This past week I went with my daughter to New York City to see Chess in its final week on Broadway. The production left me breathless and several times in tears (and also in bewilderment that it didn’t win any Tony Awards—seriously? How is that possible?!) However, the reason for my tears was not because of the story (which is intriguing) or because of the music (which is breathtaking) or because of the characters (who are compelling); it was because enormously gifted humans were doing the hard work of creating art in real time right in front of me.
The precise performance my daughter and I watched, laughed at, held our breath through, and applauded had never been performed and will never be performed again. That specific moment was unique to the actors, the musicians, the crew, the other audience members, and to us.
Yes, the same show has been performed 8 times a week for the past 7 months. But the show we watched was one-of-a-kind. Just as every other performance was and will be.
The exact amount of time Bryce Pinkham had to wait for the applause to die down when Nicholas Christopher took the stage—and he had to wait a good while—was specific to our performance. At no other performance did Aaron Tveit get lifted and put into his pants (iykyk*) in the exact way that he did when we saw him. At no other time did someone’s phone go off at the very moment the Arbiter was giving his final, serious, moving soliloquy and some audience member, in anger and disgust that echoed in us all, said “Seriously?” And then we all watched Bryce Pinkham pause, possibly to decide if he wanted to further break that 4th wall and comment on the disruption (which would have been epic had it not been his culminating speech, whose import was weightier than the momentary irritant.)
[Sidenote: turn your phone OFF when seeing live theater. It will only enhance your own viewing experience, as well as your fellow audience members and the performers. For real, turn it OFF. Thank you and you’re welcome. end note]
If you’ve never seen Chess—and my guess is that many of you never have—it is a challenging show to perform, particularly for the primary vocalists. A moment that caught my attention was in Act 2 when all the principle players are on stage singing “The Deal” (Part 2), and I was watching Aaron Tveit lined up in the group, singing “nobody’s on nobody’s side”. I could tell he was not singing at full voice, even though it was a climactic moment of full throated vocals. However, he had to sing his final “Pity the Child” right after “The Deal”, and (I imagine) he was conserving his voice and his energy for the demands soon required of him.
And I smiled at that moment because it reminded me that he is human. A human, with limitations, participating in creating something extraordinary.
He was a human doing an artistically challenging performance in that moment for the enjoyment and transport of an audience. And we were with him. Every note—even, and especially, the crazy high ones. When he was curled into the fetal position or when he was being dropped into his pants. He led. We followed. What a gift to hear and watch him create his art in such a transportive and rapturous way. (Well done, good sir. Thank you.)
And Lea Michele, and Nicholas Christopher, and Bryce Pinkham (PS: The Arbiter is my favorite), and everyone who was part of that production. Your willingness to create your art has stayed with me to contemplate and savor and inform long after the applause (and that electric guitar) faded away.
It was also while I was in Manhattan that I saw constant reminders that the World Cup was in full swing. (See that mixed-sportsing metaphor I used there?) We passed billboards and signage and posters. The yellow ferry we always take into the city was repainted in Argentina’s jersey colors. And tourists trundling through Times Square, looking up at the buildings and lights and not watching where they were walking, had various team jerseys and country names emblazoned on their chests and hats and bags.
On Friday, I watched the United States claim their 2nd win of the tournament against Australia. I felt awful for the Australian player who scored an own-goal for the US to give them their initial lead. (Ugh. That mistake had to be heartbreaking.) Then Alex Freeman scored with a header and near-collision with the goalie. Wow. Thrilling. Every player in that moment had his eyes fixed on the ball, moving, responding, willing his body to move to the precise place needed to score or defend. A wild and unpredictable dance performed for an audience of millions.
Lionel Messi—love him or hate him—is an incredible football (soccer) player. He’s 38, playing a demanding game against 20-year-olds (who probably grew up idolizing him). As you watch him on the field, he isn’t constantly running; in fact, at times he looks like he’s sauntering (or, at times, standing) at midfield just watching the game go on around him. However, when he decides it’s time for him to act, he creates exquisite, unscripted, unexpected poetry on the football pitch. (For you Americans, that’s a soccer field.) His conservation of energy in his quiet moments smacks of Aaron Tveit’s restrained ensemble moments.
These humans know their art, they know their limitations, they know what’s expected, and they adapt their performance for the moment they are in and the moment they know is coming.
The human-ness of this endeavor is even more obvious during each half of each World Cup contest, when the game is stopped for the teams to take a water break. Whether you love this break so you can get a snack, or are annoyed at this break that disrupts the flow of the game, it is a reminder that we are watching humans with physical limitations doing difficult things.
As I watch these games—because I love international sports, like the World Cup, the Olympics, etc—I again am reminded of what brought tears when watching Chess. These enormously gifted humans are doing the hard work of creating something in real time right in front of me, unscripted yet each with their parts to play.
This is what AI cannot do for us. It cannot replicate the Creative Ecosystem. While it may curate an ocean of information and resources, expert ideas and polished prose, it does not create anything original. Some might say that no human creates anything original either, and—while that opens a door to a whole different conversation—that thinking is, in fact, flawed. (Because we, humans, are flawed. That’s the whole point.)
When humans create anything, we draw on our own experience, our own backgrounds, our own histories, our own moments in time to create…something. Something that is unique only to us. There has never been, nor will there ever be, another Aaron Tveit. Or Lionel Messi. Or Anna Urquhart. Or you. No, I am not comparing myself (or you) to these master artists/athletes apart from saying that we are all human, and we are each unique. We aren’t robotic AI curators; we are flawed human creators.
The Arbiter has a through-line in Chess where he sings, “Each game of chess means there’s one less variation left to be played.” While that’s true of chess, it is not true of our creativity. We are not limited by 64 spaces on a chess board. Our imaginations, when used deeply and broadly (without a screen attached), are gloriously creative. How do you think humanity even came up with AI to begin with, if not imagining the possibility, then following where that imagining led?
So whatever you’re creating—a song or painting or performance or lesson plan or sermon or spreadsheet or webpage or homework assignment—use your voice. Think your thoughts. Create as only you can. It may be flawed. That's okay. Or maybe you’re conserving your energy for your next creation. That’s okay, too! Do what you humanly can to make this world more creative, more colorful, more melodious, more exquisite.
And—to complete the Creative Ecosystem metaphor—applaud the other creators. We need live audiences to watch live performances and applaud. Loudly. We need this entire Creative Ecosystem to remind us that we’re all in this human moment together. Even when it’s hard—especially when it’s hard—we can create and celebrate incredible things.
*iykyk = if you know you know (a bit of Gen Z lingo I’ve picked up)
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