Creative
Work:


On
the
Method
of
Howard
Gruber



In
his
explorations
of
the
world,
the
individual
finds
out
what

needs
doing.
In
his
attempts
to
do
some
of
it,
he
finds
out
what

he
can
do
and
what
he
cannot.
He
also
comes
to
see
what
he

need
not
do.
From
the
intersection
of
these
possibilities
there

emerges
a
new
imperative,
his
sense
of
what
he
must
do.
How

"it
needs"
and
"I
can"
give
birth
to
"I
must"
remains
enigmatic.

Howard
E.
Gruber,
Darwin
on
Man
(257)



To
live
a
creative
life
is
one
of
the
intentions
of
a

creative
person.

Doris
B.
Wallace,
Creative
People
at
Work
(29)




Introduction

"The
idea
of
a
purposefully
creative
individual
seems
to
conjure
up
the
old

argument
from
design,"
writes
Howard
E.
Gruber,
perhaps
the
foremost

contemporary
interpreter
of
the
creative
process,
and
in
an
age
wary
of
teleological

explanation,
not
surprisingly,
our
understanding
of
the
creative
process
has
often

eliminated
"the
striving
purposeful
person
who
successfully
carries
out
his
creative

1
aims"
(1981c,
245‐46). 
Gruber
(b.
1922),
Research
Professor
of
Psychology
at

Columbia
University,
returns
him
to
center
stage.

A
native
of
Brooklyn,
Gruber
was
educated
at
Brooklyn

College
and
Cornell
University,
where
he
received
a
Ph.D.
in

psychology
in
1950.
Not
until
the
end
of
the
decade,
however,

did
be
become
interested
in
the
history
of
science
and,

especially,
in
Charles
Darwin.
His
careful
study
of
Darwin's

notebooks
led
to
several
important
discoveries
about
the

creative
process
and
culminated
in
his
journey
to
Geneva
to

learn
developmental
psychology
from
Piaget
himself,
the

publication
of
Darwin
on
Man:
A
Psychological
Study
of


1
Unless otherwise indicated, all internal documentation refers to works
by Howard Gruber (see bibliography below).
Scientific
Creativity
(1974,
1981),
an
eventual
joint
appointment
at
the
University
of

Geneva
and
Rutgers
University,
and
three
decades
of
research
into
the
creative

process
giving
birth
to
his
case
study
method.
Gruber
is
now
a
member
of
the
faculty

of
the
Teachers
College
at
Columbia
University.

In
seeking
to
distinguish
between
creative
work
and
creativity,
Gruber

demonstrates
that
creation
is
not
the
result
of
"a
set
of
properties
that
a
person
has

in
a
certain
moment
and
carries
around
with
him."
"The
question,"
in
fact,
he
notes,

"is
really
not
the
'ivity'
of
it—the
property
list—but
how
people
go
about
doing
it

when
they
do
it"
(1985b,
175).
Since
it
is
indisputably
the
fact
that
"Creative
works

are
constructed
over
long
periods
of
time,"
the
laboratory
simply
cannot
measure

them
(1985b,
171‐72).
Gruber
remains
highly
suspicious
of
researchers
willing
to

make
"inductive
leaps
from
college
sophomores
doing
ten
minute
paper
and
pencil

tests
to
individuals
who
organize
their
whole
lives
for
creative
work"
(1980b,
274).

Convinced
that
true
creation
"must
have
some
function
other
than
to
torment

behaviorists"
(1981c,
254),
Gruber
seeks
to
"escape
from
the
laboratory
of
N
=
30,
N

=
60,
etc.,
into
the
case
study,
where
N
=
1,
because
.
.
.
the
individual
is
worth

knowing"
(1985b,
170).



"Averaging
across
subjects,"
as
traditional
social
science
methodology

dictates,
"blurs
our
view
of
exactly
that
which
we
want
to
study."
Such
an
approach

reminds
Gruber
of
the
famous
composite
photographs
of
Galton,
which
through

superimposition
of
multiple
portraits
sought
the
"average"
of
the
original
faces.

"Such
a
face,"
Gruber
observes,
"is
empty
and
characterless.
We
can
see
at
a
glance,

in
the
averaged
faces
Galton
invented,
that
the
creative
individual
has
been
lost"

(1985b,
170).
The
real
question
about
the
quantative

approach
for
Gruber
is
thus
not
whether
it
is
possible,
but

rather
"Should
creativity
be
measured"
(1989b,
5).

Gruber
thus
opposes
all
attempts
to
explain
creation

in
a
monolithic
way.
Critical
of
the
"kind
of
reductionism,
in

which
creative
work
becomes
'nothing
but'
an
expression
of

personality"
(1980b,
281),
he
remains
equally
dubious
of
an

expansive
yet
metaphysical
notion
like
"genius":
"There
is
no

need,"
he
states
emphatically,
"to
think
of
the
individual
as

solving
problems
in
a
mysterious
way
called
'genius'"
(1983a,

6).
(Thus,
In
Creative
People
at
Work,
he
writes
skeptically
of

both
"the
path
of
Holy
Cow!"
and
that
of
"Nothing
But,"
of
"ineffectual

mystification"
and
"fragmentary
measurement"
[1989b,
3].)
His
research
into
the

creative
process
has
instead
revealed
again
and
again
something
much
more
basic:
"a

different
organization
of
the
system,
an
organization
that
was
constructed
by
the

person
himself
in
the
course
of
his
life,
in
the
course
of
his
work,
as
needed
in
order

to
meet
the
tasks
that
he
encountered
and
that
he
set
himself"
(1985b,
177).




Gruber's
Project

In
"The
Evolving
Systems
Approach
to
Creativity,"
Gruber
places
three
important
and

revealing
restrictions
on
his
own
project:



• Our
aim
is
not
to
explain
how
the
person
became
creative.
(270)

• Our
theoretical
aim
.
.
.
is
not
to
use
the
study
of
extraordinary
creative

processes
to
draw
any
conclusions
about
the
general
population,
and
vice

versa.
(275)

• Our
aim
is
not
to
make
law‐like
generalizations
about
creativity,
but
to

develop
an
evolving
systems
approach
that
will
serve
as
a
guide
to
the

study
of
creative
individuals.
(276)



These
aims
result
in
the
case
study
method—a
complex,
pluralistic,
"idiographic"

(Wallace
1989a,
27)
description
of
"the
growth
of
thought
in
a
real,
thinking,
feeling,

dreaming
person"
(Gruber
1981c,
4)—for
investigation
of
the
creative
process,
a

method
which
Gruber
has
developed,
practiced,
and
championed
for
three
decades.

