The Art of Storytelling

Collaborative Storytelling: Every Face...

Tells a Story

 
Tim Geithner, Treasury Secretary. 
Image from Huffington Post

What does Yours Say?

Whenever I meet someone new, there are three questions that I try to find answers to:

• Who are you?
• What do you value?
• How do you tell me?

The first is, in some ways, the easiest.  You shake hands, you say you name, and maybe even what you do.  But is that truly who you are? 

Not entirely.

Sure we have business cards and pitches and the like.  They give a hint, a whiff, of what we value.  Just enough to draw someone in; and that's where the real conversation begins.

Now we tell stories.  About why and how.  Of course, some people take a little more coaxing than others.  So I ask questions.  Not about what you do now.  No, I prefer to ask why.  Because the response usually gives an indication of what you value.

Last night I attended Mediabistro's Freelancer Party in NYC, where I met a fellow named Lewis Stiefel, who worked for CBS.  After a couple minutes of conversation, I asked why he became an editor, producer, and videographer.  He looked taken aback for a minute, and then a smile crept onto his face.  He asked me how old I was and I said twenty-five, and then he said, "You know the TV show, Hawaii Five-O?  Well, when I was a kid, I saw the opening sequence and I just knew that's what I wanted to do."

Collaborative Storytelling: Who Says We Need...

More McCheese?

Image by A-Squared Concepts

Maria R. Burgio on Government Spending, Urban Development, and Forgotten Children

When I logged onto my Yahoo homepage the other day, I noticed an article from Forbes.com by Joshua Zumbrun.  The article was entitled, “The Obama Boomtowns: Mayors Line up at the Trough with Projects Ready for Stimulus Money,” the majority of which is going towards efforts to create jobs, provide cities with an economic lift, and perhaps even generate some hope for the future.  High on the list were cities such as: San Fransisco, Atlanta, Philadelphia, Sacramento, Miami, Los Angeles, Albuquerque, St. Louis, Phoenix and Dallas.

What’s interesting is that while almost every mayor requested funds for infrastructure projects like roads, bridges, highways (Dallas, Albuquerque, and Los Angeles were among those requesting assistance for energy projects like installing solar panels), only one (Mayor Michael Nutter of Philadelphia) made the children a priority.

I was stunned by the overall scarcity of attention to children's needs.  After-school activities are so important to teenagers because for most of them, their parents are not at home.  Sure, most mothers who work get home after 4:30 PM; but a 2004 Journal of Adolescent Health study suggested that the highest risk time for teenagers is not at night—it’s between the hours of 3 and 4:30 in the afternoon.  Likewise, recent U.S. Teenage Pregnancy Statistics (Alan Guttmacher Institute, 2006) show that there are roughly 750,000 babies (which is down from one million in 1995) born to America's teenagers each year.  With such a significant number of children being born to young adults, one has to wonder why there are so few social clubs, organizations, and institutions for teenage parents in high risk communities, like inner cities and poor rural areas.

At least Philadelphia's mayor takes an active interest in developing resources for the youth in his community:  a good deal of the money he’s requested is dedicated building new schools and a new juvenile detection hall.  Not only that, he wants to develop bookmobiles to improve literacy, direct money toward community block grants  (which create green space, parks, etc.), and establish a new zoo and art museum.

All for the children.  And why?  Because they are a powerful presence in our lives; they are why we work.  And they are also our future.  Yet community outreach programs like teenage social clubs, supervised after school activities, and parent networking and educational opportunities are all still missing in many cities, perhaps because of the void in our priorities that I described in my first article.

I urge you, readers, during this holiday season, to share how your communities take care of the children, particularly those that increase healthy socialization and community spirit. Together, we can work toward creating a new itinerary, one that we can share on a broader political forum.

-M.R. Burgio

The Mission of TAOS

All too often, we drift through life as passive vessels for other peoples' stories: politicians speak and we listen, religious leaders preach and we nod, scholars teach and we accept.  And why not?  After all, it is their leadership, their guidance, and their expertise, that sustain society.  In turn, all we need to give them are trust, faith, and belief. 

