I Walk into a White Room
I walk into a large white room. It's a dance studio in midtown
Manhattan. I'm wearing a sweatshirt, faded jeans, and Nike
cross-trainers. The room is lined with eight-foot-high mirrors. There's
a boom box in the corner. The floor is clean, virtually spotless if you
don't count the thousands of skid marks and footprints left there by
dancers rehearsing. Other than the mirrors, the boom box, the skid
marks, and me, the room is empty.
In five weeks I'm flying to Los Angeles with a troupe of six dancers to
perform a dance program for eight consecutive evenings in front of
twelve hundred people every night. It's my troupe. I'm the
choreographer. I have half of the program in hand -- a fifty-minute
ballet for all six dancers set to Beethoven's twenty-ninth piano sonata,
the "Hammerklavier." I created the piece more than a year ago on many of
these same dancers, and I've spent the past few weeks rehearsing it with
The other half of the program is a mystery. I don't know what music I'll
be using. I don't know which dancers I'll be working with. I have no
idea what the costumes will look like, or the lighting, or who will be
performing the music. I have no idea of the length of the piece,
although it has to be long enough to fill the second half of a full
program to give the paying audience its money's worth.
The length of the piece will dictate how much rehearsal time I need.
This, in turn, means getting on the phone to dancers, scheduling studio
time, and getting the ball rolling -- all on the premise that something
wonderful will come out of what I fashion in the next few weeks in this
empty white room.
My dancers expect me to deliver because my choreography represents their
livelihood. The presenters in Los Angeles expect the same because
they've sold a lot of tickets to people with the promise that they'll
see something new and interesting from me. The theater owner (without
really thinking about it) expects it as well; if I don't show up, his
theater will be empty for a week. That's a lot of people, many of whom
I've never met, counting on me to be creative.
But right now I'm not thinking about any of this. I'm in a room with the
obligation to create a major dance piece. The dancers will be here in a
few minutes. What are we going to do?
To some people, this empty room symbolizes something profound,
mysterious, and terrifying: the task of starting with nothing and
working your way toward creating something whole and beautiful and
satisfying. It's no different for a writer rolling a fresh sheet of
paper into his typewriter (or more likely firing up the blank screen on
his computer), or a painter confronting a virginal canvas, a sculptor
staring at a raw chunk of stone, a composer at the piano with his
fingers hovering just above the keys. Some people find this moment --
the moment before creativity begins -- so painful that they simply
cannot deal with it. They get up and walk away from the computer, the
canvas, the keyboard; they take a nap or go shopping or fix lunch or do
chores around the house. They procrastinate. In its most extreme form,
this terror totally paralyzes people.
The blank space can be humbling. But I've faced it my whole professional
life. It's my job. It's also my calling. Bottom line: Filling this empty
space constitutes my identity.
I'm a dancer and choreographer. Over the last 35 years, I've created 130
dances and ballets. Some of them are good, some less good (that's an
understatement -- some were public humiliations). I've worked with
dancers in almost every space and environment you can imagine. I've
rehearsed in cow pastures. I've rehearsed in hundreds of studios, some
luxurious in their austerity and expansiveness, others filthy and
gritty, with rodents literally racing around the edges of the room. I've
spent eight months on a film set in Prague, choreographing the dances
and directing the opera sequences for Milos Forman's Amadeus.
I've staged sequences for horses in New York City's Central Park for the
film Hair. I've worked with dancers in the opera houses of
London, Paris, Stockholm, Sydney, and Berlin. I've run my own company
for three decades. I've created and directed a hit show on Broadway.
I've worked long enough and produced with sufficient consistency that by
now I find not only challenge and trepidation but peace as well as
promise in the empty white room. It has become my home.
After so many years, I've learned that being creative is a full-time job
with its own daily patterns. That's why writers, for example, like to
establish routines for themselves. The most productive ones get started
early in the morning, when the world is quiet, the phones aren't
ringing, and their minds are rested, alert, and not yet polluted by
other people's words. They might set a goal for themselves -- write
fifteen hundred words, or stay at their desk until noon -- but the real
secret is that they do this every day. In other words, they are
disciplined. Over time, as the daily routines become second nature,
discipline morphs into habit.
