All creativity begins with the moment of conception.

That little piece of kindling that gets the fire going. That initial source of inspiration that takes on a life of its own. That single note from which the entire symphony grows. That single spark of life that signals an idea’s movement value, almost screaming to us, something wants to be built here.

And so, in this new blog series, I’m going to be deconstructing my favorite moments of conception from popular movies. Each post will contain a video clip from a different film, along with a series of lessons we can learn from the characters.

Today’s clip comes from the makeup scene scene in Thriller:

What can we learn?

A true artist doesn’t need permission to work. Baker learned the art of makeup through trial and error. He wasn’t taught to make monster molds through a particular school of thought. He just did a lot of it, played with it, had fun with it and figured out what worked and what didn’t. He did research at libraries and read books about makeup. He created artificial body parts in his own kitchen. And he made up all the friends in the neighborhood with ghastly third degree burns and gashes and wounds. Baker even jokingly admitted, he wasn’t allowed in a lot of houses when he was a kid. But despite the union calling him the worst thing to ever happen to the art of makeup, he still won oscars, influenced a generation of artists and changed the industry forever. He became the most respected, admired and sought after special effects artist in the world, all because never waited for permission. Baker just started producing. And in a culture that often makes it difficult for creativity to express itself properly, that’s an achievement worth celebrating. What parts of your life are you not giving yourself permission to live creatively?

Find what inspires the inspired. Thriller released this hour long documentary in tandem with the infamous music video. Providing candid glimpses behind the scenes of the production, the film became one of the top selling home video release of all time. More importantly, this documentary was the first image that legitimately haunted me as a child. Anytime it came on, I would literally cower underneath my family’s beige coffee table and cry and wail until the wolf was gone from the screen. Sound traumatic? Actually, I loved every minute of it. Thriller captured my imagination and inspired my creativity. It turned me into a person who lived to be startled, to have my eyes opened in unexpected ways. When I think back to the cultural and artistic influences that helped me become who I am today, this movie always tops the list. And not just because it was scary, but because you could crawl inside the heads of the creators and discover what made it scary. Because to me, artist statements are more interesting than art itself. That’s what inspires me. That’s what gives me permission to try something new. Yes, I pay attention to the work, but I what I obsess over is the thinking behind the work. Are you studying the inner landscape of artists you admire?

Imposing your vision on the world. Jackson had already released five records, achieving stardom as a child singer. But for this new album, he didn’t want to make another music video, he wanted to create an elaborate work of art that would become a cultural stimulant. Landis enthusiastically agreed, bolstering that vision with generous machinery, resources and infrastructure. And they were able to create the most culturally, historically and aesthetically influential pop music video of all time. Thriller didn’t just drive album sales and pave a new path for the recording and music video industries, it also helped create the video rental business. Due to its massive popularity, fans wanted to watch the video in their home, so video rental chains started popping up to lend copies of the tape for a small price. That’s the leverage potential of an artist vision. Jackson didn’t know what he wanted to create, but he knew why he wanted to create it. And so, he sought out to create his own iconography in accordance with his unseen but tangible vision, and he ended up changing the world. What is the most important thing you can do to bring your activities in line with your values and vision?

What did you learn?

* * * *

Scott Ginsberg

That Guy with the Nametag

Author. Speaker. Strategist. Filmmaker. Publisher. Songwriter. 

[email protected]

Never the same speech twice. Customized for your audience. Impossible to walk away uninspired.

Now booking for 2014-2015.

Email to inquire about fees and availability. Watch clips of The Nametag Guy in action here!

All creativity begins with the moment of conception.

That little piece of kindling that gets the fire going. That initial source of inspiration that takes on a life of its own. That single note from which the entire symphony grows. That single spark of life that signals an idea’s movement value, almost screaming to us, something wants to be built here.

And so, in this new blog series, I’m going to be deconstructing my favorite moments of conception from popular movies. Each post will contain a video clip from a different film, along with a series of lessons we can learn from the characters.