Gruber's
influence
has
recently
produced
a
book
that
may
stand
as
the
definitive

demonstration
of
his
method:
Creative
People
at
Work
(Oxford,
1989),
edited
by

Doris
B.
Wallace
and
Gruber—a
collection
of
twelve
case
studies
by
former
students

and
colleagues.

Gruber
has
taken
pains
to
distinguish
his
case
study
method
from
that
of

2
biographers,
historians
of
science
and
ideas,
and
psychoanalytic
critics. 
Intellectual

biographies
rarely
illuminate
the
creative
process,
Gruber
shows,
because
they
"run

through
the
actual
work
of
hard
thought
of
their
subjects
far
too
briefly
to
analyze

its
inner
structure,
tensions,
growth"
(1980b,
290);
the
conventions
of
the
genre,
its

commitment
to
telling
a
whole
life,
necessitate
superficial
coverage
of
creation's


2
See also Doris B. Wallace's excellent essay "Studying the Individual:
The Case Study Method and Other Genres" in Creative People at Work (25-
43).
difficult
work.
Historians
fare
little
better:
"working
on
different
scales
of
time
and

social
space,"
they
often
"treat
the
individual
as
though
a
lifetime
of
thought
and

work
could
be
compressed
into
a
single
unit."
The
result
stands
in
direct
opposition

to
that
which
Gruber's
method
yields:
"This
compression
has
sometimes
led
to
odd

juxtapositions
in
which
they
see
internal
contradictions
where
we
would
see
change

and
growth"
(1980b,
290).
And
historians
of
science
stand
accused
of
studying
"the

development
of
disembodied
ideas,
detached
from
the
individuals
who
think
them"

(1980a,
305;
Gruber
echoes
here
the
complaint
of
Stillman
Drake).
Between
the
case

study
approach
and
psychoanalysis,
the
chasm
is
even
wider.

"The
case
study
method
.
.
.
is
quite
distinct
from
psychoanalytically
oriented

psychobiography.
Such
studies
have
emphasized
the
underlying
motives
of
the

creative
person,
their
childhood
origins,
and
their
neurotic
character.
Our
focus
of

attention
has
been
on
how
creative
people
do
their
work,
rather
than
on
why,
and
on

the
developmental
process
within
the
career,
rather
than
on
that
leading
up
to
it"

(1988b,
248).
Understanding
why
a
person
is
creative,
Gruber
insists,
does
not

explain
how
he
creates.
Instead,
he
remains
committed
to
the
discovery
of
a
"theory

of
the
individual"
(1980b,
274‐75).

"We
are
far
from
denying
the
importance
of
unconscious
processes,"
Gruber

cautions.
"We
nevertheless
see
them
as
occurring
in
a
person
struggling
and
often

succeeding
in
taking
command
of
them
to
make
them
serve
the
interests
of

consciously
and
freely
chosen
enterprises"
(1988b,
248).
Still,
he
is
anxious
to

correct
the
customary
view
that
they
"express
the
way
in
which
a
person
is
divided

against
himself."
For
"a
person
is
not
always
so
divided,"
Gruber
reminds.
"When
he

bends
all
his
efforts
towards
some
great
goal,
the
same
problems
which
occupy
his

rational,
waking
thoughts
will
shape
his
imagery
and
pervade
his
dreams"
(1981c,

246).




Gruber's
Methodology

Early
in
his
research
into
the
creative
process,
Gruber
tells

us,
he
was
perplexed
with
the
question
of
how
to
"put
some

order
in
this
seeming
chaos
[of
the
creative
process]."
"The

answer

.
.
.
,"
Gruber
confesses,
"took
me
by
surprise
when
I

first
began
to
think
of
it:
we
should
not"
(1980a,
309).

"Everything
should
be
as
simple
as
it
is,"
Einstein
observed,

"but
not
simpler"—a
conviction
with
which
Gruber,
who

speaks
of
the
"aesthetics
of
simplicity"
as
appealing
only
to
"some
little
boy
part
of

my
mind"
(1985b,
177),
would
certainly
agree.

Gruber's
"deeply
phenomenological"
(1980b,
278)
method,
his

"demystification
of
the
creative
process"
(1988b,
243),
then,
"start[s]
with
an

individual
whose
creativity
is
beyond
dispute
.
.
.
and
then
.
.
.
map[s],
as
carefully
as

[possible]
.
.
.
,
what
is
going
on
in
that
person's
mind
over
a
period
in
which
creative

breakthroughs
were
occurring"
(1981b,
69).
"The
phenomenological
approach,"

Gruber
explains,
"begins
by
taking
the
subject's
reports
about
himself
as
an

invaluable
point
of
departure."
Employment
of
such
a
method
need
not
result
in
the

abandonment
of
critical
judgment;
for
"the
double
task
of
reconstructing
events
from

the
subject's
point
of
view
and
then
understanding
them
from
our
own"
(1980b,
277)

remains.

While
acknowledging
that
there
is
a
need
for
studying
individuals
"below
the

summit
of
Mount
Olympus,"
and
speculating
that
"it
may
even
turn
out
that
as
a
field

of
scientific
inquiry,
ordinary
people
are
more
intriguing
than
extraordinary
ones,"

Gruber
insists
that
"the
serious
study
of
creative
work
requires
careful
and

prolonged
attention
to
the
individual
and
must
pay
special
attention
to
the
very

great"
(1989b,
6;
1986b,
119).
The
choice
of
subjects
is
limited,
however,
by
1)
the

availability
of
material—notebooks,
journals,
manuscripts,
etc.—and
2)
the

researcher's
ability
to
understand
the
subject
matter
involved
(1980b,
273).
Gruber's

own
work
has
centered
on
Charles
Darwin
and
Jean
Piaget,
and
colleagues
and

students
have
used
his
method
to
investigate
such
individuals
as
Antoine
Lavoisier,

William
Wordsworth,
Michael
Faraday,
William
James,
Vincent
Van
Gogh,
Erasmus

Darwin,
George
Bernard
Shaw,
Sigmund
Freud,
Dorothy
Richardson,
Benjamin

Franklin,
Albert
Einstein,
Anais
Nin,
John
Locke.

