Some years ago I watched a film named “A marvelous mind” or something like that. It was about a Nobel prize winner who was a schizophrenic. He lived all his life full of problems, thinking things that had no truth. For example, he thought he was a spy. He ended up in the psychiatric care for a while, and his life was full of pain. But then, as an old man, he got the prize. This happened for real. I don´t remember his name or why he got the prize, but the film turned up at my TV-screen some days ago, again. I did not see it, but the memory of the film made me think and feel a lot.
Sometimes I feel like a jar. I have that special mind that collects memories, feelings, pictures of people and their situations. It´s all something that created some kind of feeling inside of me, mostly tragedies or other kind of really strong feelings. Love, hatred, being an outsider, a looser, loneliness, total connection to other people…
Is it so, that creators as writers, artists, painters, and all other really creative workers, do what we do – are able to do what we do – because we have this marvelous mind? It gives us a lot of pain and problems while we collect all these painful memories, but then we re-use them to create something beautiful out of it. Is this true? If it´s false, I´m probably just mad. If it´s right, I´m both mad and creative.
How does other people think and do, how do they function? What do they do with their memories? Maybe they put their memories into their albums just to be able to forget? And what would happen if we just let it all go? Would that be the end of creativity, the end of art, or would it just be the end of pain? Is pain and art, pain and creativity the same thing? Do artist have to suffer, or are we suffering just because we imagine that our suffering is the door into our marvelous minds?