Today’s clip comes from the shanks scene scene in Tin Cup:

What can we learn?

Avoid the cold start.
Your brain is a machine. And like any mechanical device, you need to bring it
up to operating temperature in order to run properly. Without that crucial warm
up cycle, the motor is vulnerable to errors, misfires, wasted energy, toxic
emissions, even full blown system failures. And so, when you sit down work each
day, consider using acentering sequencebefore pulling out of the creative driveway. A ritual that keeps you from doing
things that you regret, things that come from the shadowy parts of your personality.
For many years, I’ve been using a tool from a program calledTen Zen Seconds, which is an approach to mindfulness and an
invitation to live a more centered, grounded, and meaningful life. The way it
works is, you use a single deep breath as a ten second container for a specific
thought, matching the rhythm of your respiration to the symmetry of your words.
Every morning when I sit down to write, this centering sequence brings my brain
up to operating temperature. It’s how I avoid the shanks. How are you warming up your mental system?

My brain burns with
their color. Roy was so in awe of the golf legends lined up on the
driving range, hitting beautiful shot after beautiful shot with graceful ease,
his brain got in the way. But once he got out of his head and into the present
moment, once he reconnected with his body and accessed his authentic swing, he hit
a perfect seven iron into the trees. Creators could learn from this experience.
We’re a group of people with notoriously racing brains, and we have to be
careful not to do too much work in our heads. The goal, after all, is to relieve ourselves of the necessity of
remembering, not to add more mental bricks. To help our minds peacefully return
to their natural state, not strain the brain. That’s why the tradition of
making mental notes is a terribly unhealthy, unwise approach for organizing
ideas. The mind is a terrible office. We don’t need to make mental notes, we
need to make notes. Writing everything down relieves us of the necessity of
remembering and opens our mind to receive new ideas. Writing everything down
directs the traffic flow of our overcrowded minds. Without adopting this habit,
our brain will be too overwhelmed to keep the ball in the fairway. Are you prepared to kill the virus in your
brain?

Getting ready for the job of creating. Golfers go to
the driving range to work out the shanks. To loosen the lid on the pickle jar
of peak performance. To flush the bad shots out of their system before hitting
the lynx. It’s a practice that takes discipline, but one that also takes humility.
Notice the golfers at the range are daring to do their work poorly in the
beginning. They’re allowing themselves to be bad. And they’re accepting failure
as a necessary part of growth. Artists should be no different. Even if our first
ideas impress us so little that we see no good reason to continue, we should
never stop ourselves from hitting those shots. When we practice forced vomiting, for example, we
release our thoughts without committing to keeping them. We create off the record, making things without the burden of
evidence, following our most impractical curiosities. It’s the work
before the work. The driving range of creativity. And we find our rhythm, our
groove, the tempo of our creative nature, by hitting enough balls until meaning
and truth finally manifest. Do you have a
daily psychological holding environment?

What did you learn?

* * * *

Scott Ginsberg

That Guy with the Nametag

Author. Speaker. Strategist. Filmmaker. Publisher. Songwriter. 

[email protected]

Never the same speech twice. Customized for your audience. Impossible to walk away uninspired.

Now booking for 2014-2015.

Email to inquire about fees and availability. Watch clips of The Nametag Guy in action here!

We all get trapped on the
creative treadmill eventually.

Running but never getting
anywhere new. Executing but never elevating the work.

And when we do, there will
always be a ceiling on what we can accomplish. Success will remain asymptotic,
always approaching infinity, but never actually getting there. And unless we break
the pattern, unless we change the user interface of our realities, we will fail
to develop as creators.

In the first ten years of my
career, I achieved moderate success writing books and giving speeches. The only
problem was, I still wasn’t firing on all cylinders. I still hadn’t found a place that
drew out my full ingenuity. Too many assets were going unharvested, and
it was eating away at me.