One
of
the
practical
reasons
for
using
the
great
as
the
focus
for
study
of
the

creative
process
is
simply
the
fact
that
"they
leave
better
traces."
Indeed,
"the

making
and
leaving
of
tracks—preliminary
sketches,
countless
revisions,
early

notebooks,
variations
on
a
theme
.
.
.
,"
Gruber
observes,
"is
part
and
parcel
of
the

process
itself
.
.
.
a
kind
of
activity
characteristic
of
people
doing
creative
work"

(1986b,
119).
(The
"fossil
record"
of
the
processes
of
creation,
Gruber
recognizes,

may
well
be
self‐fulfilling
prophecy.
"Wittingly
or
not,"
he
notes,
creative
people

"create
the
conditions
under
which
we
can
study
their
development"
[1986b,
119].)

A
chief
motive
of
the
case
study
method
is
thus
"the
desire
to
recontextualize

the
process
of
thought;
rather
than
isolating
it,
to
see
it
in
a
whole
person
working

under
real
historical
circumstances"
(1985b,
169).
And
such
a
task,
able
to
advance,

as
Gruber
acknowledges,
only
by
"successive
approximations"
(1980b,
274),
is
more

than
a
little
intimidating:
"To
see
the
creative
thinker
in
full
historical
context
is
a

large
undertaking,
requiring
the
knowledge
and
skills
of
historian,
anthropologist,

sociologist,
and
literary
critic.
Faced
with
such
a
task,
one
is
tempted
to
retreat
to

the
laboratory"
(1985b,
169).
Convinced
that
"the
most
challenging
task
of
creative

research
is
to
invent
means
of
describing
and
explaining
each
unique
configuration"

(1988b,
245)
—for
each
creative
person,
necessarily
"a
moving
target"
(1989b,
8),

inclined
to
"multiple
deviance"
from
existing
norms
(1989b,
6‐7),
is
"unique
in
a

unique
way"
(1985b,
177)—Gruber
quotes
fondly
William
Blake's
maxim:
"One
law
for

the
Lion
and
Ox
is
Oppression"
(1988b,
246
and
elsewhere).

"So
far
as
data
goes,"
Gruber
acknowledges,
"there
is
often
an
embarrassment

of
riches."



True,
we
cannot
interview
a
dead
subject,
but
notebooks
and
letters
often

provide
answers
to
questions
we
might
have
asked.
Historical
distance
in

some
ways
makes
imagination
easier,
and
in
some
ways
harder,
insofar
as
the

task
is
to
see
things
from
another's
point
of
view.
Historical
distance
has
the

great
advantage
that
we
can
survey
the
subject's
work
as
a
whole,
the
later

work
often
helping
to
understand
the
earlier.
In
no
case
can
we
take
the

subject's
words
exactly
at
face
value;
in
every
case
the
subject's
reflections

about
himself
are
pearls
of
great
price;
upon
our
own
shoulders
falls

responsibility
for
the
phenomenologically
oriented
reconstruction
of
the

subject's
world,
especially
his
task‐space.
(1980b,
277)



As
Gruber
admits,
"There
is
a
temptation
to
lose
oneself
in
the
vastness
of

contextual
space"
(1985b,
169‐70).
(When
Gruber
initially
told
Piaget
of
his
intention

to
devote
his
life
to
the
study
of
creative
work,
the
great
French
psychologist
warned

him
that
"Tout
y
touche"—Everything
bears
on
it—a
remark
that
"haunts"
him
to
this

day
[1980b,
270].)

 

Howard
Gruber
(left),
Jean
Piaget
(middle)



Gruber's
method
nevertheless
remains
"quite
modest,"
for
it
is
not,
like
the

approach
of
the
psychoanalyst,
an
attempt
to
"discover
any
thing
like
a
'latent

structure,'
a
set
of
relationships
unknown
to
the
knower"
(1980b,
290).
Like
the

Geneva
School
of
literary
criticism
with
which
it
shares
both
geographical
and

3
intellectual
origins, 
Gruber's
procedure
is
self‐effacing,
dedicated
toward
a
close

reading,
in
turn
phenomenological—"inside"
and
close
to
the
subject's
own
point
of

view—and
critical—detached,
"outside"
the
subject
and
aware
of
possible
bias—of

the
original
text
(Wallace
1989a,
32),
a
reading
which
results
in
"schematizing
the

ideas
of
the
creative
thinker
in
a
way
that
he
would
probably
recognize
and
accept
as

a
reasonable
representation"
(1980b,
290).
"Our
main
point
of
departure,"
Gruber

explains,
"will
always
be
the
study
of
the
construction
of
an
idea,
of
a
work,
of
an

oeuvre"
(1985b,
177).
(Few
psychologists,
Gruber
admits,
are
well
trained
for
the

task
of
interpretation—of
"listening
and
reconstruction"—essential
to
his
method

[1985b,
177‐78].)

With
Darwin's
notebooks
in
mind,
Gruber
has
described
the
manner
in
which

he
encounters
a
text:


3
In the late 1950s Gruber journeyed to Geneva to visit Piaget, seeking
his help in understanding his research into Darwin's thought, and he came to
fall "in love with his ideas" (Contemporary Authors 119, 128), later coediting
(with Jacques Voneche) The Essential Piaget (1977) and writing a case study
of Piaget's own creative work in progress). The University of Geneva, of
course, was also the birthplace of the so-called Geneva School of literary
criticism, Marcel Raymond, Albert Beguin, Georges Poulet, and others. (For a
full discussion of the Geneva School, see both Lawall and Miller.) Both
Piaget's "genetic epistemology and Geneva School criticism use a
phenomenological approach to texts.


I
proceeded
like
an
explorer
in
a
new
territory,
reading
the
notebooks

through,
over
and
over
again,
figuring
out
what
he
was
focusing
on,
what
his

cryptic
notes
meant,
trying
to
recreate
his
thought
processes
from
one
day
to

the
next.
I
tried
to
freeze
the
current
of
his
thinking
at
crucial
points.
(1981b,

69)



The
study
of
creative
work,
Gruber
writes,
is
like
a
"loud‐thinking
experiment":



In
the
laboratory,
the
subject
tells
the
experimenter
what
he
is
thinking
while

solving
a
problem;
the
experimenter
records
these
words
along
with
other

behavior.
When
a
Darwin
writes
in
his
notebooks,
he,
too,
is
saying,
"I
think
.

