There Is A Crack In Everything

Seeking flawed authenticity over pristine perfection

I have spent a lifetime trying to corral young artists and budding writers through the process of creating something from nothing and my most important lesson has always been that perfection is a myth, and that seeking it, is a complete waste of spirit. This is not to say we should avoid striving for excellence, as excellence is different than perfection. Excellence is the best you can do with the tools you’ve been given, while perfection is nothing more than the unattainable folly of the delusional and compulsive.

There are all manner of side benefits to going through the process of attempting excellence. I think of NASA and everything they’ve accomplished. Everyone knows about the moon landings, the deep space voyagers, and the Mars rovers, and it’s easy to think that these accomplishments are not terribly relevant to our everyday lives. However, somewhere in the process of exploring space, NASA managed to discover a wealth of innovations we take for granted every day. Everything from cat scans and LED lights, to dust busters and camera phones.

When you’re seeking innovation, you have to be willing to fail, and to do so spectacularly and regularly. This can produce unexpected results, especially if you’re paying attention. No failure means no forward progress and no side benefits. The faulty glue that produced Post-It notes, or the failed process of developing WD-40, so named because it was the 40th attempt to create an operational degreaser.

You’re going to want to keep an eye out for those happy accidents.

The gifted poet and lyricist Leonard Cohen once wrote, “There is a crack, a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.”

I believe that, and I am not alone.

In the Native American tradition of the Navajo tribe, weavers would intentionally introduce imperfections into their rugs and potters into their pottery, in order to honor the gods. They believed that the imperfect path was the righteous one, as it allowed the dead to escape the circle of this life and move on to the next one. With Persian rugs, there will always be at least one imperfectly tied knot, acknowledgment from its creator that only Allah is perfect and the pursuit of perfection is an affront to God.

Traditional Japanese culture embraces the aesthetic concept of Wabi-Sabi, the acceptance of transience and imperfection. Wabi translates as “subdued, austere beauty,” while Sabi means “rustic patina.”¹ Richard Powell writes, “Wabi-sabi nurtures all that is authentic by acknowledging three simple realities: nothing lasts, nothing is finished, and nothing is perfect.”²

Part of this Japanese aesthetic is Kintsugi, or “gold repair,” the art of repairing cracks in pottery with a mix of lacquer and gold, not only rejoining the fragments but highlighting the repair as a thing of beauty and perseverance. If you’ve ever seen a woman with a mastectomy scar that has been embroidered with an elaborate tattoo, you’ve witnessed the power of Kintsugi.

I’ve long believed that 90% of creative expression is recognizing gold when you see it. The best things I’ve ever done, the most creative and award-winning bits of art I’ve ever produced, have been the result of a string of fortunate accidents that I had the good fortune, skill, and experience to recognize as worthy of my attention.

Those who show up, put in the work, and are prepared to act, are those most likely to be touched by inspiration. After spending decades honing their craft, opening their mind to possibilities, and showing up at their desk or studio every day, these artists are, somehow, the ones who get lucky. Go figure.

Early on, I was reticent to admit that any genius on my part was purely unintentional. I thought it would reduce my credibility as an artist if anyone knew it was all a happy accident. Several decades later, after many successful endeavors, I realized that accidental or not, it was all about creating fearlessly and recognizing brilliance when you found it. The eye for excellence was every bit as important as the ability to create something out of nothing in the first place.

I had a copywriter who worked for me almost 30 years ago. He would write a page of headlines, print them out, and bring them to me. It would be mostly useless shit and then buried three-quarters down the page would be a single nugget of gold. If he’d been more experienced, he might have recognized it as such and shown me just that. He did not.

When I am directing film projects, I always go in with a plan. I know what I need and am confident that I can get at least that. But that is never going to satisfy me. That is the baseline. The bare minimum. I fully expect to take advantage of every happy accident and potential opportunity that presents itself along the way. The things that make my films special are rarely planned. They just happen. They happen because I allow them to, and because I recognize them as precious when they appear from the shadows.

I’ve taken thousands of portraits over the decades and I’ve always been struck by the reaction from people, especially those closest to the subject. They marvel at how well I’ve captured the subject’s personality. It took me a long time to understand why this was. I didn’t think I was doing anything particularly special or unique.

I have never been much of a specialist, those unique individuals with advanced technical expertise in a single field. I’ve always been a more instinctual artist, one that played by ear and directed by feel. This has its downsides and requires a good deal of trust from your client, but it opens you up to a world of possibilities.