And I remember thinking to myself, if it’s true that there are skills and talents
that I have not yet tapped into to create value, then there must be useful strategies for influencing the environment
that I have not yet taken advantage of.

Of course.

That’s the first step to
finding a better approach to success. Recognizing the limitations of our
current one. Shedding the popular view of reality.

And that’s exactly why I started
writing, producing, directing and scoring a documentary called Tunnel of Love.

Because it broke the pattern.

It allowed me imagine a
different world. To create an alternate reality. To gain a new understanding of
the universe. To give my hidden talents a more prominent place in my work. To
create a new context from which to
relate to the world, one that afforded me the freedom to try other approaches
to success.  

And what I discovered was, once
I engaged with that phenomenon of context––meaning, the environment that
determined the limitations of my actions and the scope of the results those
actions could produce––it literally altered my being. The experience of making
a documentary changed the way I walked through the world.

That’s what happens when we
create a new context. We create a new realm of possibility. One that did not previously
exist before. One that provides us with a source of power that we did not have
before.

One that gets us off that
goddamn treadmill once and for all.

Like the movie poster? Download it here and share it here!

Original motion picture soundtrack coming next.

Official theatrical trailer coming soon.

* * * *

Scott Ginsberg

That Guy with the Nametag

Author. Speaker. Strategist. Filmmaker. Publisher. Songwriter. 

[email protected]

Never the same speech twice. Customized for your audience. Impossible to walk away uninspired.

Now booking for 2014-2015.

Email to inquire about fees and availability. Watch clips of The Nametag Guy in action here!

All creativity begins with the moment of conception.

That little piece of kindling that gets the fire going. That initial source of inspiration that takes on a life of its own. That single note from which the entire symphony grows. That single spark of life that signals an idea’s movement value, almost screaming to us, something wants to be built here.

And so, in this new blog series, I’m going to be deconstructing my favorite moments of conception from popular movies. Each post will contain a video clip from a different film, along with a series of lessons we can learn from the characters.

Today’s clip comes from the typewriter scene scene in The Shining:

What can we learn?

We can’t set art off
in a corner. Jack assumed
the seclusion at the hotel would help him reconnect with his family and create
the motivation needed to finish his play. But instead, he ended up going insane
from cabin fever, getting possessed by the hotel ghosts, going on a murderous
rampage and ultimately freezing to death in the hedge maze. Not exactly the
kind of productivity he was looking for. And
so, it’s a bloody good lesson about the dangers of remaining in isolation too
long. Because what happens to the creator is, he starts losing perspective. He
starts missing out on the subtle cues around him that could lead to
opportunities to connect. And by the time his work is done, there’s nobody
around to share it with. When I went through my workaholic phase, I was
completely preoccupied with my vision, my business, my art, my career and
myself. I sacrificed my relationships by creating friction between friends,
family members, colleagues and lovers. And I sacrificed my time by not having a
life outside of my career, with few centers of belonging and little involvement
in my community. The point is, we have to find the balance between productivity
and sociability. We have to stay prolific, while still going out of our way to
honor the part of us that is not satisfied with a life of estrangement and
isolation. Nobody should sacrifice human connection on the altar of creative
production. Are you remembering to
appreciate the wholeness of real people?

Become a master of your
disinclination.
Jack’s typewriter tantrum seems inflated and unwarranted, but any writer will
attest, when the art is coming, when you’re cranking away feverishly and extensively, senseless
interruptions are profoundly frustrating. Squeezed by our surroundings, muddied by triviality,
swept into the undertow of inconsequentiality, our work simply never gets done.
Unless, long before we
start creating, we put some energy into prioritizing, organizing and
streamlining the routines that keep others from frittering away our attention. We can hang creative signs on our office doors. We can
download apps that disable our internet
connection for the time period we specify.
We can install plugins that block social sites that
waste our time. Whatever it takes to inoculate us against distractions and maintain motivational
equilibrium. If we
want to become masters of our disinclination, we have to consciously engineer our environment in ways that
cultivate the conditions for creativity to expand. Jack’s system is simple. If he’s
in this room, he’s working. And that means don’t come in. Period. What’s your policy for managing
compositional paralysis?