.
."
a
phrase
which
might
be
considered
as
prefacing
everything
he
writes.
But

the
subject's
words
are
not
taken
as
directly
providing
answers
to
our

questions
about
the
creative
process.
Such
answers
must
result
from
the

psychologist's
effort
at
reconstruction,
making
use
of
the
subject's
words
and

actions,
from
analysis
of
the
creative
product
itself,
and
other
relevant

information.
(1980b,
276)



Gruber
is
under
no
illusion
that
all
aspects
of
such
thought
processes
will
be
visible

or
accessible.
There
exists,
he
acknowledges,
a
"private
level
of
experience"
for
the

creative
person
which
leaves
little
or
no
trace,



notions
that
seemed
too
absurd
to
be
written
down,
transient
thoughts
still

too
fleeting
or
awkward
for
written
expression,
taboo
ideas
that
can
be

expressed
only
when
muted
or
transformed.
And
there
is
another
sort
of

thinking
that
leaves
very
little
trace,
although
it
is
not
rejected
or

suppressed:
the
personal
imagery
one
uses
to
carry
a
thought
along,
the

personal
knowledge
one
gains
of
a
situation
only
by
actually
being
in
it—
seeing,
hearing,
feeling,
tasting,
smelling
it.
Doing,
enjoying,
remembering,

imagining
it.
(1981c,
253)



Nor
is
Gruber
ready
to
suggest
that
absolute
generalizations
can
ordinarily
be

reached
as
a
result
of
case
studies.
The
example
of
Charles
Darwin
shows
a
long

period
of
gestation
leading
gradually
and
undramatically
from
a
vague
beginning
to
a

great
insight.
"We
cannot
conclude
from
this,"
Gruber
warns,
"that
initial
vagueness

is
somehow
always
better
than
initial
precision,
or
the
reverse."
But
a
"theory
of
the

individual"
derived
from
Darwin's
example
"can
alert
us
to
the
relation
between

early
goals
and
later
achievement;
understanding
how
that
works
out
in
a
given
case

is
a
task
for
the
student
of
the
case"
(1988b,
246‐47).

Like
the
Romantic
poets
who
often
ended

their
great
lyrical
outbursts
with
strategic

questions
("Do
I
wake
or
sleep?"),
Gruber
again

and
again
offers
for
our
consideration
a
question

to
which
he
does
not
yet
have
the
answer.
"How
do

[the
creative
person's]
purposes
evolve?"
he

ponders.
But
it
is
only
the
first
of
a
catalog
of

questions:



What
determines
his
high
level
of
aspiration?
How
does
the
process
of
self‐
criticism
work?
How
does
the
creative
person
grow
so
that
he
can
continue
to

assimilate
the
criticism
of
others
without
surrendering
his
own
evolving

vision?
(1980b,
278)



In
another
essay
we
find
the
following:
"How
does
a
creative
person
know
what
is

new
for
him?
What
is
new
for
others?"
(1981a,
50).
And
in
"From
Epistemic
Subject

to
Unique
Creative
Person
at
Work,"
Gruber
observes
that
"The
question
of
novelty—
a
question
introduced
via
Piaget's
genetic
epistemology—is
central."
"How
is
it,"
he

goes
on
to
ask,
"that
certain
individuals
have
devoted
their
lives
or
large
portions
of

their
lives
to
the
construction
of
novelty?"
(1985b,
171).
"The
main
question,"
after

all,
"isn't
exactly
how
they
solve
their
problems,
but
where
the
problems
come
from"

(1985b,
178).
Questions
are
thus
as
important
as
answers.
As
Gruber's
research
has

discovered,
"Rather
than
thinking
in
order
to
solve
problems,
the
person
striving
to

develop
a
new
point
of
view
solves
problems
in
order
to
explore
different
aspects
of

it
and
of
those
problems
and
of
those
domains
to
which
those
problems
apply"

[1983a,
6].
Such
a
characterization,
of
course,
applies
to
Gruber
himself.

"To
place
the
person
in
history,
to
describe
his
ensemble
of
metaphors,
to
pay

close
attention
to
his
system
of
categories
and
to
changes
in
his
units
of
analysis,
to

see
each
activity
as
part
of
his
network
of
enterprises,
to
search
out
and
examine

those
very
special
skills
that
the
particular
creative
person
may
have,
and
to
try
to

understand
his
special
point
of
view"
(1985b,
178)—this,
in
summary,
is
Howard

Gruber's
method
for
the
study
of
creative
work.
His
discoveries
are
many
and

valuable.




The
Characteristics
of
the
Creative
Person

Creative
work
is
the
product
of
individuals
governed
by
a
sense
of
purpose.
"The

conservative
assumption
to
make,"
Gruber
suggests,
"is
that
[creative
individuals]

know
what
they
want
to
do
and
shape
their
lives
accordingly.
Any
particular
task

undertaken
must
be
viewed
as
part
of
the
life,
occurring
in
the
context
of
the
life.

Context
is
not
merely
contemporary.
Given
a
creature
endowed
both
with
memory

and
vision,
the
context
of
any
single
act
is
both
retrospective
and
prospective"

(1980b,
272).

Even
mysterious
"serendipity"
discoveries
are
purposeful
in
ways
not
normally

acknowledged.
Great
insights
come
to
a
prepared
mind,
a
"welcoming
mind

belong[ing]
to
one
who
has
prepared
it
by
his
own
efforts,
as
a
field
in
which
new

ideas
can
flower"
(1981c,
246,
248).
They
are
not
ruptures
with
the
past,
not
the

revelatory
gift
of
a
"Eureka
experience,"
but
"a
fulfillment
of
.
.
.
abiding
purpose"

(1981a,
42).
"Thus
the
sudden
insight
in
which
a
problem
is
solved,"
Gruber
writes,

"may
represent
only
a
minor
nodal
point,
like
the
crest
of
a
wave,
in
a
long
and
very

slow
process—the
development
of
a
point
of
view"
(1981c,
5).
As
Gruber
observes,

expanding
on
the
problem
of
serendipitous
discovery,
"It
may
well
be
the
case
that

the
seemingly
random
juxtaposition
of
ideas
produces
something
new.
But
this

juxtaposition
arises
in
one
person's
mind.
It
is
he
who
activates
the
structures
giving

rise
to
the
ideas
in
question.
It
is
he
who
recognizes
the
fruit
of
the
encounter
and

assimilates
it
into
a
newly
forming
structure.
And
it
was
he
in
the
first
place
who

assembled
all
these
constituents
in
the
close
proximity
of
one
person's
mind,
his

own,
so
that
all
this
might
happen"
(1980b,
287)

For
creative
people
"a
long
and
well‐worked
through
apprenticeship
is
vital
to

the
development
of
a
creative
life."
The
particular
circumstances
vary:
"Teachers
and

mentors
may
be
imposed
upon
the
young
person,
or
sought
out,
or
discovered
in
a

lucky
accident.
They
may
be
physically
present
or
far
away,
living
or
dead
models."