It's the same for any creative individual, whether it's a painter
finding his way each morning to the easel, or a medical researcher
returning daily to the laboratory. The routine is as much a part of the
creative process as the lightning bolt of inspiration, maybe more. And
this routine is available to everyone.
Creativity is not just for artists. It's for businesspeople
looking for a new way to close a sale; it's for engineers trying
to solve a problem; it's for parents who want their
children to see the world in more than one way. Over the past
four decades, I have been engaged in one creative pursuit or another
every day, in both my professional and my personal life. I've thought a
great deal about what it means to be creative, and how to go about it
efficiently. I've also learned from the painful experience of going
about it in the worst possible way. I'll tell you about both. And I'll
give you exercises that will challenge some of your creative assumptions
-- to make you stretch, get stronger, last longer. After all, you
stretch before you jog, you loosen up before you work out, you practice
before you play. It's no different for your mind.
I will keep stressing the point about creativity being augmented by
routine and habit. Get used to it. In these pages a philosophical tug of
war will periodically rear its head. It is the perennial debate, born in
the Romantic era, between the beliefs that all creative acts are born of
(a) some transcendent, inexplicable Dionysian act of inspiration, a kiss
from God on your brow that allows you to give the world The Magic
Flute, or (b) hard work.
If it isn't obvious already, I come down on the side of hard work.
That's why this book is called The Creative Habit. Creativity is
a habit, and the best creativity is a result of good work habits. That's
it in a nutshell.
The film Amadeus (and the play by Peter Shaffer on which it's
based) dramatizes and romanticizes the divine origins of creative
genius. Antonio Salieri, representing the talented hack, is cursed to
live in the time of Mozart, the gifted and undisciplined genius who
writes as though touched by the hand of God. Salieri recognizes the
depth of Mozart's genius, and is tortured that God has chosen someone so
unworthy to be His divine creative vessel.
Of course, this is hogwash. There are no "natural" geniuses.
Mozart was his father's son. Leopold Mozart had gone through an arduous
education, not just in music, but also in philosophy and religion; he
was a sophisticated, broad-thinking man, famous throughout Europe as a
composer and pedagogue. This is not news to music lovers. Leopold had a
massive influence on his young son. I question how much of a "natural"
this young boy was. Genetically, of course, he was probably more
inclined to write music than, say, play basketball, since he was only
three feet tall when he captured the public's attention. But his first
good fortune was to have a father who was a composer and a virtuoso on
the violin, who could approach keyboard instruments with skill, and who
upon recognizing some ability in his son, said to himself, "This is
interesting. He likes music. Let's see how far we can take this."
Leopold taught the young Wolfgang everything about music, including
counterpoint and harmony. He saw to it that the boy was exposed to
everyone in Europe who was writing good music or could be of use in
Wolfgang's musical development. Destiny, quite often, is a determined
parent. Mozart was hardly some naive prodigy who sat down at the
keyboard and, with God whispering in his ears, let the music flow from
his fingertips. It's a nice image for selling tickets to movies, but
whether or not God has kissed your brow, you still have to work. Without
learning and preparation, you won't know how to harness the power of
Nobody worked harder than Mozart. By the time he was twenty-eight years
old, his hands were deformed because of all the hours he had spent
practicing, performing, and gripping a quill pen to compose. That's the
missing element in the popular portrait of Mozart. Certainly, he had a
gift that set him apart from others. He was the most complete musician
imaginable, one who wrote for all instruments in all combinations, and
no one has written greater music for the human voice. Still, few people,
even those hugely gifted, are capable of the application and focus that
Mozart displayed throughout his short life. As Mozart himself wrote to a
friend, "People err who think my art comes easily to me. I assure you,
dear friend, nobody has devoted so much time and thought to composition
as I. There is not a famous master whose music I have not industriously
studied through many times." Mozart's focus was fierce; it had to be for
him to deliver the music he did in his relatively short life, under the
conditions he endured, writing in coaches and delivering scores just
before the curtain went up, dealing with the distractions of raising a
family and the constant need for money. Whatever scope and grandeur you
attach to Mozart's musical gift, his so-called genius, his discipline
and work ethic were its equal.