Slam the iron door. Prolificacy means developing simple,
predictable system. One that takes willpower out of the equation. One that
doesn’t force you to borrow time and resources other parts of your life. One
that allows you to achieve a solid baseline of daily activity. One that doesn’t
require investing a single neuron in the unnecessary, exhaustive search
of possibilities of where to direct your creative energies. Writers, for example, often treat
their creative process as a standing appointment. They’re due
at the page,
as they say, at the same time everyday. And they uphold that commitment with
religious fervor. They don’t downplay the importance of their work time. They
don’t back out at the last minute. They make a schedule and stick to it. That’s a simple system. Jack is setting
a boundary with his system. He’s slamming the iron door. And he’s letting the
other people in his life know that the creative rapids are gushing, but
rest reassured, they will pass eventually. What
simple, predictable system will keep your creative practice grounded?

What did you learn?

* * * *

Scott Ginsberg

That Guy with the Nametag

Author. Speaker. Strategist. Filmmaker. Publisher. Songwriter. 

[email protected]

Never the same speech twice. Customized for your audience. Impossible to walk away uninspired.

Now booking for 2014-2015.

Email to inquire about fees and availability. Watch clips of The Nametag Guy in action here!

All creativity begins with the moment of conception.

That little piece of kindling that gets the fire going. That initial source of inspiration that takes on a life of its own. That single note from which the entire symphony grows. That single spark of life that signals an idea’s movement value, almost screaming to us, something wants to be built here.

And so, in this new blog series, I’m going to be deconstructing my favorite moments of conception from popular movies. Each post will contain a video clip from a different film, along with a series of lessons we can learn from the characters.

Today’s clip comes from the opening scene scene in The Flintstones:

What can we learn?

Create rituals
of leave taking.Flintstone is crane operator at a construction company who
moves rocks for a living. Every afternoon at quitting time, when he hears
the coveted sound of the alarm, he slides down the dinosaur’s tail, punches the
time clock and heads home. Standard operating procedure for the rock quarry. Of
course, most creative professionals don’t have that luxury.We’re artists whowork in
nontraditional or home based environments that don’t containnatural boundaries. And so,it’s
important that we createrituals of leave
taking.Microstructures that celebrate the completion of a period of work,
slow down the creative process and set healthy boundaries to demarcate the line
between work and nonwork. For many years, I kept a classic hotel concierge call
bell on my desk. And every day when I finished my mission piece, I slammed my
hand bell as hard as I could. Initially, it was sort of a joke. But what I
found was, the physical movement of hitting the bell combined with the piercing
chime that echoed through the room was deeply satisfying.Are you
adopting the right mindset when working at home by placing punctuation marks
throughout your day?

The abrupt discontinuation of creativity.Flintstone doesn’t take his work home with him.
Within minutes of leaving the jobsite, he’s already at the drive in, relaxing
with his family and letting the distress of the day melt away.Must be nice.Artists don’t
have this luxury. In fact, there’s a long withdrawal process after we’ve been
working on something for a while, similar to that of a drug addict.We may not experience the
headaches, insomnia and tremors of opiate users, for example, but depending on
the extent of our reliance on the highly addictive substance known as creation,
we may require a certain amount of psychological readjustment. In my own
experience, artistic withdrawal manifests in the form of anxiety. For me, thepain of having not created anything trumps everything. More than
rejection, more than mediocrity, more than loneliness, when I stop making
things, I grow claustrophobic. Quickly.What can I say? I’m genetically wired for prolificacy. It’s
simply my nature. I’m happier when I’m being productive. But the good news is,
I know that about myself. And so, I can properly recognize, endure and
domesticate my withdrawal symptoms.What
tools do you have for negotiating the inevitable creative rapids?