But
the
end
result
is
the
same:
"models
and
mentors
there
must
be,
as
well
as
the

disciplined
work
necessary
to
profit
from
them"
(1985a,
x).
"It
is
safe
to
say,"
Gruber

concludes,
"that
no
case
of
creative
achievement
occurs
without
a
long

apprenticeship"
(1989b,
15).

 Creative
people
are
willing
to
work
hard
for
a
very
long
time,
even
if
such

work
does
not
produce
immediate
results
or
rewards,
and
this
work
remains

enjoyable
for
them.
"Perhaps
the
single
most
reliable
finding
in
our
studies,"
Gruber

observes,
"is
that
creative
work
takes
a
long
time.
With
all
due
apologies
to

thunderbolts,
creative
work
is
not
a
matter
of
milliseconds,
minutes,
or
even
hours—
but
of
months,
years,
and
decades"
(1988b,
265).
(True
discovery
is
actually

governed
by
a
kind
of
irony,
as
Gruber
notes:
"In
the
heat
of
the
moment,
small

advances
feel
great,
and
ones
that
turn
out
to
be
crucial
slip
in
quietly"
[1981a,
43].)

Creative
individuals
should
not
be
thought
of
as
obsessed
or
fanatic:
"the
creative

person
cannot
simply
be
driven,"
Gruber
writes.
"He
must
be
drawn
to
his
work
by

visions,
hopes,
joy
of
discovery,
love
of
truth,
and
sensuous
pleasure
in
the
creative

activity
itself"
(1980b,
294).



 

Mendel,
Wegener



"The
partial
decoupling
of
the
production
of
ideas
from
their
dissemination

and
exploitation"
interests
Gruber;
he
cites
the
examples
of
Mendel
and
the

geologist
Wegener
(who
discovered
continental
drift
and
theorized
the
existence
of

tectonic
plates).
Both
of
these
men
"made
fundamental
discoveries,
attempted
to

disseminate
their
ideas,
and
ran
into
the
stone
wall
of
intellectual
inertia
(either

through
being
ignored
or
ridiculed),
only
to
be
'rehabilitated'
years
later"
(1983b,

4
6). 


4
The ability to endure non-recognition, Gruber speculates, may well
have economic and social causes: "The simple fact that there is for some time
no visible product means either that society must sanction a period of non-
productivity or that the individual must find some way of escaping society's
demands. The former course was open to Darwin because his family was well
off. His near contemporary Alfred Russell Wallace came from a poor family
and had no such resources; he took the latter course, living in Malaysia
essentially on savings at the theoretical turning point in his life" (1983b, 5-
6).
 That
which
often
frightens
ordinary
people
appears
as
a
challenge,
an

inducement
to
the
creative
individual.
"Being
creative
means
striking
out
in
new

directions
and
not
accepting
ready‐made
relationships,
which
take
stamina
and
a

willingness
to
be
alone
for
a
while"
(1981b,
72).
Creative
people
show
constant

courage.
They
are
not
concerned
with
solving
problems
and
then
settling
back
into

stasis.
Rather,
"creative
work
begets
new
and
fruitful
problems.
Organizing
matters

so
that
this
remains
the
case
is
part
of
what
it
means
to
lead
a
creative
life"
(1980b,

292).

A
creative
life
is
thus
distinctly
nonhomeostatic.
"Success
along
the
way
does

not
lead
so
much
to
a
sense
of
satisfaction
as
to
a
sense
of
liberation—to
do

whatever
comes
next"
(1988b,
267).
"And
the
bush
was
not
consumed"
(Exodus),

Gruber
notes,
is
a
perfect
metaphor
of
the
life
of
a
creative
person.
and
yet
such
a

person,
he
hastens
to
remind,
is
"not
a
runaway
system
that
accelerates
its
activity

to
the
point
where
it
burns
itself
out
in
one
great
flash.
The
system
regenerates
the

activity
and
the
creative
work
regenerates
the
system.
The
creative
life—a
"deviation

amplifying
system"
(the
phrase
is
Maruyama's)—happens
in
a
being
who
can
continue

to
work,
a
being
who
is—in
Newton's
famous
phrase—"never
at
rest"
(1980b,
269;

1985b,
176).

The
open‐endedness
of
the
creative
thus
presents
a
stark
contrast
to
the

closed
system
of
most
individuals.
"We
know
now,"
Gruber
writes,
"that
the
mental

life
of
every
human
being
is
full
of
fascinating
constructive
and
imaginal
activity.

Piaget
has
shown
it
for
children.
An
army
of
investigators
have
shown
it
for
the

seemingly
quite
passive
processes
of
perception
and
memory.
They
are
not
passive
at

all.
There
is
a
kind
of
creativity‐in‐the‐small
that
permeates
the
universe
of

intelligent
life."
"Creativity‐in‐the‐small,"
however,
is
"not
sufficient
to
guarantee
a

creative
life."
It
is
common
among
contemporary
pop
psychologists
to
insist
that
all

human
beings
are
creative;
Gruber
knows
better:
"in
many
if
not
most
lives,
all
this

ingenuity
is
deployed
by
the
person
toward
the
aim
of
maintaining
things
as
they
are,

rather
than
toward
creating
something
new.
All
too
often,
successfully"
(1980b,
272).

Creative
work
is
simply
not
"species
typical
behavior,"
but
rather
"the
maximum
of

which
members
of
the
species
are
capable"
(1985b,
175).

Creative
people,
Gruber
has
found,
are
not
as
isolated
as
once
believed:
they

are,
in
fact,
extremely
good
at
collaborating,
at
interacting
with
peers.
They
often

devote
their
skills
and
a
surprising
amount
of
time
to
establish
environments
and

peer
groups
("personal
allegiances")
capable
of
nurturing
their
work
(1981b,
72;

1980b,
294‐95).
Again,
the
example
of
Darwin
serves
as
a
case
in
point
for
Gruber.
In

an
interview
he
tells
of
his
discovery
that
the
great
biologist
was
not
the
suffering

neurotic
some
biographers
have
diagnosed
him
to
be:
"he
didn't
seem
very
neurotic.

He
worked
so
steadily
and
he
was
such
a
good
family
man.
He
had
his
door
open
to

his
children
all
the
time,
and
he
played
with
them
and
drew
them
into
his
work
in

funny,
whimsical
ways
when
they
were
young
and
more
seriously
later
on.
.
.
.
He

was
a
happy
man
who
had
an
undiagnosed
disease"
(Contemporary
Authors
119,
129).

