Creativity (43 page)

In addition, even if there were no selfish, material reasons involved, each field would still push for the implementation of new ideas in its domain, regardless of long-term consequences. A person who has worked for years within the limits of a narrow specialization naturally believes that new developments in his or her domain are the most important and therefore take precedence over developments elsewhere. It is difficult to convince a physicist who has devoted a lifetime to high-energy physics that advances in nuclear technology should not be supported all the way.

Each field is understandably proud of its achievements and is quick to invoke academic freedom, free speech, free thought, or any other serviceable ideology to defend itself against attempts to evaluate its contributions in terms of the common good, as opposed to criteria internal to the field. Within a liberal worldview, to challenge an artist’s right to exhibit whatever he or she pleases—a desecrated flag, a vase of urine, a mutilated body—amounts to anathema. Scientists recoil in horror at the thought that anyone else should decide what is or is not good science. A person who has been aw
arded a Nobel Prize in physics has almost no choice but to believe that he or she is heir to the only possible way of studying the world. To paraphrase Voltaire, he naturally believes that his is the best of all possible sci
ences, and therefore that any attempt to question the inevitable unfolding of physics by physicists is an anti-intellectual attack on the integrity of science. Each field expects society to recognize its autonomy, yet each feels in the last analysis accountable only to itself, according to the rules of its own domain. For all of these reasons, it is useless to expect fields to monitor their own creative ideas in terms of the long-range public good.

The other alternative is for the market to determine the value of novelties. As in many other social processes, our tendency is to trust the wisdom of the marketplace and tacitly to endorse its priorities. But of course by now everyone suspects that the so-called free market is as real as Santa Claus or the Easter bunny. When the World Bank loans untold millions to Brazil to build nuclear reactors it cannot either use or pay for, the transaction is not a response to free-market forces but to the interests of a few big American firms that build reactors. To use another example: Ever
y nation, from France to Finland, from Japan to the United States, tries to protect its agricultural base by paying farmers what the free market will not deliver.

But even if the free market were a reality, it is doubtful that its decisions would be wise as far as our future well-being is concerned. In the first place, market decisions tend to be oriented to the present. Given a choice, consumers choose a product or process that provides an edge right now, with little concern for consequences. I am going to buy the can of deoderant that saves me a few seconds each morning regardless of the hypothetical effects of its spray on the ozone layer. If I were to buy a handgun, I would probably buy one that shot more bullets faster than its competit
ors, even though that more efficient gun might be the cause of more accidents.

Mass-produced commodities are especially vulnerable to being chosen on the basis of short-term benefits. Fast food is more profitable when it satisfies the most basic taste needs, which were established in our genetic past when fat and sugar were in short supply. A hamburger with fries and a milkshake would make an exquisite banquet for a caveperson but is not particularly healthful for sedentary citizens. Private-sector television is similarly vulnerable to criticism. The kind of spectacles we are genetically programmed to watch have not changed much since the Romans flocked to th
e arena to see gladiators disembowel each other on the sand. It is difficult to imag
ine beneficial contributions to evolution from watching soap operas and MTV on the home screen.

Yet, as we have seen earlier, we cannot ignore evolution. The culture that survives to direct the future of the planet will be one that encourages as much creativity as possible but also finds ways to choose novelty on the basis of the future well-being of the whole, not just of the separate fields. What is needed is a self-conscious effort to establish priorities and to use something like an “evolutionary impact analysis” as one of the bases for the social endorsement of new ideas.

A policy of this type should not result in any kind of philistine thought-policing. Artists should be encouraged to follow their muse, scientists should be respected for following a hunch wherever it leads them. On the other hand, why expect society to support novelties that are valued within a given field but may harm the commonwealth?

The greatest art, East or West, was not produced when the artists set the agenda, but when patrons insisted on certain standards that benefited them. Patrons wanted primarily to be admired by the public, so the art they demanded had to appeal to and impress the entire community. In this sense, medieval and Renaissance art, commissioned by popes and princes, was in reality more democratic than it has become since the art world gained the power to separate itself from the rest of society—as a field with its own peculiar tastes and criteria of selection.

It admittedly would be more difficult to achieve a public evaluation of scientific creativity. In most scientific domains the frontiers of knowledge have moved so far beyond the grasp of laypersons that only those within the respective fields can be expected to make any sort of informed decision. But it is probably the case that within each field there are enough individuals with both expertise and a sense of the public good who could be deputized to serve the interests of society.

Currently research grants are evaluated in terms of either the priorities set by the field or the political agenda of the administration disbursing the funds. Perhaps it could be possible to establish a sort of civil service above party politics and disciplinary fashions, composed of those who aspire to be “good ancestors,” as Jonas Salk called them, and who would be willing to represent the claims of evolution when
assessing whether scientific advances should receive social support. Inevitably such a group would be composed mainly of older individuals, and therefore it would be open to criticism from younger colleagues who are more concerned with advancing their own scientific careers. On the other hand, the probability for dispassionate wisdom is greater among those who have had more, and more varied, experience and who can see their expertise in a broader context—and these in turn are likely to be older persons. Yet our society expects very little from its elders. This might be one impor
tant contribution of seniors that will benefit everyone.

W
AYS TO
I
NCREASE
C
REATIVITY

For billions of years, evolution has proceeded blindly, shaped by random selective forces. We were created by chance. Now, however, humans have become one of the most powerful, and therefore the most dangerous, forces operating on the planet. Therefore, if we wish evolution to continue in a way that corresponds with our interests, we must find ways to direct it. And this involves developing mechanisms for monitoring new memes, so that we can reject those that are likely to be harmful in the long run and encourage alternatives that are more promising.