Go pro or go
home. Flintstone
is the typical sixties blue collar worker, constantly scheming ways to improve
his family’s working class lot in life. And what I love most about his
character is, he literally represents grit. Thick skin. Hard work. A regular
guy who endures the pure, unromantic slog of production, every day. Modern
artists could learn a thing or two from his archetype. As people with romantic
personalities, delicate skin and a hypersensitive relationship to the world,
perhaps little rock dust on our boots might do us some good. Pressfield
famously wrote that the muse favors working stiffs. Mercenaries.
Guns for hire. Creators who implant the proper humility. And so, this scene is
a reminder that we have a responsibility to treat our work as a daily practice. To professionalize our art. Despite
our nonconformist values and anti-establishment reputation, every artist
is a working man. A bronto crane operator. We punch in. We sit down and do our
work. And we respect what we do. Or in this case, what we yabba dabba do. How
are you using daily momentum to keep yourself from feeling detached from the
creative process?

What did you learn?

* * * *

Scott Ginsberg

That Guy with the Nametag

Author. Speaker. Strategist. Filmmaker. Publisher. Songwriter. 

[email protected]

Never the same speech twice. Customized for your audience. Impossible to walk away uninspired.

Now booking for 2014-2015.

Email to inquire about fees and availability. Watch clips of The Nametag Guy in action here!

All creativity begins with the moment of conception.

That little piece of kindling that gets the fire going. That initial source of inspiration that takes on a life of its own. That single note from which the entire symphony grows. That single spark of life that signals an idea’s movement value, almost screaming to us, something wants to be built here.

And so, in this new blog series, I’m going to be deconstructing my favorite moments of conception from popular movies. Each post will contain a video clip from a different film, along with a series of lessons we can learn from the characters.

Today’s clip comes from the rooftop scene scene in Peaceful Warrior:

What can we learn?

Crucified thy ego, arise thy higher self. Danny stares down his treasured collection of
trophies, awards and medals. They’re everything he’s ever worked for. And yet,
despite his lifelong success as a scholar and an athlete, they’re just props.
Superficial validations of immature ego needs. Plastic crutches symbolizing the
attainment of a goal, rather than the enjoyment of the journey. That’s why he
smashes them to the ground. Because it’s not who he wants to be anymore. And
so, as he destroys the shelf, he destroys the self. Danny begins to let go of a persona he has come to identify
with and call his own. It’s the initiation of existential severance, which is a process most artists undergo at
one time or another. I remember my own experience with it, during which my
mentor asked an interesting question. What if
you started a new career today, he asked, letting go of everything you’ve tried
and built and accomplished in the last ten years, except the person you’ve become? Danny is asking himself the same
question. And he’s starting to realize, maybe he finally achieved enough to be
okay with himself. Maybe he actually feels complete about this part of his
journey. Maybe
if lets go of who he was––quite literally––he’ll be able to become who he needs
to be. Are you afraid of the only place
that gives you real answers?

Get rid of all your best weapons first. Taoists
scripture states that when we let go of what we have, we receive what we need.
It’s the paradox of letting go. And that’s what makes this scene on the rooftop
so powerful. Because in most cases, the thing we need to let go of, is a part
of the self. Something that’s been good to us. Prolific comedians, for example,
write a new act every year. They scrap all of their old material and start from
scratch. Louie once said during an interview that he likes to open with last year’s closer, just to fuck
himself. That’s letting go. And every
artist has their own version of it. I’ve composed dozens of songs over the
years––good ones, too­­––that I simply
no longer play. And I miss them. They’re like creative brainchildren who don’t
come to visit anymore. But the reality is, we can’t grow as artists by looking
in the rear view mirror. We have to stay in motion. We have to create new work.
And we have to accept that anything we made in the past only matters insofar as
it brought us here. Have you confronted
your built in reluctance to let go of what’s working?

