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Hey everybody, and welcome to the Little Oracles podcast, an oracle for the everyday creative. I’m Allison Arth.
So I’ve been thinking. Which I do fairly often. [laughs] But I’ve been thinking about criticism, and specifically the way criticism functions within a creative practice. And the reason I’m thinking about this is two-fold; first, because my old buddy Craig Shipman talked about it in our Creative Chat from earlier this season — and I’ll link that in the show notes, in case you haven’t listened — and, second, because I recently stumbled into this nearly 200-year-old essay by a journalist named Margaret Fuller about the shape and structure and necessity of criticism in general; it’s called “A Short Essay on Critics,” and it was published in the inaugural issue of The Dial, a Transcendentalist magazine, in 1840 — and I’ll link an online version of the essay, too, in case you wanna read it later.
But let’s start with Margaret: as a card-carrying Transcendentalist, she had lots of ideas about the natural divine, or the earthly divine, you could say, in the sense that the sublime or the godlike can exist terrestrially, not just in some vault of heaven or whatever. [chuckles] That said, though, she clearly had ideas about how and in whom the divine manifests, and that’s what really intrigues me. So, in this essay of hers — this “A Short Essay on Critics” — she makes a lot of great points about the purpose of critique, and the way it’s best expressed to pique interest rather than be directive: so, she says critics shouldn’t tell people what books to read, and to not read, but, instead, they should discuss their observations upon reading a book, for example (its merits; and its demerits) and let the person consuming their piece of criticism decide whether to read said book.
But beyond that contention — which I really respect, and think is pretty chill and cool of her, actually — she also imposes this, kind of, duplexity on the critic as an evaluator of creative work: so, she writes that critics are possessed of this (and this is a quote, here) “poetical temperament to apprehend, with the philosophical tendency to investigate. The maker is divine; the critic sees this divine, but brings it down to humanity by the analytic process,” end quote.
And I think it’s this, you know, particular duality that drives her main point — that the critic’s job is to offer an analysis decoupled from any kind of directive or imperative — because she sees a critic as less of an, uhh, amanuensis (you know, just copying and reporting) and more of a translator. She’s really implying that the critic has this expansive capacity to recognize the divine — aka, the creative material her so-called “maker” produces; and remember, she was a Transcendentalist, so this, kind of, obsession with earthly divinity tracks, here — and, at the same time, the critic can comprehend, and analyze, and respond to, and even interpret that creative material in ways that give other people inroads to experience it.
So, here we have Margaret Fuller — who is a super interesting figure in history; she wrote Woman in the Nineteenth Century, which is one of the first feminist texts published in the U.S., and which you can read in full, for free, on the internet, actually; and I’ll link it for you if you wanna get into that — but, here’s Margaret Fuller, almost two centuries ago, really hyping critics and their position as these, kind of, polyglots whose work is, in a sense, the connective tissue between the divine and the mortal.
And I know, and you know, [chuckles] that there’s a lot of classism wrapped up in those ideas, and a lot of, you know, “myth of talent” stuff, and this, like, deus ex artifice — you know, “God from the artist” — kind of stuff, but what interests me, at least for this discussion, is this contention that, essentially, there are two wolves inside a critic [laughs]: you know, the one who sees, and the one who synthesizes.
But what if; what if that critical convention — you know, that ability to identify creative work and then to investigate and evaluate it — wasn’t simply the purview of the critic, as distinct from the “divine maker” as Maragaret Fuller says? Could her conceit turn inward, and onto, one’s own creative output? So basically, what I’m asking: can one person be both creator and critic?
Now, according to Margaret Fuller, probably not, but we both know this is something that creatives do all the time, right? You make something, you build something, you invent something, you fix something, and then you gotta stand back and look at it, and see if it does what you want it to do. And you have to ask yourself all these questions: Is it too much of this? Is it too little of that? How does it look? How does it feel? What does it telegraph, and what does it say out loud?
And once you’ve answered those questions, at least roughly, you know, you most likely have to go back in, or maybe even start all over again, because you’ve called on that critical part of you that trucks and travels in that analytical mode — and, in my opinion, this is where it gets really interesting. Because to step back, and to evaluate, and to review, and to reimagine and revise, requires this attenuation of focus: it’s this shift from ego to empathy, really, because, in order to evaluate the impact of a piece or a project or a product, you kinda have to put yourself in someone else’s shoes, you know what I mean? How can you determine whether your creative output has too much or too little of something; how can you determine how it feels or what it says, if you don’t imagine yourself experiencing it from someone else’s perspective? If you don’t, effectively, exercise your, quote, “poetical temperament to apprehend” and your “philosophical tendency to investigate” in order that you might bring your creative project, quote, “down to humanity by the analytic process”? Now, that’s a lotta quotes right there, but if you don’t do all those things, how do you if what you’ve made accomplishes the goal, or looks the way you want it to look, or is embodying what you want it to embody?
So, let’s just take that as part and parcel of the creative practice, shall we? That you, a critical creator, know how to make something, and then step back and interpret it. So, assuming that, I have a question for you: how often do you, in that moment of stepping back, and interpreting, do you go, [disgusted voice] “Yech; gross. This is bad. This is garbage. [laughs] This is the worst thing I’ve ever made”? Because that’s the story I hear from people, like, a lot. That they make something, and it’s not good enough for whatever reason, and they not only trash the piece, but they then turn to trashing their abilities; and their ideas; and even their very creative nature, like, in and of itself: the voice that tells you, “You ain’t got the chops;” and that says, “You’re not good enough;” and that contends, “You just don’t belong here.”
