Gladwell writing in the New Yorker examines the popular (mis)conception that genius "is inextricably tied up with precocity—doing something truly creative, we're inclined to think, requires the freshness and exuberance and energy of youth." In the case of those "late bloomers" or those who achieve their creative mastery later in life, Gladwell concludes that their success, such as Cezanne who hit his stride in his mid-60s, was "highly contingent on the efforts of others."
Late bloomers' stories are invariably love stories, and this may be why we have such difficulty with them. We'd like to think that mundane matters like loyalty, steadfastness, and the willingness to keep writing checks to support what looks like failure have nothing to do with something as rarefied as genius. But sometimes genius is anything but rarefied; sometimes it's just the thing that emerges after twenty years of working at your kitchen table.
"Sharie never once brought up money, not once—never," Fountain said. She was sitting next to him, and he looked at her in a way that made it plain that he understood how much of the credit for "Brief Encounters" belonged to his wife. His eyes welled up with tears. "I never felt any pressure from her," he said. "Not even covert, not even implied."
Heavy. That is supportive wifey. Respek.
Read full article here.
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