Fear doesn’t go away, it just changes shape. Danny’s first love was gymnastics. It was
the first thing he gave everything to, and the first thing that gave everything
to him. But now that he’s watching it slip away, precariously
balanced on his sanity ledge, the panic is starting to settle in. Have you ever found yourself standing out on that ledge? It’s a grim
existential crisis. A death of sorts, rife with its own form of grieving. Because
you have make
peace with the psychological fallout that results from your new position in the
world. When I worked a full time gig
with a marketing agency, there were a host of new feelings that accompanied my
transition. The constipation of not having an outlet to express my impulse to
originate. The frustration of putting somebody else’s brand before my own. The
distress of working significantly below my pay grade. And the inadequacy of telling
people I wasn’t succeeding solely on my own steam. A different family of fears,
no doubt; but fears nonetheless. Are you
ready to give yourself a pep talk down off your ledge of anxiety?

* * * *

Scott Ginsberg

That Guy with the Nametag

Author. Speaker. Strategist. Filmmaker. Publisher. Songwriter. 

[email protected]

Never the same speech twice. Customized for your audience. Impossible to walk away uninspired.

Now booking for 2014-2015.

Email to inquire about fees and availability. Watch clips of The Nametag Guy in action here!

All creativity begins with the moment of conception.

That little piece of kindling that gets the fire going. That initial source of inspiration that takes on a life of its own. That single note from which the entire symphony grows. That single spark of life that signals an idea’s movement value, almost screaming to us, something wants to be built here.

And so, in this new blog series, I’m going to be deconstructing my favorite moments of conception from popular movies. Each post will contain a video clip from a different film, along with a series of lessons we can learn from the characters.

Today’s clip comes from the parking lot scene scene in Fight Club:

What can we learn?

Carve a path back to
yourself. Jack initially pretends to be an impostor at support groups as an
emotional release to relieve his insomnia. But then he creates fight club. And
at first, it feels strange, but it’s a good strange. Flailing and gasping and
bleeding and stumbling, his eyes glaze over with endorphins and serenity. And
that’s when he realizes, they’ve crossed a threshold. To paraphrase from the original screenplay, at fight club, you weren’t alive anywhere
like you were there. After fight club, everything else in your life got the
volume turned down. You could deal with anything. The people who had power over
you had less and less. We all started seeing things differently. Wherever we
went. We should all be so lucky. Not
to pick fights with strangers in parking lots. But from a creative standpoint, we
all need our own version of fight club. A routine recreational activity makes us
feel alive. A venue that inoculates us against the sterility of the world. A platform
that offers a swift kick to the solar plexus. It’s an effective tool for
recalibrating the soul and keep creativity flowing. Do you have a portable, purposeful and private sanctuary to reconnect
with the self, the body and the spirit?

Happiness only real
when shared. We’re not only watching two men fighting, we’re witnessing a
conceptual beginning. As they sit on the hood of the car, there’s no doubt that
something wants to be built here. The experience is simply too meaningful. But
the key is the final line of the scene.
We should do this again sometime. That’s precisely the right attitude to
have in this experience. Because when we find something that has
existential resonance for us, the essential next step is sharing that discovery
with another person. It makes it more real. Otherwise we’re just living inside
our own heads, winking in the dark, playing basketball without a backboard. I
remember the first time I played music in the tunnel under the arch by my house. I came back home a changed
man. And I told everybody. Because when you finally find the physical
conditions that elicit your best work, you want to shout it from the rooftops. How often are you sharing what really matters to you?

Your body will never
lie to you. This movie is dark, violent, nihilistic and sinister. But it’s
also a beautiful example of the relationship between creativity and physicality.
After all, the shortest
distance to the brain is through the body. And if there’s something we want to achieve
artistically, often times, we can back into that creation by changing our sheer
physicality. One medium in which I’ve noticed this relationship play out is
songwriting. I’ve been composing music for over twenty years, but only in the
past three did I start playing standing up. That one decision changed
everything for me. From the experience practicing, my music became more invigorating. To the experience of performing, my music became more effective. To the experience of listening, my music became more
enthralling. Even the music itself reflects this new shift in energy and position,
as my songs have become dramatically faster, louder and more muscular than any
of my previous work. All because I got my ass out of the chair and let my body
dictate. Are you creating the physical
conditions that elicit your best work?

