A piece of art is successful (the second part) when the artist’s perspective resonates with an audience in a way that’s understood, even if it differs from the artist’s intention. However, the process of creating art (the first and often less examined part) is selfish: the artist produces to provide himself with a clearer, stronger, deeper perspective of his own life.

As an extreme example of a process-driven artist, consider Henry Darger, a recluse with a negligible public occupation as a hospital janitor who led a secret life as a writer and artist. A custodian during the day, Darger produced a 15,000 page work of fiction, a 5,000 page autobiography, a 10-year weather journal, a 10,000 page novel and a collection of diaries, paintings and illustrations in his spare time. Indifferent to result, Darger’s work did not emerge until after his death. He’s heralded to this day in museums and recognized as a prime example of outsider art.

Art allows for process because it is malleable. An artist can take bits and pieces of life conditions and experiences, often confusing and overbearing to reality, and weave them into a neat, linear narrative on a canvas. The painter chooses from a pallet of colors, patterns, symbols and textures, and arranges them into a painting. The musician uses instruments, samples and production techniques, layering sounds into a song or album. The writer — and this is especially true of the fiction writer — tells a story using language, characters and emotion reflecting pieces of our own lives.

The process of creating art, regardless of its result, can bring us one step closer to understanding our own reality.

DJ / producer Mark Ronson told a story recently on a music panel that made me consider those questions. Mark was asked about his creative process in developing and producing a pop single: does he deliberately attempt to devise a piece of music that will appeal to large audiences or does he wait for an idea to strike before hitting the studio?

Mark’s story and response brushed on both:

Amy Winehouse, Mark’s collaborator in 2007, had proclaimed to him that “they want to send me back to rehab!” Mark, taken aback, responded, “No, no, no!” Mark had an idea, immediately followed by a studio session and a first stab at the track’s 1960s-style production.

The result was Amy Winehouse’s majorly successful track “Rehab,” produced by Mark Ronson. A casual conversation about Amy’s drinking problem turned into a catchy, soulful piece of music awarded five Grammys including Record of the Year, Song of the Year, and Best Female Pop Vocal Performance.

At the end of the story, Mark explained that his creative process was not sitting down and forcing himself to create a sound that would be popular with the masses. He simply creates music that is appealing to him when the moment strikes. At times this occurs as a result of a conversation or experience; other times it happens while he is in the studio producing other music.

I don’t believe creativity has an off / on switch. Creative, right-brained people are naturally wired to always be “on.” I do believe, however, that certain environments and states of mind are necessary in enabling the creative process.

Mark Ronson may not sit down and tell himself to “create a popular song,” but he was able to use a random slice of conversation with a talented alcoholic as inspiration for a multiple Grammy winning track. The hours of work, brain power and actual creative process took place in the studio, which you can guarantee was controlled, deliberate and practiced, unlike the spark of inspiration.

Take another example involving Steve Jobs: during a trip to India in 1974 he experimented with LSD, later calling the experience “one of the two or three most important things I have done in my life.” A writer has even said that “thinking differently — or learning to Think Different, as a Jobs slogan has it — is a hallmark of the acid experience.” Similar in theme to the story of Ronson’s conversation with Winehouse, Jobs’ experience with LSD was an inspiration for his later work while unrelated to the actual process of creating.

Inspiration for creativity is cheap and can be found anywhere, whether through conversations with an alcoholic, experimentation with LSD in India, or more conventional means. Creative production, on the other hand, is only as valuable as the person’s willingness to sit down and act on it.

Creativity falls into a category of traits often claimed but rarely defined. My observations tell me this happens for three reasons:

One, the word has sex appeal. Similar to “entrepreneur,” it’s become marketable and desirable for someone to claim he is a “creative,” even if he’s not. The second, most authentically, is communicated by someone who creates things while lacking the acuteness to articulate what he is creating. The third is communicated by someone who claims a creative philosophy, but is ignorant to communicating his reasoning.

The distinctions play a role in the unique war occurring between the opposing poles of popular culture: art and marketing. I categorize art as original work derived from the hands and minds of the second and third distinctions. Historically, art has generated new cultural movements. The subsequent mass marketing is a collection of messages recycled from the original art, often developed by individuals in the first distinction.

Both art and marketing can, and do, stand on their own, but are more effective when combined. For instance, for a painting to reach mass appeal and commercial success, it needs to be created by the artist, while most effectively marketed by a second party, such as a museum. Likewise, a marketing campaign will prove influential when its guts have been created by the unique work of an artist.

Today’s original art is reflective of today’s mass marketing and media, rather than the other way around. Consider the following two examples:

The Banksy-influenced street artist Mr. Brainwash currently has an exhibit displaying colorful pop portraits in a spacious New York warehouse reminiscent in style of Andy Warhol, including quirky prints of Obama, Kate Moss, Keith Haring, a taxi cab in a toy box and broken record outlines of pop figures Slash, Jay-Z, David Bowie and Sid Vicious. Mr. Brainwash leveraged existing, pre-marketed trends, repackaged them and resold his art to an existing culture and new audience.