Early
in
their
life's
work,
creative
individuals
make
"good
moves"—strategies,

"first
stroke[s]
of
the
brush
[which]
transform
the
canvas"—that
"set
the
stage
for

the
protracted
creative
work
of
which
it
is
only
a
part"
(1985b,
172).
(These
moves

are
often
recorded
in
an
"initial
sketch":
a
"rough
draft
or
early
notebook
to
which

the
worker
can
repair
from
time
to
time—that
serves
as
a
sort
of
gyroscope
for
the

oeuvre"
[1988b,
265‐66].)
Though
"delays,
tangents,
and
false
starts"
are
equally
as

common
and
"almost
inevitable,"
creative
individuals
find
ways
of
managing
their

work
"so
that
these
inconclusive
moves
become
fruitful
and
enriching,
and
at
the

same
time
so
that
a
sense
of
direction
is
maintained."
"Without
such
a
sense
of

direction,"
in
fact,
as
Gruber
shows,
"the
would‐be
creator
may
produce
a
number
of

fine
strokes,
but
they
will
not
accumulate
toward
a
great
work"
(1988b,
265).

Creative
individuals,
Gruber
discovers,
"need
to
know
a
lot
and
cultivate

special
skills"
(1981b,
71):
Darwin,
for
example,
knew
a
tremendous
amount
about

such
esoteric
subjects
as
barnacles
and
animal
breeding,
knowledge
which
shaped
his

discoveries
about
evolution;
Leonardo's
precise
knowledge
of
anatomy
informed
his

art;
Newton's
hands‐on
experience
as
the
maker
of
scientific
instruments
was

"instrumental"
to
his
theory‐making
(1985a,
x).
Creative
individuals
sometimes

acquire
this
knowledge
through
a
"special
kind
of
narcissism"
(1980b,
280)
such
as

that
exhibited
by
Darwin
when
he
used
himself
as
his
subject
in
order
to
study
man's

higher
faculties.
Such
narcissism
was,
of
course,
simply
not
necessary
when
he
was

studying
barnacles.

But
creation
is
not
necessarily
the
result
of
great
skill
or
intelligence.
Being

brilliant
and
being
creative,
Gruber
has
found,
can
be
quite
distinct.
T.
H.
Huxley,

"Darwin's
bulldog,"
was,
by
all
estimates,
"brilliant,"
while
Darwin
himself
was

"somewhat
slower
and
steadier"
(as
he
admits
in
his
autobiography),
but
it
was

Darwin
who
made
the
great
discoveries.
Nor
was
Einstein
the
best
mathematician
of

his
day
(1985b,
178).
"To
be
creative
means
to
be
somebody
doing
a
long,
hard
job,

picking
something
that
other
people
are
not
going
to
do,
can't
do,
would
be
afraid
to

do.
You
have
to
want
to
do
it.
You
have
to
remember
that
you
want
to
do
it
even

when
you
run
away
from
it
for
a
while
out
of
agony.
.
.
.
you
have
the
confidence
to

keep
on
going"
(Contemporary
Authors
119,
128‐29).
Great
skill
is
likewise
easily

overemphasized.
Forgers,
as
Gruber
points
out,
may
exhibit
skill
equal
to
that
of
the

great
artists
they
mimic
but
they
do
not
use
it
for
creative
work
(1988b,
244‐45).

"The
creative
person
must
develop
a
sense
of
identity
as
a
creative
person,
a
sense

of
his
or
her
own
specialness"
(1980b,
294‐95).
Creative
people
possess,
and
seek
to

possess,
unique
points
of
view,
special
perspectives
on
the
world.
Such
points
of

view,
in
fact,
are
likely
to
distinguish
the
creative
person
more
than
any
particular

problem
solving
ability.

The
ongoing
work
of
creation
is
often
guided
by
what
Gruber
calls
"images
of

wide
scope."
"There
is
probably
a
place,"
Gruber
writes,
"for
a
special
term
such
as

'image
of
wide
scope,'
distinct
from
metaphor,
to
refer
to
the
potential
vehicle
of
a

metaphor
that
has
not
yet
been
formulated
or
to
refer
to
supple
schematization
.
.
.

that
might
enter
into
a
number
of
metaphors"
(1988b,
256).
Darwin's
notebook

sketches
of
the
tree
of
evolution,
Einstein's
"thought
experiment"
of
a
voyage
on
a

beam
of
light
in
order
to
understand
reality
from
its
perspective—these
are
classic

examples
of
images
of
wide
scope.
Their
role
in
the
creative
process
is
complex.

Gruber
notes
that
the
"different
modalities
of
thought"
are,
for
the
creative

individual
at
least,
never
"separated
by
an
unscalable
wall."
Thus,



thinking
moves
from
one
modality
to
another,
from
visual
images
to
sketches,

to
words
and
equations
explaining
(that
is,
conveying
the
same
meaning
as)

the
visualizations.
The
thinker
is
pleased
to
discover
that
certain
structures

remain
invariant
under
these
transformations:
these
are
his
ideas.
(1981a,
49)



An
image
of
wide
scope,
along
with
an
attendant
"versatile
repertoire"
of
"satellite

images"
(1988b,
257),
should
be
thought
of,
Gruber
explains,
as
"quasi‐perceptual,
in

some
way
linked
to
something
that
really
exists"
(1980a,
317‐18).
Through
the

window
it
provides,
it
is
often
possible
to
glimpse
what
Gruber
calls
the
"conceptual

framework"
of
an
individual,
the
underlying,
but
often
tacit,
intellectual
foundation

of
creative
work.

Creative
individuals
nevertheless
"have
at
[their]
disposal
a
number
of

modalities
of
representation.
Systems
of
laws,
taxonomic
systems,
and
thematic

repertoires
[the
term
is
Gerald
Holton's]
.
.
.—are
all
pertinent"
(1980a,
315).

