Nothing is original. Steal from anywhere that resonates with inspiration or fuel your imagination. Devour old films, new films, music, books, paintings, photographs, poems, dreams, random conversations, architecture, bridges, street signs, trees, clouds, bodies of water, light and shadows. Select only things to steal from that speak directly to your soul. If you do this, your work (and theft) will be authentic.
Authenticity is invaluable; originality is non-existent. And don’t bother concealing your thievery – celebrate it if you feel like it. In any case, always remember what Jean-Luc Godard said: “It’s not where you take things from – it’s where you take them to.”
Jim Jarmusch, movie director
These words take us back to the never ending debate if there is any originality in art or in any sort of creative work, especially nowadays. Has everything already been said, heard, seen, represented? Is it really that we now have nothing else to add to it, that we can just reshape it again in our own, unique way? Where is the boundary between true stealing of somebody’s work and using it all same, but with adding to it some sort of extra special touch, something which can be just about enough to let the final product be declared authentic? Perhaps there is some beauty is the impossibility to have definite answers to these questions.
What I think though is that any creative effort is better than letting your ideas rot forever at the bottom of your mental drawers because something blocks their expression. If you need some extra push to it, do as Jarmusch says – life around you is an eternal source of inspiration. He takes me back to my childhood days when there was no internet and cell phones, information weren’t so readily available, but my inquisitive mind was extremely hungry of soaking in things around me. I’ve always been reading something, every second of my day – wash-machine powder boxes, leaflets, product descriptions, trademarks… I don’t think I was even aware how many shapes, colors and design essentials were coming my way, ready to set some inspiration spark going in some unpredictable way. Later as I grew older I got interested in more complex forms of artistic creations, fascinated by the messages some of them conveyed and by a completely new way to see the world that opened in front of me. What I never truly did before though was to try to actually write about what all this treasure meant to me. I never considered myself a writer, at least not a good one. I’ve always been a perfectionist, and the curse of perfectionism lies in the fact that if you feel that something is not good enough from your standpoint (i.e. the best in the world, brilliant, once in a lifetime thing), you believe that it shouldn’t even exist. And that’s so wrong! The perfection of life is consisted of millions of imperfections put together in a unique, unrepeatable way. Each one of them has some sense in that place that was attributed to it. Such is this blog of mine among thousands and thousands of others that coexist together. Maybe it’s small and insignificant, but it has its own place in this enormous blog family. Maybe it’s not perfect (what is “perfect” anyway?), but maybe somebody will find something for himself or herself in it. It’s always better to share, you never know who might need just the very thing you know something about. I’ll try to keep up the pace, and if ever stuck for inspiration, well, I’ll just look around me. My world is so small and constricted, yet each object around me has a story to tell. Hopefully somebody out there will like them and take from them the material for some personal future creations.