Or, take the Significant Objects project, where writers develop original stories around insignificant objects, crowning them significant, subsequently selling the items on eBay for more then they are “worth.” The objects, often just everyday items, increase in value because of the original narrative wrapped around them. Similar to the Mr. Brainwash exhibit, an existing culture has been repackaged, redesigned and recycled for a likely new audience.

Art has become so recycled and repetitive that one meme’s high quickly fades until the next hit. Today’s artist isn’t an individual; he’s been reduced to another, for lack of a better word, remixer.

Present culture is faced with a cyclical dilemma: Artists aren’t starting trends, they are repackaging them. Mass marketing, to its benefit, has become so relevant that it’s viewed as inspiration by today’s creatives. With any period of inflection–a loophole exists. There is a rare opportunity to lead a wave of artists that create the culture, rather than simply reflect it.

Who will be part of it?

There is a story the classic screenwriter Nora Ephron tells from her journalism days in high school, also discussed in the book Made To Stick, that positively proves the result of leaving ambiguous, interpretive holes in our work’s narrative. The story revolves around Ephron’s first news writing assignment, where the eager students, including Ephron, approached with the instinct to report strictly who, what, where, when, why–and then to connect.

The class assignment included a series of situational facts about a high school, describing how the entire faculty would be out of their classrooms for an educational conference the following Thursday. The aspiring journalists were supposed to transpose the facts, then write the respective report. The students wrote their leads, many describing a similar situation regarding the conference, each written to portray where the teachers were going, when they would be gone, who would be speaking, etc.

After the teacher collected the assignments, which were all stylistically alike, he paused, stared and gently proclaimed:

“The lead to the story is ‘There will be no school next Thursday.’ “

Ephron’s story, with the zinger of wisdom being the teacher’s response regarding what the lead should have been, portrays the “less is more” principal.

Effectively using “less” should not have a direct intention to mislead, nor should any information actively be removed. But, by stating an initial fact that leaves holes to be filled, it forces an audience to question not only what will be stated next, but also to ponder the intent of the writer. When an artist, a writer in this case, becomes more interesting than the work itself, it creates a sense of mystery, even urgency, surrounding the product.

And that, in a sense, becomes an addictive narrative.

Jack Kerouc wrote On The Road diligently for three weeks straight, caffeine free, while living with his wife in Manhattan.  The original, legendary manuscript is referred to as the scroll, and described as “a continuous, one hundred and twenty-foot scroll of tracing paper sheets that he cut to size and taped together. The roll was typed single-spaced, without margins or paragraph breaks.”  Kerouc’s extended, relentless writing process, in some ways, was representative of his searchful meanderings around the country.

Pablo Picasso painted Guernica as a dramatic, historical time piece, telling a hundred different stories physically within the painting.  Picasso wanted to bring worldly attention to the bombing conflict in the town of Guernica, and bring sympathy to the Republican cause.  His purpose was the process, which was an ultimate, cultural ode against war and terror that spoke louder than words.

Although Picasso was not criticized for his process, Kerouc was, and still is.  The writing strategy behind On The Road was non-traditional, specifically due to the intentionally rushed writing speed and clear lack of formal editing.  On The Road was a beautiful brain dump of purposeful, youthful travel.  As Kerouc didn’t seem to take a breath during his aimless travels around the United States, he didn’t seem to take a breath while writing either, unless it was through a cigarette.  The art of Kerouc’s non-conform process bread spite, as even Truman Capote was quoted saying:

That’s not writing, it’s typing.

It’s a snarky comment, and one sure to gather the type of obnoxious attention Capote frequently looked for.  On The Road isn’t my favorite book, but the story behind it is inspiring due to its raw individuality.  Kerouc did what felt right to him, which meant typing and typing and typing, until it was done.  And, Guernica isn’t my favorite painting, but the story behind it is enlightening because of its focus on historical longevity and political purpose.  Picasso’s strategy, I think, was to inflict historical, lasting memories upon his viewers.

Throughout my formal schooling I enjoyed writing, but my arguments with writing professors made the process to a finished piece frustrating.  The formal setting forced excess focus and control on the process, which is the most vital stage of creative output to be left non-formulaic.

Blogging has enabled me a certain type of writing freedom, where the process used to develop a post typically depends on the type of piece, whether it’s research-based, a personal reflection, lesson’s learned or a story.  But, it usually includes a hosing of ideas in short phrases, an organization phase, the addition of footnotes, quotes and links, and after consolidation, making sure I leave the reader with a message or next action.

By studying artists I’ve realized that how we get through our process is as important as the completed prize at the end.  Kerouc wrote for three weeks straight, puffing cigarettes and barely sleeping.  Picasso wanted to leave a large, historical time piece, and painted objectively with deep war-themes in mind.  The process should be left to the individual; don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.  Borrow and steal from those you admire, but like Kerouc and Picasso, get there on your own artistic motive.

1. That’s part of the appeal of Daily Routines.