Various
thinkers
develop
direct,
special
ways
of
thinking:
Wordsworth
in
iambic

pentameter,
von
Neumann
in
mathematical
equations,
Dr.
Johnson
in
prose
(1981a,

48).
These
"private
languages
and
modes
of
thought"
must
be
translated,
however,

into
public
discourse.
"Public
and
private
are
distinct,
but
they
must
be

commensurate
and
transposable"
(1985a,
x).
"The
creative
person,"
Gruber
writes,

"may
very
well
start
with
a
wild
idea.
Soon
enough
it
becomes
familiar
and,
within
a

private
universe,
no
longer
seems
wild.
But
to
be
effective
the
creator
must
be
in

good
enough
touch
with
the
norms
and
feelings
of
some
others
so
that
the
product

will
be
one
that
they
can
assimilate
and
enjoy.
Even
the
person
who
is
far
ahead
of

the
times
must
have
some
community,
however
limited
or
special,
with
whom
to

interact"
(1989b,
14‐15)

For
the
creative
person,
an
"enormous
density
of
personal
experience
.
.
.
is

packed
into
the
simplest
ideas."
"The
personal
knowledge
packed
into
an
abstract

idea,
Gruber
explains
in
Darwin
on
Man,
"is
put
there
by
the
growing
person
himself,

through
his
own
activities,
assimilating
what
he
can
into
existing
structures
and

thereby
strengthening
them,
occasionally
noticing
anomalies
that
require
the

revision
of
these
structures
to
accommodate
experiences
that
would
otherwise
not

find
a
stable
place"
(1981c,
254).

A
"peculiar
combination
of
improbability
and
fitness"
governs
creative
work.

Creative
products
meet
a
"felt
or
almost‐felt
need,"
and,
obviously,
"others
are

aware,
and
more
than
dimly,
that
some
move
in
that
direction
is
needed."
(Think
of

Huxley's
famous
response
to
hearing
of
Darwin's
theory
of
evolution
through
natural

selection:
"How
stupid
not
to
have
thought
of
that!")
But
if
such
a
move
were
truly

at
hand,
Gruber
notes,
then
the
work
would
not
be
seen
as
creative
(1988b,
265).

"For
the
creative
person,
carpe
diem
has
a
special
meaning:
since
he
is
trying
to
do

something
that
has
never
been
done
before,
he
must
look
for
the
rare
opportunity

and
then
seize
it.
To
recognize
what
is
rare,
one
must
have
the
kind
of
knowledge
of

the
world
that
is
gained
only
by
moving
about
in
it"
(1981c,
252).

The
occurrence
of
sudden
insights,
Gruber's
research
reveals,
is
not
unique.

One
or
two
noteworthy
insights
a
day,
five
hundred
in
a
year,
five
thousand
in
a
ten

year
project
may
be
typical
of
highly
creative
people
(1988b,
244).
"It
is
reasonably

clear,"
Gruber
writes
in
an
essay
on
the
"Aha"
or
"Eureka"
experience,
"that

meanings
do
not
occur
'instantaneously,'
and
there
is,
consequently,
time
for
the

thinking
person
to
manoeuvre,
to
steer
his
thoughts
in
desired
directions
and
to

avoid
undesired
ones"
(1981a,
44).
As
Gruber
explains
later
in
the
same
essay:



Archimedes
may
have
often
seen
and
thought
about
the
water
displaced
by

his
body.
If
at
the
moment
in
question
he
was
in
mid‐course
in
constructing
a

new
set
of
ideas
and
a
solution
to
a
new
problem
.
.
.
then
the
sight
of

displacement
would
be
assimilated
or
mapped
into
a
different
schema
than

before,
and
the
act
of
assimilation
would
provoke
new
accommodations.
Even

the
simple
act
of
submerging
an
object
in
water
has
many
subtleties.
Which

ones
are
picked
out
and
exploited
depends
on
where
the
thinker
is
at
the

time.
We
can
accept
Galileo's
sophisticated
caveat
[that
the
story
of

Archimedes
in
the
bathtub
is
"implausible"]
without
denying
the
import
of
the

bath,
so
long
as
we
remember
that
Archimedes
was
immersed
in
thought.

(1981a,
46)



What
is
often
taken
to
be
a
sudden
illumination,
may
actually
be
a
"re‐cognition":
a

new
awareness
of
what
an
individual
already
knew
or
"almost
knew"
(1981a,
42).

For
example,
close
examination
of
the
epiphanal
moment

in
which
Darwin
discovered,
while
reading
Malthus,
the
centrality

of
natural
selection
to
the
evolutionary
process,
shows
him
in
the

act
of
"recognizing
an
idea
he
has
had,
almost
within
his
grasp,

for
some
time"
(1989b,
18).
The
very
concept
of
"insight,"
Gruber

suggests,
though
a
"convenient
shorthand"
for
a
complex,

evolving
system,
nevertheless
"does
justice"
to
something
quite

real:
"to
the
emotion
of
thought,
to
the
surge
of
joy
and
dread,

excitement
and
fulfillment
whenever
the
thinking
person
closes
the
loop
and

discovers
what
he
has
done"
(1981c,
7).

Creative
individuals,
Gruber
has
discovered,
possess
a
"network
of

enterprises,"
that
is,
"they
become
the
sort
of
people
who
can
easily
handle

seemingly
different
but
intimately
related
activities.
They
become
highly
skilled

jugglers"
(1981b,
71).
("In
the
course
of
a
single
day
or
week,"
Gruber
notes,
"the

activities
of
the
person
may
appear,
from
the
outside,
as
a
bewildering
miscellany.

But
the
person
is
not
disoriented
or
dazzled.
He
or
she
can
readily
map
each
activity

onto
one
or
another
enterprise"
[1989b,
13].)
That
creative
work
is
often
"spread
out

over
months
and
years
has
consequences
for
the
organization
of
purpose."
For
"in

order
to
make
grand
goals
attainable,
the
creator
must
invent
and
pursue
subgoals."

Individuals
must
find
ways
of
managing
their
tasks
through
a
network
of
enterprises

(1988b,
265).

Inherently
"dynamic,"
a
network
of
enterprises,
Gruber
suggests,
should
be

thought
of
as
a
"sketch
of
the
entire
set
of
intrinsic
motives
regulating
the
person's

work"
(1983b,
9),
promoting
"diverse
simultaneous
or
parallel
activities"
(1980a,

311).
Such
a
network
is
interactive
and
interdependent
(1983b,
9)
and
typically

"includes
a
scheme
for
replenishing
itself
with
new
tasks
if
ever
the
original
stock

nears
completion"
(1983a,
17).

Individual
enterprises
sometimes
show
"astonishing
longevity"
(though
they

may
pass
into
a
long
period
of
dormancy)
[1980b,
293].
Single
enterprises
may
be

shared
by
many,
but
they
remain
unique
because
the
host
is
different.
As
a
pigeon

fancier,
Gruber
observes,
Charles
Darwin
"was
not
like
the
other
pigeon
fanciers
with

whom
he
consorted.
For
him,
the
selective
breeding
of
pigeons
was
part
of
a
grand

plan
to
come
as
close
as
possible
to
an
experimental
attack
on
the
evolutionary

process"
(1981c,
257).