And you know what? Nah; no thanks. That’s just a load of hogwash [chuckles], and here’s why: it’s called a creative “practice” for a reason. It’s not immediate; it’s not complete; it’s not Athena springing fully formed, and fully armored, from the head of Zeus, right? [laughs]
Because, yeah: sometimes you’re gonna make something that’s a little bit … off. [laughs] And I talked about this back in the YOLO episode — episode 2 of this season; and I’ll link that if you wanna listen — I’m not gonna delude myself, and I’m certainly not gonna delude you: not everything we make is, like, the apotheosis of art or craft or whatever. Like, that’s obviously, right? But that doesn’t mean that all those creations that aren’t the best; that don’t come out the way you imagined; that aren’t something you necessarily wanna advertise on your Instagram are, like, the gestalt of you as a creator. Every time you create something, you’re putting in the work. An imperfection — or even an abundance of imperfections [chuckles] — isn’t evidence that you’re an impostor; it’s evidence that you’re trying. You’re exploring. You’re practicing.
And so this is where what Craig said comes in — and, seriously, if you haven’t listened to that episode, I highly recommend it; Craig shares some wonderful insights about the intersections of curiosity and creativity — but to paraphrase, he encourages all of us creatives to give our overly critical brains a break, and to find some greatness within every creative endeavor (something Margaret Fuller might call divine) and to pat ourselves on the back for that, and then — and only then — go about our critical business. And not the “You don’t belong here” business, because that’s just not true; no, I’m talking about the “Here’s where it could be better” business. The “Let’s see if we can take this little bit of awesome and apply it across the entire project” business. Because that’s the real apotheosis, right? That’s the real synthesis: that compliment sandwich–style of critical engagement. And in the terms of this episode, it’s merging that “philosophical tendency to investigate” and that “poetical temperament” — that ability to locate and celebrate beauty or fineness of skill in something you’ve created, and use that as a fulcrum to inform the critique; and to drive the revision; to, essentially, lever yourself into the next, and better, and best iterations.
So I recently finished reading Second Place by Rachel Cusk — and I’m gonna do a Little Reviews episode about it soon — but it’s this novel that, among other things, really questions the construct of Art and The Artist, and who has the access and the social sanction to claim those terms and those labels. And there’s a moment in this novel where our narrator makes a really pretty chilling observation that’s awfully apropos of what we’re talking about here; so she says, “If you have always been criticised [sic], from before you can remember, it becomes more or less impossible to locate yourself in the time or space before the criticism was made: to believe, in other words, that you yourself exist. The criticism is more real than you are: it seems, in fact, to have created you.”
So just let that sink in for a second. Are you letting your inner critic dictate your creator story, and own that narrative? Are you letting your inner critic tell you who you are as a creative, tell you you’re not good enough, or inspired enough, or you’re just not enough?
And if you are, whaddya say we revise that critique; whaddya say we start with one thing that is good enough; one thing that is inspired enough; one thing that is enough to compel you to keep going, and to keep making. No matter the mess-ups; no matter the missteps: to just keep practicing. Because, as a poet once said, to err is human; and what I say to that (and I think Margaret Fuller would agree with me), to create is divine.
And that, I think, leads us to an early tip-off for our September ABC theme, and our book club picks. So, since it’s back-to-school time where I live, and since I’ve had a bunch of books about work and workers and working — and, particularly for me, books about writing and being a writer — and thinking about, you know, critique, and puttin’ in the work, and puttin’ in the practice; and so, with all of that in mind, I was inspired to create September’s theme, which I’m calling A Life’s Work, and I’ve got three books for you this month: The Odyssey by Lara Williams — lol, you probably thought I was gonna say Homer! [laughs] — no, The Odyssey by Lara Williams; The Employees by Olga Ravn, spelled R-A-V-N — and, apologies for anyone who speaks Danish; I’m trying my best, here, with this pronunciation! — and, finally, The Factory by Hiroko Oyamada. So each of these books addresses the mundanity, or absurdity, or surrealness of “work” in some way, and they’re comment on capitalism from what I understand, and all of them are actually really slim little shorties — like, tiny little books — so I suspect they are pretty punchy reads, but we’ll see when we dig in, in September.
As always, check out content warnings to make sure anything we discuss here on the podcast will be safe and enjoyable for you to read, and, also, always remember that this is an Asynchronous Book Club, so you can read what you want, when you want; and even if you don’t want, [chuckles] you can use the theme to help you curate your own reading list, or even a watch list, or a listen list — however you wanna engage is great; do with these little categorical prompts whatever you will; use them however you want to charge your creative batteries.
And that is it. Thanks so much for being here; I am grateful for each and every one of you. If you like what’s going on here at Little Oracles, share an episode with somebody; leave us a rating or a review wherever you listen; it means so much to me — it really does. If you want more big book energy and creativity content, check us out on Instagram (at) little oracles, and on the blog at little oracles dot com. And, as always, take care, keep creating, and stay divine.
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