What did you learn?

* * * *

Scott Ginsberg

That Guy with the Nametag

Author. Speaker. Strategist. Filmmaker. Publisher. Songwriter. 

[email protected]

Never the same speech twice. Customized for your audience. Impossible to walk away uninspired.

Now booking for 2014-2015.

Email to inquire about fees and availability. Watch clips of The Nametag Guy in action here!

All creativity begins with the moment of conception.

That little piece of kindling that gets the fire going. That initial source of inspiration that takes on a life of its own. That single note from which the entire symphony grows. That single spark of life that signals an idea’s movement value, almost screaming to us, something wants to be built here.

And so, in this new blog series, I’m going to be deconstructing my favorite moments of conception from popular movies. Each post will contain a video clip from a different film, along with a series of lessons we can learn from the characters.

Today’s clip comes from the bar scene scene in Rango:

What can we learn?

Filling in the
identity lines.This movie is terrifically clever, but it’s also a powerful
meditation on identity. Rango is a chameleon, both literally and figuratively. With
a little mimicry, bravado and improvisation, he presents himself as tough
drifter who will blow the ugly right off your face. And the townsfolk believe
him. They have no idea he comes from a domestic terrarium. Rango is a blank sheet
of paper, in his minds and theirs. And this scene is him filling in the lines.
We’re witnessing theconceptual beginning of a man’s identity. Rango’s history and
beliefs areawakening in him. His narrative is beginning to assume a
definite form. And his personalmythology is burning itself into people’s brains.If you’re
an artist, there were probably moments just like that your career. Starting
from scratch. Filling in the identity lines. Consciously deciding who you’re
going to be. It’s an exhilarating
experience. Especially since most of the world isn’t lucky enough to become who
they are.What where the sudden but seismic
shifts in your sensibility and persona that became foundational in your work?

We each see what we
need to see. Dirt is a town of deep faith. A loyal, tightly knit community
who needs something to believe in. Rango, on the other hand, is a loner and a complete
fraud. He’s not even supposed to be there. But as the spirit of the west
advised him, no man can walk out on his
own story. And so, he doesn’t have a choice. Rango raised his hand. He became
the hero they were looking for and. And from this point on, that’s who he is.
If you’re a veteran creator, this lesson is particularly useful. Because over
the long arc of an artist’s career, people often take detours off their main
line that they’re not initially thrilled with. But that doesn’t mean the
experience isn’t worthwhile. Creative people must always allow for the
possibility that new meaning will arise in unexpected places. As my mentor once
told me, when you think you know your destination, you’re on the
wrong path. Are you willing to lean into
a different future?

Mighty oaks from tiny
acorns grow. Rango’s entire future was predicated on something he read on a
bottle of cactus juice. That seemingly innocuous detail was the divergence that
resulted in a significantly different outcome. It’s chaos theory at its finest. Sensitive dependence. Initial
conditions in which a small change at one place in a deterministic nonlinear
system can result in large differences in a later state. Sound like quantum
physics? You’re right. But it also sounds like the creative process. Because
the obligation of an artist is to always be on the lookout for that divergence.
That tiny detail that triggers a whole
world. Every creative person has their version of it. Fifteen years ago, I
decided to put on a nametag. And out of that moment, I built a brand, a
business and an entire career. That was my first experience chaos theory. But
what’s interesting is, now I notice those innocuous details everywhere. To me,
everything is a nametag. Everything is a bottle of cactus juice that could
change everything. What do you see when
you see people?

* * * *

Scott Ginsberg

That Guy with the Nametag

Author. Speaker. Strategist. Filmmaker. Publisher. Songwriter. 