But before selection can begin operating, novelty must be generated. In other words, there have to be new ideas to choose from. So it is now time to turn to the question, What ways are there to increase the frequency of novel ideas worthy of being adopted by the culture? To answer that question, I consider strategies that apply at each of the three levels that define the components of a creative system: the person, the field, and the domain.

More Creative Individuals

We have seen that central among the traits that define a creative person are two somewhat opposed tendencies: a great deal of curiosity and openness on the one hand, and an almost obsessive perseverance on the other. Both of these have to be present for a person to have fresh ideas and then to make them prevail. Is it possible to increase the number of people who have these characteristics?

We don’t know for sure. In part we don’t have the answer because it is not clear to what extent these traits might be genetically con
trolled. Of course, it is unlikely that our chromosomes have a single location for an openness gene, and that, depending on which of several alternatives fills each spot, one person might be born with an inclination to be curious, while another will be born indifferent. But it is quite possible that a combination of instructions issued from a number of genes might interact to predispose a person to be more or less open.

But biological inheritance is only part of the story, as we discussed before. Early background has a significant effect. Interest and curiosity tend to be stimulated by positive experiences with family, by a supportive emotional environment, by a rich cultural heritage, by exposure to many opportunities, and by high expectations. In contrast, perseverance seems to develop as a response to a precarious emotional environment, a dysfunctional family, solitude, a feeling of rejection and marginality. Most people experience either one or the other of these early environments, but not both of them.

However, creative individuals seem more likely to have been exposed to both circumstances. John Hope Franklin grew up in a very supportive and stimulating family, but suffered from discrimination because of his race. Isabella Karle grew up in a socioeconomically marginal family, but her parents were warm, stimulating, and supportive.

Of course, many children with similar backgrounds never became creative, and several creative persons in our sample had early experiences that did not conform to this type. It is impossible to argue that one must have a certain kind of family background in order to become creative. But there definitely seems to be an increased likelihood that bimodal early experience is related to later creativity. And this kind of weak relationship is probably the best we can expect to get when trying to assess a causal link between two such heterogeneous concepts as “early experience” and “creativit
y.” But a weak link is better than none. At least we might hope that by providing elements of both experiences, the proportion of people showing the traits of creativity could be increased.

The same argument applies to the other trait-pairs mentioned in chapter 3. Parents and educators should know that a milieu that encourages both solitude and gregariousness may add, even if infinitesimally, to the chances of a child being able to express his or her creativity. Children who have not learned to tolerate solitude are
especially at risk in terms of never developing enough in-depth involvement in a domain and lacking opportunities to reflect and incubate ideas. On the other hand, children who are too shy and reclusive need selfless intermediaries, such as van Gogh or Kafka had, lest their contributions disappear from the culture.

Similarly, a certain flexibility about gender roles is likely to help. If a child is too strongly socialized to act in terms of a strict gender stereotype, his or her creativity is likely to be inhibited. In other words, the traits that distinguish a complex personality are likely to add a higher statistical probability of creative expression. The contribution of each trait may be very small, and none is likely to be indispensable. Yet when all of them are present, the prognosis should be more favorable.

In addition to these motivational and personality factors, there are, of course, important cognitive variables. Here too, genetic inheritance might play an important role. Each one of us has particular strengths and predispositions that make us sensitive to some dimension of reality more than another. But again, early exposure and opportunity to engage in a particular domain is essential to developing the inherited potential. A child who is encouraged to question is likely to develop a problem-finding attitude. A child who is introduced to inductive reasoning may have an advantage
in making sense of the world.

Above all else, it helps to become involved in a domain early. E. O. Wilson, who probably knows more about ants than any other individual in the world, started his studies when he was six years old. Linus Pauling became fascinated with the way chemicals combined at about the same age. Ravi Shankar was playing music professionally as a child, and György Faludy knew he was a poet in grade school. Vera Rubin was less than ten years old when she decided she had to become an astronomer. It is important to realize that in none of these cases did the parents push their children to st
udy chemistry, music, poetry, or astronomy—the child’s spontaneous interest led to the involvement. The role of the parent was limited to providing opportunities, taking seriously the child’s interest after it showed itself, and then supporting the child’s involvement, as when Rubin’s father helped his daughter to build a telescope. If the parents had been more directive, it is unlikely that the child’s involvement would have progressed very far.

But most of the individuals in our study did not start that early; in fact, many embarked on their eventual careers in college or later. However, they were all directed by curiosity to master some symbolic form to a degree rare in other children. Elisabeth Noelle-Neumann played intensely with make-believe villages and loved to write; Mark Strand painted; and Jacob Rabinow took apart any piece of machinery he could lay hands on.

So while specializing in a particular domain can wait until late adolescence, an intense involvement in
some
domain might be necessary if a person is to become creative. Without developing a skill he or she is confident in, without having the experience of acquiring a knowledge base, a young person may never get up enough nerve to change the status quo. Hilde Domin didn’t write her first poem until late in life, but she had learned and studied half a dozen languages. Sooner or later, however, it becomes essential to master the specialized knowledge of a particular domain. Here,
knowing the basics is essential. Acquiring the foundations of math and physics for a scientist, of drawing for an artist, of the classics for a writer is the starting point for any further innovation.