I’m currently reading (or listening to, more precisely) The Creative Habit by Twyla Tharp. I began the book while on a plane (of course), completely exhausted (uh-huh), so I kept nodding off. Falling into neck bending, drool-producing slumber.

Not that I don’t adore Twyla Tharp. I do. She’s been my favorite choreographer since I was a serious dancer. And a teenager.

I was startled into a wide-eyed, body-tingling awakeness by the following sentence: “Every artist has a focal length.”

I wasn’t sure why I woke up, but something got my attention. I listened intently as Twyla spoke about the sweeping vistas of Ansel Adams, the approachability of Jerome Robbins choreography (think West Side Story…) or the comprehensive detail of Raymond Chandler’s detective novels.

They each represent a particular relationship between artist and medium – broad scope, arm’s length, and microscopic. She lauded all three approaches equally.

I had always considered it a major fault of mine that I was unable (and unwilling) to write with great detail. All I could see were the writers around me who could describe the way the light landed on a coffee table with such exquisite detail that it could nearly make you cry. My interest in the thoughts and feelings of the person sitting on the couch, watching the sun go down, was never quite as good. In my eyes.

Twyla described an artist’s perspective, and their particular basis of expression, as a reflection of their interior workings, and as natural and variable as the numerous ways of making art. Neither way being better than any other.

This was a huge relief.

Because this belief that my art was lacking, or wrong, was not contained within my life as an artist, but bled into every aspect of my life as a human. As these things tend to do.

I realized that I lived the same way – at arm’s length. And I had defined that as wrong. Or at least not the best it could be. (Compounded, of course, by the many who felt free to share that opinion with me.)

To say I am an observer is an understatement. Arm’s length feels clear, objective and safe. It allows me to be close enough to connect, but far enough to not be entangled. The life I created allows very few in close, keeps most at arm’s length, and leaves the rest to blur into an indistinguishable mass. For some reason, I considered that approach not quite right. I believed I should be some other way.

What I see naturally is life on a human scale, not masses or collections of humans (aka sociology, anthropology), and not just their parts (modern medicine and most sciences). It’s neither about the 30,000-foot view nor the microscopic details. My lens focuses at the miraculous medley of body, mind, and soul expressed in a singular, spectacular being – the essence of life versus the details of living.

Twyla’s words were the perfect balm, the magnificent gift of perspective (which I wrote about here and here).

Behavior defined as detached could be re-branded as holistic. Being excited by the finest of details (which happens for my beloved) does not have to be picky or small-minded. Instead it can be appreciated as meticulous and complete.

[Frequent discussions with my darling involve my asking him to give me the big picture, and him asking me to fill in the details. It’s become a joke between us.]

Understanding the vista we seek, and the perspective we take, has great bearing on the art we create.

And yes, we are all creating art, whether it’s colors on a canvas, words on a page, ink on our bodies, or the carefully crafted way to brush away another’s tear. Our art is the legacy that we leave behind us – the way we treated people, the beauty, generosity, leadership, or insight we expressed.

Nothing beats knowing yourself. Except perhaps knowing that you are exactly as you are supposed to be.

Now, for your own inquiry.

• From what distance is life in greatest focus?
• What works well from this perspective?
• What is missing or blurry?
• What would you have to see or know to love who you are AND how you are?

Stand confidently in the space you hold.

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