[email protected]

Never the same speech twice. Customized for your audience. Impossible to walk away uninspired.

Now booking for 2014-2015.

Email to inquire about fees and availability. Watch clips of The Nametag Guy in action here!

All creativity begins with the moment of conception.

That little piece of kindling that gets the fire going. That initial source of inspiration that takes on a life of its own. That single note from which the entire symphony grows. That single spark of life that signals an idea’s movement value, almost screaming to us, something wants to be built here.

And so, in this new blog series, I’m going to be deconstructing my favorite moments of conception from popular movies. Each post will contain a video clip from a different film, along with a series of lessons we can learn from the characters.

Today’s clip comes from the singing scene scene in Saving Mrs. Banks:

What can we learn?

Ideas are riders and need a
horse to get to us. Travers
is a financially struggling author with deep disdain for animated movies. She’s
proper, formal, conservative, and her novel’s main character is enemy of
sentiment and whimsy who doesn’t sugar coat the darkness in the world. As she
says early in the movie, what horrors
have you in store for my beautiful characters today? Tough crowd. Good luck
pulling an idea out of that cranky, stubborn dame. Disney, on the other hand,
the ultimate symbol of magic, the paragon of innocence and joy, has been
courting her for twenty hears. He’s not giving up in his quest to acquire
the film rights to her novels. You have to appreciate that kind of persistence.
But it’s a reminder thatcreativity is
a negotiation. A conversation between art and artist. A battle between
resistance and expression. And it’s an exchange that requires a certain
amount of coaxing. Because matter how swiftly and frequently inspiration shows
up, many of our best ideas need to be massaged into shape. How will you
prevent your ideas from getting steamrolled?

Inhibition is an endangered
species. Travers
is attempting collaboration with the creative team, but has become increasingly
disengaged. The work is bringing up too many painful childhood memories. But
somehow, the music composers soften her. The song reawakens her
imagination and enthusiastically engages her. Pamela’s body language says it
all. First, she raises an eyebrow. The involuntary
indicator of interest, intrigue and curiosity. Next, she taps her foot.
The basic tool for keeping time and connecting with rhythm. Finally, she starts
waltzing, laughing and singing. The mark of a fully engaged audience member.
This scene is a perfect illustration of what happens when an artist tastes the
sweet nectar of pure creation. When someone feels what it feels like to have no
creative restrictions. To be, as the song says, where the air is clear. Because even if that happens for only a
moment, it’s amazing what kinds of creative doors start to open up. Travers
isn’t singing a song, she’s signing a permission slip. She’s giving herself the
freedom to live a life that isn’t dictated by her history. Are you allowing the pain
from the past to numb the pleasure of the present?

Align yourself with
the flow of process. Travers didn’t
believe a film version of her books would do justice to her creation. Little
did she know, the movie would receive widespread critical acclaim, win tons of
awards, inspire a long running musical, even break the world record for the world’s largest umbrella mosaic. That’s the beauty of
creativity. You have an idea for a treehouse and end up building a skyscraper. Woops. But isn’t that what
makes life worth living? The surprises. The unintentionals. The strange
evolutions that turn seeds into forests. Isn’t that why you get into the idea
business in the first place? Because you never know. All you can do is trust
the creative process. All you can do is let go, allow your work to lead you and to believe in the dividends.
Besides, the juicy stuff almost always happens in unoccupied channels.
Travers never could have dreamed her books would have such a wide impact on
modern culture. But had she never said yes to the mouse, none of that would
have happened. What was your resurrection
opportunity?

What did you learn?

* * * *

Scott Ginsberg

That Guy with the Nametag

Author. Speaker. Strategist. Filmmaker. Publisher. Songwriter. 

[email protected]

Never the same speech twice. Customized for your audience. Impossible to walk away uninspired.

Now booking for 2014-2015.

Email to inquire about fees and availability. Watch clips of The Nametag Guy in action here!