But what do we do when the stories provided to us are no longer enough?  When the tales of who we are,  how we came to be, and where were are going no longer speak to us as individuals, as communities, as nations? 

We can decry, yes.  Or we can protest.  And we can even fight.

What we should do, though, is reclaim.

Not just our hearts and minds but also the stories we cherish. The ones that give our life meaning. Purpose. 

Collaborative Storytelling is a celebration of this endeavor: through mutually owned and shared stories, we, as communities, can truly begin...

Collaborative Storytelling: Showing your roots (part II)...

In continuation from last week...

Don't get me wrong.  I don't wish to decry the joy of playing.  Like all aspects of creation, it serves a vital purpose.  Ask remixers why they pursue such an art (especially those who do so for free) and the inevitable answer will be, "because we love doing it."  Like a potter throwing clay on the wheel haphazardly, part of the joy is in seeing what can happen.  We derive pleasure from experimenting, from not knowing what will happen. But experiments, by their nature, can go horribly wrong.  This is why we also rely upon experience, and why, more often than not, we entrust particular tasks to individuals with relevant expertise.

In truth, both are essential to art: one provides the raw potential; the other suggests how to shape it.  To give primacy to one or the other is absurd.  Case in point: two weeks ago, I met with my thesis advisor to discuss the first fifty pages of my novel.  It was painful, as I knew it would be (some things can only be said face to face).  You see, I had experimented with the style of the prose and structure of the story and I knew that I had made mistakes.  Even with my limited experience in novel writing I could divine as much.  What I lacked, however, was the knowledge of what to do to fix my mistakes.  That, of course, is why one seeks out an experienced guide.

That’s why I find it fascinating to observe a community of remixers that possesses a judge’s panel.  I know what you're thinking: "It's just a hobby, how can you judge it?"  By taste?  By aesthetics? And you'd be right, it is difficult to imagine.  Despite this, OCRemix's seven year run and eleven collaborative albums stand as a testament to its success as a creative community; a success that is largely due to the dedication of its judges and the conviction of its artists.  In their own words,

"[t]his website is dedicated to arranging video game music.  Our mission is to prove that this music is not disposable or merely background, but is as intricate, innovative, and lasting as any other form." 

This is no passive relationship: it is intense, active, and even quarrelsome--as well it should be, for the remixer is no longer a consumer.  By participating in the remixing process the audience becomes a co-creator of a body of work that both pays homage to it origins and extends it far beyond them.  There is no doubt as to the quality of the music produced (arguably, much of it is better than the original source material).  If I were to undertake a film or equally substantial project I would not hesitate to consider including a high caliber OCremixer in the team for precisely the reasons mentioned above. In addition to that, the perspective such an art form requires, i.e. one of collegiality and playfulness, would benefit the creative process as a whole. 

Of course, for those who desire a less structured community, OCRemix's sister site, VGMix.com, is the perfect home.  Part workshop, part forum, VGMix is a veritable playground of ideas.  Originally more of a hosting and evaluative site, VGMix shifted toward its current state after a server meltdown.  Because of this, it is far more nebulous as a social entity, and as such, acts as more of a workshop than a studio.  Here, one can truly develop a sense for how a remix evolves from a mere concept into an actual work.  There are no set rules for declaring a work finished; however, fellow remixers are quick to chime in with praise, criticism, and advice.

The difference, then, between the remake and the remix, is that the former subjects an audience to a particular individual's interpretation (and in doing so, denies the audience the opportunity to meaningfully contribute to the story), while the latter necessitates a community whose experience guides the creator's experiment.  In short, the remake is the product of an individual while the remix is an artifact of a community.   

But what about the terrible remixes, you ask?  Will they be allowed to exist?  Yes (and why not, many remakes are awful, yet we still pay to see them).  In the end, quality alone doesn't matter.  What matters is that we take ownership of what is rightfully ours, the world of experience, and cease drifting through life as passive receptacles for other peoples’ ideas, thoughts, and beliefs (don't nod your head in agreement just yet, not unless you truly agree--I'll not be accused of making more zombies).