Ordinarily,
an
"overriding
project
[emerges]
that
unites
all
the
enterprises,"

though
this
is
not
always
the
case
(1983b,
9).
Each
enterprise
is
governed
by
plans

and
intentions,
but,
due
to
the
nature
of
the
coupling,
the
frustration
of
one
plan

does
not
bring
the
whole
system
to
a
halt.
Rather
the
individual
overcomes
obstacles

through
new
procedures:
he
or
she
may,
for
example,
turn
to
a
related
enterprise

which
had
been
placed
on
the
"back
burner."
"How
the
individual
decides
whether
to

struggle
with
.
.
.
difficulties
or
to
shift
to
some
other
activity,"
Gruber
notes,
"is

regulated
by
the
organization
of
purposes
as
a
whole"
(1980a,
315).

A
special
strategy
creative
individuals
use
to
deal
with
obstacles
to
their

ongoing
work
is
"bracketing."
They
know
how
to
hold,
in
temporary
suspension,
that

which
they
do
not
yet
understand,
postponing
solutions
to
problems
until
later—if
at

all.
(Scientists,
Gruber
shows,
are
especially
adept
at

bracketing,
since
they
frequently
work
at
the
edge
of
the

known
and
often
specialize
in
only
a
small
aspect
of
a
larger

field.)
Darwin,
for
example,
did
not
possess
the
genetic

knowledge
necessary
to
make
natural
selection
work—he

knew
nothing
of
the
discoveries
of
his
contemporary

Mendel—but
this
lacuna
did
not
prevent
him
from
proceeding

with
his
own
work
(1981c,
254‐55).
When
a
creative
person
is

baffled
at
a
task,
"his
activity
level
does
not
go
to
zero."
In

fact,
bracketing
may
be
liberating,
since
it
usually
results
in
the
activation
of
other

tasks.
Nor
is
knowledge
lost
in
the
process:
for
the
creative
person
ordinarily
takes

up
where
he
or
she
left
off
when
return
to
the
problem
seems
appropriate
(1988b,

266‐67).
The
great
amount
of
time
required
by
creative
work
can
even
make

interruptions
seem
a
natural
part
of
the
process
(1989b,
12).

Like
the
evolutionary
process
itself,
a
network
of
enterprises
is
a
kind
of

"tangled
bank":



an
organism
is
a
system
for
adapting
to
variations
in
milieu,
and
by
that
token

cannot
be
completely
identified
with
any
single
situation.
Loose
coupling,

then,
is
an
essential
component
of
the
idea
of
interaction.
The
interplay
of
a

number
of
loosely
coupled
subsystems
is
another
essential
component.

Logically,
it
need
not
be
a
large
number,
but
in
any
realistic
picture
of
an

organism
or
of
an
ecospace
the
number
rapidly
grows
very
large.
It
was

exactly
this
idea
that
Darwin
had
in
mind
when
he
ended
the
Origin
of
Species

with
the
image
of
the
tangled
bank.
(1983b,
6)



Within
an
individual's
unique
network,
"every
idea
seems
to
be
implicated
with

innumerable
other
ideas
in
an
intricate
network"
(1980b,
289).
But
the
coupling
is

loose,
not
a
"tightly
meshed
set
of
gears"
(1985b,
175‐76),
and
the
network
as
a

whole
possesses
astonishing
stability.
As
Gruber
shows,
"When
someone
gets
angry,

all
his
ideas
don't
change;
or
when
he
gets
hopeful,
properly
hopeful
or
falsely,
his

ideas
remain
approximately
the
same.
The
whole
system
of
his
ideas
may
take
on
a

different
emotional
color,
but
there
are
important
structural
elements
that
remain

the
same
across
affective
transformations"
(1985b,
176).

Ordinarily,
creative
people
are
thought
of
as
"task‐oriented"
and
not
"ego‐
oriented,"
and
yet,
Gruber
has
discovered,
"it
is
also
true
that
the
set
of
tasks
taken

as
a
whole
constitutes
a
large
part
of
the
ego:
to
be
oneself
one
must
do
these

things;
to
do
these
things
one
must
be
oneself"
(1989b,
13).
Indeed,
there
is
every

reason
to
believe
that
creative
individuals
"believe
that
they
are
doing
something

that
has
never
been
done
before,
they
want
to
do
something
new,
and
they
suffer

knowingly
the
anxiety
of
life
in
the
vanguard"
(1986b,
128).




Conclusion

 Two
basic
outlooks
have
dominated
the
study
of
creativity
in
all
its
forms,
and

neither,
Howard
Gruber
argues
convincingly,
has
been
able
to
offer
a
faithful

portrait:
"One
approach
externalizes
and
depersonalizes
the
creative
process,

attributing
it
entirely
to
the
Zeitgeist
or
spirit
of
the
age,
objective
circumstance
or

even
contingencies."
From
this
deterministic
perspective
"thought
and
action"
are

reduced
to
mere
"reflections
of
factors
in
the
controlling
environment:
the
person
is

a
vehicle
and
not
an
agent."
The
second
approach
is
likewise
reductionistic,
driving

"the
creative
process
entirely
inward,
desocializing
it,
and
minimizing
the
role
of

conscious,
disciplined
effort."
In
this
view,
the
creative
individual
is
a
"'sleepwalker'

who
stumbles
onto
his
best
ideas
in
dreams
or
other
unguarded
moments.
Underlying

this
approach
is
the
premise
that
conscious
thought
is
not
free,
that
it
runs
in

'passionate
grooves'
dictated
by
the
prevailing
ideas
of
the
day,
and
only

unconscious
mental
activity
is
free
enough
of
these
constraints
to
permit
creative

work"
(1981c,
245‐46)

To
free
the
study
of
creative
work
from
the
horns
of
this
dilemma,
Howard

Gruber
writes
in
Darwin
on
Man,
"We
need
an
approach,"



that
would
do
justice
to
our
image
of
the
creative
person
as
well
organized,

purposeful,
aware
of
the
manifold
possibilities
that
exist
in
the
world,
and

therefore
free
to
choose
among
them.
We
need
an
approach
that
respects
the

kinship
of
mental
processes
with
other
living
systems:
variation
and
novelty

are
not
chaotic
or
unrelated
to
the
organism's
past,
but
express
the
degrees

of
freedom
characteristic
of
a
particular
organization
as
it
stands
at
one

moment
in
its
history.
(249)



Gruber
has
himself
answered
the
call.
His
development
of
a
deeply
humanistic

method
for
pursuit
of
a
scientific
understanding
of
creative
achievement
is
his
own

great
creative
achievement.




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