illusions.
Our definition of creativity, however, implies that the failures of these artists and inventors are every bit as creative as their successes. Indeed, the iconic works that we celebrate as great art would not receive the acclaim they are accorded today without thousands of unknown failures. In this chapter, we will first explore the myths of creativity and then examine our alternate conception of creativity and its foundational elements.
The Muse
For at least three millennia, the prevailing explanation for creativity was divine inspiration or muses—a linguistic heritage that gives us the modern museum. We get this term from Greek mythology, in which there are nine sister goddesses (muses) of music, poetry, arts, and sciences. One of the sisters, Calliope, was the wisest of the muses. She is often depicted holding a tablet in her hand and has been credited by poets from Homer to Dante with inspiration for their work. African, Asian, Nordic, Celtic, Mayan, Persian, and Native American civilizations shared the same tendency to attribute creative insights to divine inspiration. But while contemporary writers may no longer give tribute to Calliope and her eight sisters, the myth of the muse casts a long shadow that to this day colors the way many people view artistic work. We may not attribute creative inspiration to the gods, but it remains tempting to think of creativity in quasi-mystical terms. In his 1835 essay for The New-England Magazine, Victor Hugo wrote, “It seems that poetic inspiration has in it something too sublime for the common nature of man” (p. 204). Even nearly two centuries later, many Westerners still cling to the belief that creativity is a mysterious force bestowed on a special segment of the population at birth. This myth implies that neither environment, will, nor consequence has the power to nurture creativity.
The Creative Type
They have been known by many names: bards, bohemians, tortured artists, absent-minded professors. We all recognize the caricature: head in the clouds or nose in a book, unconcerned with conventional appearance or customs, the “creative type” is simultaneously ridiculed for his or her eccentricity and lauded for his or her genius. They are tropes in fiction, from Sherlock Holmes to Victor Frankenstein, and some people continue to attempt to live out the stereotype of eccentric genius, from the hipster communes of Brooklyn, New York, to the one black sheep at every family reunion. They are defined not only by their capacity to be creative but also in their opposition to the norm. It is a distinction played out over and over again: there are those who can create, and then there are the rest of us. The U.S. Department of Labor even distinguishes between creative and noncreative professions (Burkus, 2014).
But we hope to show you that this distinction is an artificial one. The notion that some people are simply born creative, that the miracle of invention can somehow be attributed to genes, was long ago undermined in a research study of fraternal and identical twins (Reznikoff, Domino, Bridges, & Honeyman, 1973). After testing more than a hundred pairs of twins, researchers found “little consistent or compelling evidence … to support the notion of a genetic component in creativity” (p. 375). Additionally, David Burkus (2014) notes that while it may take supremely confident personalities to engage in the risk taking required for creativity, the skills of creative problem solving can be learned. He asserts, “Even codependent, risk-averse narcissists can be taught how to generate ideas more easily and combine possible outputs to leverage synergy” (p. 7).
Big C and Little c Creativity
Researchers have often drawn distinctions between Big C creativity—the sort of insights that lead to Nobel Prizes or talents that seem to be inborn—and little c creativity—the sort of insights that are merely functional in nature or that are developed through study. Recent research, however, challenges this dichotomy. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart didn’t write the majestic Coronation Mass in C Major without playing some C major scales and arpeggios; and Francis Crick, Maurice Wilkins, and James Watson didn’t conduct groundbreaking research on DNA without first learning the essentials of math and chemistry. The grandiosity of Big C creativity has necessary antecedents—the structure, hard work, and many mistakes that are the stuff of little c creativity.
Creativity involves a complex interaction among creators, products, and audiences. Creators can appear to be larger-than-life figures, sometimes elevated to their status based on the evaluations of their contemporaries but, more likely, viewed as creative superstars only through the rearview mirror of history. Nobel Prizes, for example, are most often awarded for work that took place decades prior (Cima, 2015). The young researcher laboring away through the tedium of trial and error that is the essence of creativity doesn’t seem particularly intimidating. “I could do that,” their colleagues remark. When the same researcher is delivering the Nobel Lecture in formal attire before Swedish royalty, colleagues stand in awed reverence, muttering, “I could never do that.” Making rock stars out of Big C creators threatens society’s creative enterprise. While the recognition may be nice, the impact is the opposite of that intended.
Architect and engineer I. M. Pei created iconic buildings ranging from the Louvre Pyramid to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, but few people remember the names of the engineers (and carpenters, surveyors, plumbers, electricians, and scores more craftspeople) who brought Pei’s vision to life. Novel visions require novel approaches to implementation. Pei’s visions depend on the similarly visionary work of those who helped the buildings leap from the architect’s plans to three-dimensional structures. Some of Picasso’s most recognizable work, such as the untitled giant horse sculpture in Chicago, required the collaboration of others who could transform the master’s conception into reality. For example, the engineers and craftspeople at American Bridge Company, which had never previously done this sort of artistic work, applied their knowledge from one domain, bridge building, to a completely new domain, the cutting, welding, transportation, and installation of Picasso’s new work (Srivastava, 2014).
Scholar Mark A. Runco (2014) argues there is no evidence for this dichotomy and, more important, that the emphasis on Big C creativity undermines the essential work of little c—that is, the foundation for application and dissemination of the Big C ideas. He argues:
Little c creativity is meaningful in and of itself. This is in part because it is not really extricable from Big C creativity. Little c creativity may develop into Big C creativity. Big C creativity involves things that lead to social recognition, but the creativity results from the same process that is involved in little c creativity. (p. 132)
We reject this dichotomy not only because it is inaccurate but also because it is pernicious, undermining the contributions we all must make to create a future that is brighter, safer, and more enjoyable than yesterday.
Completely Original Work
One of the worst epithets that can be directed to one’s competitors in the creative realm is that their work is merely derivative. As Blaise Pascal (1910) said, “The greater intellect one has, the more originality one finds in men” (p. 10). Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1899) added, “A poor original is better than a good imitation” (p. 290). These ideas are the basis of much of the academic distinctions between innovation and creativity, with the latter representing original ideas and the former derivative. But Nina Paley (2010) has argued that everything is derivative. By the logic of the distinction between original and derivative work, the invention of the wheel was creative, but every other form of land transportation since then, from the horse-drawn wagon to a Formula One race car, is derivative; the aircraft that flew for twelve seconds at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, under the direction of the Wright brothers was creative, but the Space Shuttle was derivative; choral tones identified by Pythagoras three millennia ago and harmonies played on didgeridoos on the Australian continent more than a thousand years ago were creative, while the works of Ludwig van Beethoven were derivative. Poppycock! By denigrating the creative efforts of today and dismissing them as derivative, critics go down the reductionist rat hole that anything since the Big Bang was derivative and not worthy
