way for a long time.

Sure, like any group thing, there can be conflicts of ego, differences in terms of pace or timeline, shifting goals. Major life changes can alter the collaborative relationship- we move a lot, we have careers or families that we need to prioritize, and sometimes relationships reach levels of intensity that are impossible to sustain. Many artists are children. We are delighted when a project thrives, and we can be pouty as hell when it goes sour. 

I don’t profess to have solutions for resolving all artistic conflicts. That would be presumptuous, and well, impossible. Collaborations, like all marriages, are unique. As I’ve grown wiser, however, as I’ve learned from both successful and failed collaborations, I have kept a few things in my practice to keep the salon moving. Here they are, hope they’re helpful:

1.     Stay joyful. To create is a gift, so feel the gratitude and have fun. Life is short.

2.     Don’t take yourself too seriously. Avoid precious-ism. Be humble.

3.     Commit to consistent communication. Art is work. Respect each other.

4.     Try to avoid Three-Fourths Syndrome (more on this below), and if a project has to end, for whatever reason, accept that it’s done and let go amicably.

5.     Establish a structure and a routine. (For me, meeting twice a month works well).

6.     Stay flexible, realistic, patient and honest. Under promise, over deliver. 

7.     Never give up on the magic. It can always return. The fun fog rolls in all the time. 

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Recognizing and Reconciling Three-Fourths Syndrome 

I can say with confidence that most artists, including yours truly, whether working solo or within a collaborative, have experienced something like this… 

An idea sparks. It comes fast and beautiful. You chase it, writing for hours, until your eyes are blurry and bloodshot, drawing or carving or playing your instrument until your hands ache, singing until your throat is raw, dancing until you’re breathless. You fight sleep because you love the idea so much, you can’t risk losing it, but you’re exhausted, so you think, “It’s almost done, what the hell, there’s always tomorrow” and you crash. 

The next day (or week or month or year) you return to it and work some more. This time you don’t feel as much umph, but the project is yours, you love it, and you want to see it through…

Here’s the kicker- you don’t complete it, the project stays there, lonely, three-fourths finished. 

I don’t profess to have a one-size-fits-all cure for Three Fourths Syndrome, but I can suggest some strategies that have helped to launch me (and my mates) over that finish line:

1.     Recognize that your mental health as an artist, and as a person living among other people, is important. Your mental health is directly tied to making art regularly, and finishing things. I repeat: Make art regularly. Finish things. You will feel more balanced and the people around you won’t need to ask, Why are you cranky? They won’t need to beg, Please go the poetry workshop. When you go, you always feel inspired (subtext: Love, you’re driving me crazy. Make something. Hang out with your friends who make things). 

2.     Acknowledge the syndrome and forgive yourself. Breathe. Face it gently.

3.     Make a realistic time box. This is similar to: Under promise, over deliver. 

It’s easy as an artist, especially under the influence of caffeine, to say, I’m going to do everything today! Maybe improv artists flourish with the “Yes and” method, but I’m not convinced that all of us should practice this. Many of us are conditioned by our day jobs to over promise, and I feel this is dangerous. When I worked as a teacher, multi-tasking was worn like a badge. The more we took on, the more we were praised or the more we praised ourselves. I volunteered for everything, offering to be faculty sponsor for several clubs. I was genuinely excited to help my students, but I was also seduced by multi-tasking, a super-heroine complex, my ego. It wasn’t until a kind boss, Sister Joanne, said in a staff meeting, “Ok, before Michelle burns herself out with the play, the literary magazine, the poetry club and the environmental club, would anyone else like to join her on those committees?” Joanne used good old Catholic guilt to shake up my colleagues and support me when I wasn’t supporting myself. Bless her. 

So, I suggest a realistic time box. Tell yourself: 

I’ll work for the same amount of timeevery day. This can be hours or only 15 minutes, whatever you can realistically do. But do it.

I’ll work during the same time of day, my most energetic time. I’ve written about this before. It’s important to know whether you’re a lark, best in the mornings, or an owl, best at night. When you know your best time as an individual, then you can schedule accordingly with your playmates.  

I’ll work in the same place. Having a dedicated, special place for your art-making is vital. I love a window where I can look at nature-trees, birds, foxes. But I’ve also worked looking at train tracks or my city street. Regardless, my window is where I go to work. Maybe yours is an extra bedroom where you write, sing, record or sew. Maybe yours is a picnic bench. Make it a place where you breathe easy, a place you want to go.

I’ll remember that my project is a process. Making art involves several parts. I suggest celebrating each benchmark, each little finish. Rest. Space out. Go for a walk. Cook something delicious. Clean your studio. Have a special drink. Do whatever works for you to acknowledge a job well done.

4.     Make a soundtrack. I thank my teacher, Nickole Brown, for this suggestion. First, she says it’s important to know that a soundtrack does not have to mean human music. I write to robins and cardinals in the morning, or I walk in a park, writing in my head to wind through the trees. Because this morning writing is journaling/gathering, where I’m listening to the ideas that come after sleep, I need quiet nature first. Later in the day, when my work gains energy and focus, when I am  composing and revising, I listen to music with no words (classical, jazz, ambient) or with words in languages I don’t fully understand (but love the sounds of) like German, Spanish or French. 

Nickole further suggests that your soundtrack have a set time, meaning, if you have 15 minutes, create a 15-minute track, if you have 2 hours, make a 2-hour track, etc. This helps with self-discipline, helps you set the intention, frame your work. Of course, your phone, and any other distractions need to be turned off, set aside during these magic moments. Yes, this might be hard, but remember: Art is work. Respect it.

I hope these suggestions help you push past Three Fourths Syndrome and finish a beloved project. I believe in you. I believe you can, and I offer testimonial… 

I’m thrilled to share that Half Wild has finished an album! It’s called Give Them Archer, and we’ve written songs from our dreams, our past lives together (both as Lounge Car mates and cosmic kindreds) and our passions for nature. We’ve written earth hymns and echo poems that call for compassion and peace, songs that honor wolves, birds, mothers, caves and trees. If this sounds alluring, you can sample a few tracks here.

Whew! Finishing the recording, mixing and mastering was beautiful. Kelly, Benjamin and I have been giddy deer jumping in the woods. We are still busy creating the graphics (logo, album cover, website) but as soon as these are complete, we will release our album into the listening world.  Stay tuned…

And as art inspires art, I’ll close by sharing that one of my poems about trees has been accepted for publication. Yay! On May 1st, my poem, “Sound Bite” will appear as part of the Urban Tree Festival. I am incredibly honored to have my voice as part of this program. 

Thank you all for reading and may your creativity flourish. Happy Spring!