If you take nothing else away from this post, take this, I call it the build a better person game: first, dig through your magazines, your books, your photos; find as many pretty people as you can, and then cut them up (yes, you heard me, slash those ringlets and cupid bow smiles).  Not so pretty anymore, are they?  Now here's your chance to have some fun (if you aren't having fun already--I know I am).  Take all that fragmented beauty and make your own perfect person.  Better yet, makes lots of them.  Get your friends to do it, too.  Soon enough, you'll have a whole room full of perfect people, and chances are, some of them might even look just a bit like you (zounds, a twist!  Take that Shyamalan).

Remix away, people.  It's your life.

Peace,

-J

Collaborative Storytelling: Showing your roots...

In some ways, I will forever be a child.  Take my love of games, for example: board games, card games, computer games, video games, outdoor games, icebreaker games, word games--I am, to one degree or another, terribly addicted to all of them.  Note that I also include sports in this list as well, but only if I am actively participating in them (being a spectator bores the hell out of me). And why the love of games?  Simple.  Playing is essential to living. 

Naturally, storytelling--my most cherished activity (and habit, to some)--contains an element of play.  I'm thinking in particular of those stories told around campfires by people with s'more-sticky fingers and a bottle or two of social lubricant.  We all have our favorites, be they the Lady in White, The Ghost with the Bloody Hands, or the Creepy Killer Something or Other.  Whether such tales make us shiver or laugh is irrelevant; what's important is that they actively engage us on a psychological as well as physiological level.  It's not just the retelling that stimulates us but also the experience of encountering as tale as it's never been told before.

Such is the nature of the shaggy dog tale.  With each telling, as well as with each teller (and, by extent, each audience) certain elements, like setting or character or shades of humor and terror, are brought to light.  Hollywood knows this; indeed, the entire remake industry is predicated upon the assumption that people will always want to revisit certain stories.  All too often, though, this is a disastrous enterprise (albeit never financially, of course--DVD sales will recoup any loss there). 

So why is it that we, as a society, grant the ability to remake our culture's stories to such a small group of individuals?  As if it were a privilege or a right reserved solely for those who'd proven themselves worthy. Is it the appeal of expertise?  That mysterious aura that surrounds artists and permeates their every fiber?  Writers are prone to think (perhaps rightfully so) that we are better at telling tales than those (the vast unnamed majority, I suppose) who come to experience our creations.  How odd, then, that we should create something for an audience that cannot truly appreciate our genius (read: hubris).

They are our works, after all.  These stories on the page and on the screen.  Aren't they?  We are the ones who spent sleepless nights and sunless days working on them.  We are the ones who endured rejection time and again.  So why not be compensated for our diligence, our sacrifice?  But then, who is the story for?  Shall we writers, cloistered away in our little studios, sit in front of gleaming screens for days on end solely for the sake of self-gratification (why not, there's a whole industry based upon that as well).  Sometimes, it seems easier, that way. 

And then we realize that nobody's listening. 

It's an odd thing, that we should want to prevent you, the audience, from playing with our ideas.  Look, yes.  Listen, yes.  Watch and praise and sing our glory.  Oh yes!  (Make no mistake, creation is orgasm by proxy).  But do not, under any circumstances, alter our work, lest your varied and uncontrollable thoughts soil it irreparably. And oh, yes, give us money, too (contrary to popular belief, we do like to have food with our drink).

But what is lost in this transaction, in this deification of the artist-creator?  What leaves me feeling empty and bored when I listen to Tarantino and Rodriguez talk about Grindhouse (besides the nagging sensation that interviews with them are little more than forums for public masturbation)? 

I'll tell you what's lost: participation.  Looking upon their works, I realized I was a spectator, a voyeur into their private game.  Their play was not my play.  Indeed, their play was not anyone's play (other than their own), thus, there was no engagement.

And without engagement, can we even call it playing?

To be continued...