Looney Tunes

I never stopped finding those old Looney Tunes cartoons funny. Hysterically so. The backfires, the anatomic impossibilities, the burned faces, and the good v mischievous see-sawing in 2D. We left my Granddad –around the age of 87 – watching Daffy Duck on his own downstairs one Christmas holiday while we sorted a few bits around the house.

I remember my dad smirking and saying to my mum, ‘Have you heard your dad down there? He’s watching bloody cartoons!’

You couldn’t not hear him. His laugh boomed two floors up and probably three houses along the terrace despite the century-old thick Yorkshire stone walls. So, I went downstairs because I wanted in. My granddad, always in his suit, lay on his side, tie draped over the edge of the sofa, glasses off his face next to him, in pieces, tears rolling down his cheeks. On the screen, Daffy’s beak was halfway around his head. I fell apart too.

Humour is personal, but an elixir in creativity’s makeup. It can come in any form, and needn’t be overt. Anything from straight up jokes, Mr Bingo style rude drawings and words, right through to the mood in a line drawing, piece of music, or approach to a workshop. It’s a defining aspect of personality, and personality means everything.

And here’s another thought – it need not even be involved in the creative process.

I spent 24 hours of this weekend holding back a smirk, or laughing in public because I tried to trick a group of fellow Fantasy Premier League players into thinking I’d played my wildcard (A twice-season get out of jail, revamp your squad for free chip) in the hope it would convince them to play theirs at a time I deemed silly to play it. It got me nowhere – I’ll be bottom of our league tonight. So, my brother, finding this attempted ‘ruse’ and subsequent backfire utterly ludicrous, began likening me to Wile E. Coyote, the famously inept antagonist from the cartoon ‘Road Runner.’

This and thousands of other acts of immaturity take place in a private group, and some of the escapades are the most creative things I’ve ever made. They never see light of day. But the positive emotions, stunts, and ideas hatched in that forum grease the wheels of my creativity like little else.

That’s what all of this creativity coaching work is: helping humans re-attune with a purer self, a sense of magic, enabling idiocy and play in ways intellectual work rarely does, but can always benefit from. It need never be seen in a portfolio or pitch, but it can elevate the way a person feels and acts so much that the dots can always be joined regardless.

So I don’t hesitate to take 10 minutes to turn myself into a failed villain, scheming atop a cliff with a cart full of ACME dynamite, waiting for a protagonist to emerge. It makes me laugh, it lifts my mood, and nudges me into the headspace in which the unconscious is more accessible.

We’re not silly enough.

Less cynical and calculated. More daft and immature. Take that as a prescription.