I know what I’m going to do but I don’t know what’s going to happen.

I strive for a minimalist approach to most things. The path of least resistance. If something isn’t working, I don’t struggle with it, I change tactics. If the light is over there, I move over there. I don’t try to recreate it over here. I move. When I’m shooting photography in studio, I typically employ a single light with a large soft box and a 50mm lens. It couldn’t be more basic. You don’t need a lot.

When I’m directing, I prefer a light touch as well. If you are looking for a certain type of performance, find people who already do that naturally. Don’t try to turn someone into something they’re not. Find what they do well, and exploit that. Find a location that works for you rather than trying to reconstruct some vague image in your head.

The same holds true of portraits. I want people to do what they would do on their own. I don’t see the point in telling anyone how to hold their body, where to look, or what to do with their face. That would be a picture of someone else.

My only rule, and it’s merely a suggestion for helping nervous subjects relax, is to smile or look at the camera, but never do both. You can look at the camera and not smile, or you can look away and smile. Unless you’re a professional model, and even then this can be difficult, it’s hard to fake a smile and look at the camera. Modeling is much harder than it looks. But anyone can look at the camera with a straight face, and besides, smiles are way overrated.

When I’m taking someone’s portrait, I assume that the first ten minutes or so will be nearly worthless. They’re too keyed up. Too stiff. Too nervous. Too inside their heads. I talk to them and shoot. Shoot and talk. I ask a few questions about them, nothing too taxing, just enough to get them to forget I’m taking pictures. Eventually, they get bored with that part and sort of forget about the camera. They relax. Then we can begin working.

What I finally decided, why my portraits were different, was that I was looking for unguarded moments, the stuff in between. You can’t shoot for this, not specifically anyway. You edit for it, which means you have to take a lot of photos. You have to wear the subject down. Get them to drop their defenses and come out of their shell.

I might take a thousand photos of a subject. I’m gathering the raw material I’m going to need later. The magic happens in the edit. The shot that is slightly off, slightly imperfect. A moment of authenticity and naked reality. The unique image that does not look like a yearbook picture or something you’re going to use in your career as a real estate agent. Nothing planned. Something that accidentally reveals a bit of your soul.

There’s no way to manufacture this. You have to mine for it. You have to break through the facade and sift through the wreckage. You have to find the crack, because that’s where the light gets in.

I believe it is the same with writing.

I think a lot of writers mistake editing for proofreading. After they’ve written their first draft, they go back through it, looking for mistakes and typos. Proofreading is an important step, but it’s not editing. Proper editing takes time, thought, and distance. If you’ve just finished writing a story, you aren’t in any position to begin editing it right away. You’re way too close to it. You need a little time and distance before you can have any perspective. Leave it, preferably until tomorrow, and go do something else.

I struggle with this constantly because I’m impatient, impulsive, and prefer instant gratification. Patience is not one of my gifts, but I’m learning. If I walk away for a bit, occupy my mind with something else, and then come back, things invariably jump out at me. Sometimes they are obvious mistakes, but more often than not, they are ways to make the piece stronger, clearer, and better.

Best to do that while in the editing stage, then after you’ve published it or submitted it to someone else. Study what you’ve just written. Read it out loud. Does the piece make sense? Does the beginning grab you? Does the end bring closure? Does the story pay off the promise of the title, the promise of the premise? Will the reader remember your close?

As writers, we all need to be reminded that we write the first draft for ourselves, but the second draft is for the reader. It doesn’t need to be perfect, but it does need to be authentic and clear. It needs to resonate with the reader on an emotional level so that their mood changes because of it. Did you teach them something? Surprise, inspire, or celebrate them? If not, you have work to do.

Authentic imperfections are not the same as grammatical mistakes, lazy writing, or weak structure. You still have to do everything in your power to make the story as good as it can be. But there are things to agonize over and there are things you simply have to let go. It can take years of experience to know the difference. In the meantime, that’s why you need a good editor.

The cracks are your faults, shortcomings, and that disastrous personality of yours (mine). They are also what make you unique and special. They are what give you an original perspective on the world. No one else in human history has seen what you’ve seen and experienced what you’ve experienced. You alone have this perspective on life, so don’t hide your cracks.

Fill them with gold, celebrate them, show them to the world, and then carry on. There are more stories to tell. There is always another story. You just have to be willing to let a little light in so you can find them.

Authenticity