Listening to the Muses

Issue 204

Athens, 2016

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For a spark of creativity, look no further than the ancient muses. Just above your shoulder, whispering with a smile into your ear, they’ll bequeath you a bit of inspiration. This flash of artistic desire might feel like a shiver, a sudden and overwhelming need to create, but it will be external, like you’re receiving rather than generating the artistic impulse. All that’s required, in this system, is a sensitive ear, and the ability to listen when the muses arrive. The inspiration in your ear leads to the creation of art, the creation of art leads to the emergence of beauty, and the beauty—thanks to those generous muses—leads to meaning.

You’re a vassal in this system, and that does have its convenience. If you happen to be writing, the task is to focus on typing while the muses worry about dictation, though that also means, unfortunately, that you can’t take too much credit when it goes right. A brilliant or innovative or simply intriguing creation doesn’t reflect much about its creator—the shiver of inspiration comes from a distant, elusive place. Although this passivity also means, much more favorably, that bad art isn’t really the artist’s fault. If you happen to be stuck with a junky, lazy, lackluster muse who only whispers in clichés, then that doesn’t, well, reflect much on you.

There are nine muses in Ancient Greek Mythology, though there are sometimes three, or one, because nobody agrees on anything, especially when the subject is art. There’s a muse for tragedy, a muse for dance, and a muse for sacred poetry—who does seem to be slacking in recent centuries. I would suggest that all of these muses exist although they’re more finicky than most people assume. Life comes with an infinite amount of muses, they’re perched just above nearly every ear, but they have lofty and precise expectations. If you have a relationship with a muse, it is tempestuous, uncertain, and inequitable.