I'm sure this is what Leopold Mozart saw so early in his son who, as a
three-year-old, one day impulsively jumped up on the stool to play his
older sister's harpsichord -- and was immediately smitten. Music quickly
became Mozart's passion, his preferred activity. I seriously doubt that
Leopold had to tell his son for very long, "Get in there and practice
your music." The child did it on his own.
More than anything, this book is about preparation: In order to be
creative you have to know how to prepare to be creative.
No one can give you your subject matter, your creative content; if they
could, it would be their creation and not yours. But there's a process
that generates creativity -- and you can learn it. And you can make it
There's a paradox in the notion that creativity should be a habit. We
think of creativity as a way of keeping everything fresh and new, while
habit implies routine and repetition. That paradox intrigues me because
it occupies the place where creativity and skill rub up against each
It takes skill to bring something you've imagined into the world: to use
words to create believable lives, to select the colors and textures of
paint to represent a haystack at sunset, to combine ingredients to make
a flavorful dish. No one is born with that skill. It is developed
through exercise, through repetition, through a blend of learning and
reflection that's both painstaking and rewarding. And it takes time.
Even Mozart, with all his innate gifts, his passion for music, and his
father's devoted tutelage, needed to get twenty-four youthful symphonies
under his belt before he composed something enduring with number
twenty-five. If art is the bridge between what you see in your mind and
what the world sees, then skill is how you build that bridge.
That's the reason for the exercises. They will help you develop skill.
Some might seem simple. Do them anyway -- you can never spend enough
time on the basics. Before he could write Così fan tutte,
Mozart had practiced his scales.
While modern dance and ballet are my métier, they are not the
subject of this book. I promise you that the text will not be littered
with dance jargon. You will not be confused by first positions and
pliés and tendus in these pages. I will assume that you're a
reasonably sophisticated and open-minded person. I hope you've been to
the ballet and seen a dance company in action on stage. If you haven't,
shame on you; that's like admitting you've never read a novel or
strolled through a museum or heard a Beethoven symphony live. If you
give me that much, we can work together.
The way I figure it, my work habits are applicable to everyone. You'll
find that I'm a stickler about preparation. My daily routines are
transactional. Everything that happens in my day is a transaction
between the external world and my internal world. Everything is raw
material. Everything is relevant. Everything is usable.
Everything feeds into my creativity. But without proper preparation, I
cannot see it, retain it, and use it. Without the time and effort
invested in getting ready to create, you can be hit by the thunderbolt
and it'll just leave you stunned.
Take, for example, a wonderful scene in the film The Karate Kid.
The teenaged Daniel asks the wise and wily Mr. Miyagi to teach him
karate. The old man agrees and orders Daniel first to wax his car in
precisely opposed circular motions ("Wax on, wax off"). Then he tells
Daniel to paint his wooden fence in precise up and down motions.
Finally, he makes Daniel hammer nails to repair a wall. Daniel is
puzzled at first, then angry. He wants to learn the martial arts so he
can defend himself. Instead he is confined to household chores. When
Daniel is finished restoring Miyagi's car, fence, and walls, he explodes
with rage at his "mentor." Miyagi physically attacks Daniel, who without
thought or hesitation defends himself with the core thrusts and parries
of karate. Through Miyagi's deceptively simple chores, Daniel has
absorbed the basics of karate -- without knowing it.
In the same spirit as Miyagi teaches karate, I hope this book will help
you be more creative. I can't guarantee that everything you'll create
will be wonderful -- that's up to you -- but I do promise that if you
read through the book and heed even half the suggestions, you'll never
be afraid of a blank page or an empty canvas or a white room again.
Creativity will become your habit.
Copyright © 2003 by W.A.T. Ltd.
Excerpted from "The Creative Habit: Learn It and Use It for Life" by Twyla Tharp. Copyright © 0 by Twyla Tharp. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. Excerpts are provided solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.