Who is the man behind the curtain? He is the gimmick, 'art' manufactured, whistles and bells, smoke and mirrors. He dictates what is good, what is suitable for the audience. He denies art its essential struggle between invention and reality. The man behind the curtain would have the artist conform to some external rule, shielding him from his own choices. He is every rationalization man creates to avoid being judged, to avoid judging himself, to avoid taking responsibility for his own actions, for his life and his art. Emerson tried to erase him with the words; ‘A man’s obedience to his own genius is faith in its purest form.’

Dorothy, in The Wizard of Oz, seeks out the artist, the genius, the one who will answer her questions and grant her wishes.

She looks to the ‘wizard’ who will give her courage, intelligence, passion—her ‘true self.’ She leaves Kansas, stale and dry, for what she trusts will be an unblemished world that lies 'somewhere over the rainbow,' and finds the new world as senseless as the one she left behind. When, after her adventures in the land of Oz, she regains consciousness, planted solidly on her own bed, she knows that the only hero is herself. The genius she’d looked to for guidance, the ‘Wonderful Wizard of Oz,’ turned out to be an ordinary man—pretending to be something more. In tearing down the curtain behind which the ‘Wizard’ hid, Toto not only exposes him for what he really is, but shows Dorothy that the place of her dreams, ‘somewhere over the rainbow,’ is a place only she is capable of creating. The rainbow begins and ends within Dorothy herself.

Is Dorothy an artist? Mindful living is an art—a series of heartfelt choices that make for a ‘conscious’ life. When the individual finds it necessary to produce work—visual, auditory, written, performed—he or she incorporates what might be called ‘art’ into his life. And life into art. He becomes what we more clearly define as the 'artist.' He actualizes idea and emotion. The inter-connectedness of life and art prompted Chekhov to note, ‘If you want to work on your art, work on your life.’

I arrange to photograph a beautiful woman. At the end of the session, the photographs I have produced consist exclusively of the knot my subject almost carelessly tied in her hair. I became enthralled by the grace of the knot. The man behind the curtain whispers to me, ‘You have this exquisite woman in your studio and you are photographing the back of her head. Are you nuts?’ I made my choice.

When we adapt our work to what the majority of what society wants, we produce empty recreation—not re-presentation—not art.

In Kansas, Dorothy knew the farmhands as separate from herself. She meets them again in Oz as the Scarecrow who claims he ‘has no brain,’ the Tinman who believes he is without a heart [without passion] and the ‘cowardly’ Lion. By befriending them, fighting for them, winning them, teaching them that they are, in fact—not empty, but noble and whole—Dorothy embraces all of them as aspects of herself.

By the time she returns home to Kansas, she is filled with an understanding of her distinctive strengths, regardless of setting.

We don’t know what becomes of the once wonderful ‘Wizard of Oz,’ after he sets off in his balloon. His usefulness to Dorothy is finished. She’s seen through the curtain. She no longer needs badges of courage, diplomas or a ticking heart to prove her wholeness. She leaves all these tokens behind in Oz. In no way can they compare with the burgeoning faith she has come to know in herself.

Dorothy was close, but not quite accurate when she chanted ‘There’s no place like home.’ More to the point, ‘There’s no place but home.’ As artists, we have nothing to work with but ourselves, nothing but ‘home.’ There is no separating art from the reality in which it develops and grows. At the same time, art cannot possibly describe reality. In attempting to do so, it becomes subordinate to reality. As Camus suggested, ‘…reality cannot be described without effecting a choice that makes it subservient to the originality of an art.' In his masterful essay titled, ‘Create Dangerously,’ Camus turns specifically to photography and film;

Even the best of photographs, after all, is not a sufficiently faithful reproduction, is not yet sufficiently realistic. What is there more real, for instance, in our universe, than a man’s life, and how can we hope to preserve it better than in a realistic film? But under what conditions is such a film possible? Under purely imaginary conditions. We should have to presuppose, in fact, an ideal camera focused on the man day and night and constantly registering his every move. The very projection of such a film would last a lifetime and could be seen only by an audience of people willing to waste their lives in watching someone else's life in great detail. Even under such conditions, such an unimaginable film would not be realistic for the simple reason that the reality of a man's life is not limited to the spot in which he happens to be. It lies also also in the other lives that give shape to his —lives of the people he loves, to begin with, which would have to be filmed too, and also the lives of unknown people, influential and insignificant, fellow citizens, policemen, professors, invisible comrades from the mines and foundries, diplomats and dictators, religious reformers, artists who create myths that are decisive for our conduct—humble representatives, in short, of the sovereign chance that dominates the most routine existences. Consequently, there is but one realistic film: the one that is constantly shown us by an invisible camera on the world's screen. The only realistic artist, then, is God, if he exists.

Distill that into your art. First, choose to make art, then discover what is required of yourself to make your statement. Dorothy realizes through her adventures that she has always held within her everything she needs—as a human being—perhaps even as an artist. But can she really get to that fundamental place called 'home' with three easy clicks of those ruby slippers? More accurately, she will arrive at a starting place. The trek through Oz becomes an exercise in reductionism, bringing Dorothy to the place where creation might begin—her knowledge of herself. The real journey begins with the three clicks of those magic slippers. Back in Kansas, without the slippers, Dorothy will take her first steps toward mastery of herself, her life and her art, should she choose to become an ‘artist.’

The photographer, as artist, will not produce a masterpiece in three transcendental clicks of the shutter. There are no magic answers, no one outside yourself to show you your 'personal style' or set you upon the road to actualization.

Acknowledge the man behind the curtain. Confront him. By choosing to become an artist you will make an extended investment of self. Some combination of what we call talent and luck, commitment, intelligence, courage, environment and experience will color the work you produce. The mix will be different, the results unique, but the struggles are common—sometimes exhausting, sometimes exhilarating. Even as he or she reaches for something more, the artist remains in solidarity with the common man. That means you and me, Emerson and Chekhov, Camus and Dorothy.

And Toto too.