In my time, I’ve heard many students pitch the question, ‘Where does inspiration come from?’ Truth be told, it doesn’t come from anywhere, not like some apple off a tree, no—we manufacture it.
I’m quite serious. You can ask my colleagues in Harlem and Munich. We keep them under strict surveillance, adhering to a most rigid of routines. They wake and drink a jug of coffee laced with extended-release psychoactive performance enhancers, provided half a pack of cigarettes and four hours over which to read, ruminate and regret.
What follows is six hours of intense creative output as they’re drip-fed a nutrient-rich slurry to stave of such trivialities as thirst and hunger. During two hours of agonising self-loathing, the individual is free to wander in public—chaperoned, of course, by a pair of our supervisors—free to indulge in their hedonistic impulses, or simply weep silently as they gaze out of a coffeehouse’s misty window.
A further six hours has them fine-tuning previous days’ work, if only to divert their attention away from more recent activity. They pace aimlessly, sighing deeply as they descend into what we record as CC: creative catatonia. The sun sets, and for the remainder of the day they drift into an unresponsive ennui until a calculated sleep finally takes them.
At this point, we begin a battery of subconscious stimuli such as unsettling low-frequency sounds in order to manipulate their dreaming state. This causes them to experience baffling, vivid dreams interspersed with Dantian, revelatory nightmares, all feeding the next day’s productive cycle.
This all takes place in purpose-built, mass-produced ‘units’, synecdoches of the artist’s studio, replete with creative materia, unnecessary but awfully aesthetic mess, all manner of purposeless substance with the result being an environment—an ecosystem, a microcosm, if you will—of the creator’s natural habitat.
The result is lurid, poignant, esoteric, crushing and sumptuous.
That, my dear, is where inspiration comes from.