The Creative Ecosystem: the one where I ramble about Broadway and the World Cup and AI and use a sprinkling of Gen Z lingo

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)

A Little Portuguese Goes A Long Way In Chinatown

Lower Manhattan from Liberty State Park

It should come as no surprise that I love New York City. I visit several times a year, and have done so since I was small. I've gone the tourist route and frequented Times Square and Ellis Island. I've gone off the beaten track to the Morgan Library, a fabulous sushi bar on 45th Street, and Dean and Deluca down on Prince Street. Lots of discoveries, lots of memories. However, my most vivid (and unfortunate) memory is a time I had dinner in Chinatown.

My parents, Jonathan, and I all spent the weekend at a friend's closet-sized apartment several years ago. We were down near Ground Zero (sans the 9/11 Memorial Garden, which tells you how long ago it was) and decided to mosey up to Chinatown for dinner. It was November, cold and rainy. Upon reaching Canal Street, which runs straight through the "touristy" section of Chinatown, we decided we didn't want to eat with the rest of the tourist riffraff. So we started wandering down side-streets and found a small place that had what appeared to be "locals" wandering in and out. It didn't look too scary, so we went in, sat down, and started perusing the menu.

Normally I'm a "standard fare" person when ordering from a menu. I don't venture too far away from what I know I'll like. Yet feeling adventurous, I flipped the menu over and looked at some more adventurous dishes. I finally landed on: Portuguese Chicken.

Many of you already are shaking your head. Why, you may be asking yourselves, would she order something Portuguese from a Chinese menu? Excellent question. And one for which I don't have any reasonable answer other than I experienced a moment of abject insanity (or stupidity, which might be more precise).

We ordered. We waited. Finally everyone's dinner arrived . . . except mine. I nibbled from Jonathan's plate. He ordered Sweet and Sour Chicken. Wise man. It was the best S&S chicken I'd ever had! That palate-pleasing experience encouraged me, and since my meal was taking so long it must mean it was going to be even better!

Finally our server returned with a steaming dish. My mouth watered. With a flourish he placed my Portuguese Chicken before me. I looked down. And I saw what can only be described as a boiling bowl of vomit.

Yes. That is precisely what it looked like. I looked up at my parents, at Jonathan, all of whom had finished their meals by this time. They looked at my Portuguese vomit.

"Maybe it tastes better than it looks," my dad said with an unconvincing smile.

It did not.

I muscled down about 3 bites and was done. Jonathan and Dad even tried to help me finish it off without success. I was left with a growling stomach and a feeling of utter dejection. (This feeling was somewhat alleviated by the fact that we wandered into a quaint little shop** that sold authentic china and housewares--it was the oldest store of its kind in Chinatown, we were told.)

That day I learned a valuable lesson:

When in Chinatown, order Chinese!

**I've been unable to ever find that little shop again, unfortunately. So if anyone knows of this store's location--PLEASE let me know!

Had I But Known: The Loveliness of No

guest post by: terry price

“I’m just a girl who cain’t say no…” Ado Annie from Oklahoma

As a card-carrying optimist, I constantly look for advantages of growing older. Experience might be a harsh teacher but is a wonderful traveling companion. And as I look back over the years, there are many things from which I’ve learned and grown. But one of the greatest lessons, and the one with which I struggle the most to this day, is the discipline to say no.

When I was younger, my ego constantly whispered that I not only could do anything, but muddled the waters such that I thought I could also do everything. And what complicated things even more was that, to varying degrees, I did “do” everything. “Sure” and “no problem” became my most used phrases. Saying no was a blow to my ego. Saying no was an admission of my limitations. Someone needed help and someone needed me. And because of some law of social physics, the more I did, the more I was asked to do. I became a young man who was constantly stressed and constantly exhausted.

One day, I confided in an older, wiser friend about my quandary, admitting that I was just a guy who couldn’t say no. She quickly corrected me. “Actually, you’re very good at saying no.”

Maybe she hadn’t understood me I thought. Maybe I needed to share more of my sad story. But she had understood completely. She continued, explaining that because I was young, I was under the illusion that time was infinite. And worse, I believed that energy and my ability to absorb stress were also limitless. Of course, none of this was true.

Because there are limits, she went on, there are a finite number of things you can do, things you can experience, things you can accomplish.

You see, every time you say “yes” to something, you are automatically saying “no” to something else.

As soon as the words left her mouth, I knew she was right. What had I been so good at saying no to? I began to think of all of the things I wanted to do, things I really needed to do during this all too brief life.

So what have I learned?

Well, once you come to grips with the finite, then you must take time to learn the things that take priority in your life. And once you have that list, you rank them in order of importance to you. Some of the things will be selfless, but you must also include the things that nurture and nourish you too. Our culture, unfortunately, teaches that when you do things for yourself, it’s selfish. The truth is, that you must make time to nurture yourself so you have the physical and emotional energy to take care of those around you. It’s like the flight attendant instructions before takeoff – If the oxygen masks are needed, put yours on first, so you’ll be able to help those around you. Balance and moderation are the keys.

So now you have a prioritized list of the important things in your life. Call this your “yes” list. Visit it often. Life is a dynamic process. Things change. Priorities change. You grow.

Keep your list handy. And when there is a request for your time, a demand upon your very life, look at your list. Ask yourself if you have enough time to take it on AFTER you’ve budgeted time for everything on your priority list. You’ll be amazed how much easier this makes your decision. If you don’t have the extra time, well guess what.

You say no. Or you can say the next best words.

I can’t at this time. But check with me again in the future.

What next?

Well, then you smile. Because not only have you just learned to say no, at that same exact moment you’ve said yes to the most important things in your life. And always remember…it’s your life.

Terry Price is a Tennessee based writer, writing coach and mentor, having attended The Writer’s Loft creative writing program at Middle Tennessee State University and graduated with his MFA in Writing from Spalding University in Louisville.  He has published several short stories, one of which was nominated for the Pushcart Prize, became the program director of The Writer’s Loft and now is a Director Emeritus of, and a mentor with, the program.  Terry is currently revising his short story collection for publication and is writing his first novel set in Nashville, with the working title of An Angel’s Share.

He is an accomplished photographer, long distance cyclist, Appalachian Trail section hiker, and sailor. He is an aspiring bon vivant and raconteur, likes bourbon neat but his journal messy and lives on a small farm in Springfield, Tennessee with his family and two dogs and lots of squirrels.  Find out more at www.terryprice.net

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I am exceptionally honored to have Terry with us today. He is a man ever on the go. And, as always, inspiration follows wherever he roams. Thank you, thank you, and thank you again, Terry!

Also, if any of you, my dear readers, have a spare moment, a brief travel piece ran today that I wrote for a local (and awesome!) tour company's travel blog about my recent trip to New York City. I'd love to see your smiling faces over there! Happy Monday everyone!

51st and Broadway

New York City, when I was eight, made me feel small. Much smaller even then my slight eight-year-old, hometown-girl-from-Lancaster-County self. The buildings towered. The taxis whooshed. The people knocked into you without an “excuse me.” And I couldn’t hold on to my mom’s hand tightly enough. But despite the enormity of it all, New York City captivated me. The purposefulness of the brusquely-walking pedestrians. The surprise of the December wind as it swooped around the corner of a building and stole my breath. The salty, sour pungency of roasting chestnuts that geysered out from a curbside stand. The Santas and ice skaters and toy trains that decorated the windows of Saks Fifth Avenue. After many, many returns to the city, these things that brought such an overwhelming response—that held such allure—to me as an eight year old, have faded over the years. I now come to the city for a day away. To see a show. To visit The Met. To buy pashmina scarves and sunglasses in Chinatown. Though I still love the city, the wide-eyed wonder has dulled.

Until last week. 

I took my six-year-old daughter to Manhattan. As we neared the Lincoln Tunnel and saw the city skyline arrayed before us, her big brown eyes that never miss a single detail grew wide. She sat very still. She studied intently this city I had told her so much about—this city where on so many occasions I had gone and she had been only able to wave good-bye and await my return. After several moments, she rested back into her seat. “It doesn’t look as big as I thought,” she said. It was not a statement of disappointment. More an objective observation. (She is quite pragmatic, after all.)

Yet when her feet touched the sidewalk on 51^st and Broadway, her grip on my hand can only be called “vice-like.” Even when I tried to let go for a brief moment to adjust my coat, she wouldn’t release her hold. Her gaze traveled up the towering buildings, followed a cab racing through the cross street, studied the hats and scarves peddled along the curb. And, watching her, I was eight years old again. Not in a vulnerable or overwhelmed-child kind of way. But in the discovery (now, rediscovery) of this dynamic city of effusive sights and sounds and smells—a city I love. Now a city my daughter loves. A city to which we will return time and again because it is a city that forever mingles the new with the old and familiar. Like seeing an old friend after a long absence and, though much has happened, your conversation picks up as though no time has passed at all. And aren't those the best kind of friendships?

My mom was also along to share this memorable day with us. (So fun!!)

She was our photographer.

Here we are in Times Square just outside Toys R Us.

(As you can see, it was a bit cold, and, yes, I broke down and bought

her that bird hat from one of the street vendors. 

I voted for the cute penguin hat, she chose the parrot. What's a mother to do?)