The Field of Collaboration: Notes from a Creative Residency

lessons from a collaborative art residency

Last month I spent two weeks in upstate New York — nestled in the Catskills, surrounded by water, woods, and quiet — with Robot Koch, a musician, composer, and artist whose sensitivity and sonic imagination continues to inspire me. Together, we designed an immersive creative residency and explored what becomes possible when we make space for emergence.

We arrived with loose but clear intentions: to experiment and blur the edges between music and poetry; performance and ritual. We left with seeds of new work and something harder to name — a way of being with the creative process that felt both more refined and more free. So much of what I’m moving forward with isn’t just the songs or poems we created (though I’m excited about those) — it’s what we learned about the field that creativity needs in order to flourish.

This is a field note from the journey.

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The creative process is a territory, not a destination

One of the most immediate lessons: don’t treat the creative process like a highway to a product. It’s more like a wild forest walk — winding, surprising, nonlinear movement through a space without any trails…a walk that rewards those willing to get a little lost.

We gave ourselves permission to meander.

To not know. To make “bad” art just to find our way back to something honest. Many moments yielded work that didn’t quite “land” — and those turned out to be essential. Allowing imperfection, and revealing the tender edges of our craft, became a bridge to deeper trust. That trust made it possible to stretch beyond what felt comfortable and into what felt enlivening.

Most mornings, I began with a series of watercolor drawings. In the beginning, I didn’t like most of them — and still, I hung them on the wall. They became conversation starters over meals. We’d talk about the colors and textures that resonated, or where something felt unfinished or full of possibility. These messy drafts became doors — entry points into inquiry and mutual inspiration. They helped us attune not just to our own curiosities, but to what we both felt excited to explore through our respective mediums.

Strange experiments unearthed buried truths and new possibilities.

One evening, we ran an experiment: for at least an hour, we weren’t allowed to speak using words — no verbal communication. Instead, we had to rely on alternative language systems — gesture, sound, movement — to carry the conversation. It invited a different kind of listening; a deeper kind of attunement. We had to generate the energy words contain through new, artful pathways in order to stay connected.

We sat at the piano, improvising together for over an hour. There was no pre-analysis, no predetermined structure — just a shared willingness to listen, respond, and co-create in real time. We needed the permission to make “bad” art — to play off-key, to try things — in order to find our way toward resonance. But once we did, something beautiful began to emerge: we found coherence not through control, but through trust. Moving through the messy midpoints, the stuck moments, the edges of discomfort — all of it was part of the terrain. It reminded me: sometimes the most profound creative breakthroughs come not from speaking, but from sensing. Not from planning, but from presence. The question holding the space shifted from “What should we make?” to “What’s wanting to come through us right now?”

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Design the space — protect the field

A creative container matters as much as the content. If we wanted to tap into subtle, intuitive, generative realms, we had to design for it.

We treated our space like a creative temple.

We kept it clear, comfortable, and beautiful — candles, incense, nourishing food, blank walls where we could scrawl ideas. We selected a home with a minimalist design (white walls; muted colors) so that it the visuals we generated could stand out on the walls (this might seem superficial or unnecessary, but it allowed the space to feel inspirational, like a gallery).

We treated the house as an evolving studio. Different zones were created for different states of mind or intentions. The dining table doubled as a place for meals and a surface for painting, sketching, or building architectural prototypes. Walls became idea-maps — we claimed different sections for themes we were exploring, letting them grow organically as the days unfolded. There was a space for the piano, ready for an impromptu session. We each had our own spaces to retreat to — a place to ground and work individually. This kind of spatial choreography was crucial. It gave our creative rhythms room to breathe and helped us stay in right relationship with ourselves and one another.

We were discerning about who entered the space.

There was a lot of curiosity from friends nearby— sweet invitations to visit, to drop in, to witness what was unfolding. And while the impulse to share was real, we realized that our priority was to protect the integrity of the field we were cultivating. Creative process is delicate. It asks for a particular kind of attunement; a coherence that can be easily disrupted — even with the best intentions.

We did ultimately venture out and connect with others (more on that below), but we otherwise chose to seal our container. Boundaries aren’t barriers — they’re structures that hold and shape emergence. Constraints became allies. They helped us stay inside the questions we were holding, long enough for something truly new to form. There will be a time for sharing. But in this phase, what we needed most was presence and patience.

We honored rhythms of work and rest; flow and feedback.

Maintaining the space meant tending both the physical environment and the energetic field. We built in silence after big ideation sessions, allowing for long stretches where no conversation was happening — making space for sense-making to unfold through our individual processing styles. I often needed the early morning to spread everything out, rearrange ideas, and see the bigger picture. Robert would disappear for hours mid-day, exploring new compositions in solitude.

We respected each other’s rhythms and the importance of personal space — and at the same time, we made gentle invitations into one another’s worlds. “Here’s what I’ve made so far…how’s it landing with you?” There was a balance between spaciousness and directionality; between structure and flow. It wasn’t about always being in sync, but about creating a shared space where new ideas could sprout without the immediate pressure to understand, see, or actualize them in the exact same moment.

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Tend to the edges

One of the most beautiful aspects of a collaboration is the opportunity to take turns going towards the creative edge. When one is stretching, the other can hold steady ground. When one doubts, the other can reflect something true back.

Gently witness…

We weren’t just working on “projects” — we were also working with ourselves. Our fears around visibility and imperfection. Our longing to express something authentic and true to our experience that also touched into something more universal, and therefore others. We held a quiet but essential agreement: we would gently witness and support each other through our respective thresholds. Not fix. Not push. Just witness — with presence and appreciation for what it takes to risk something real. We called it “the tender edge” and would name when we felt ourselves there, a signal to slow down and move with care.

For me, that tender edge was my voice — literally. I still carry stories about whether my voice belongs in my art work. I was reminded that there was no pressure to get it “right.” That I could release the need to perform, and instead just play. In that space, I found small but powerful pockets of resonance — moments where something clicked, not in a polished way, but in an honest one. Through the exploration, I began to understand more about the unique texture and emotional range of my voice — not just as a tool, but as another way to express my actual experience.

…until collaboration becomes alchemy.

Over time, something shifted. The collaboration wasn’t just additive — it became transformative. We started to see each other more clearly — not just as artists, but as people in the vulnerable act of growing into our fullest expression. We held space for each other’s creative risks, not as disruptions to the flow, but as the flow itself. The wobble, the stretch — all part of it. We became mirrors. And in that mirroring, we helped midwife something new — not just in the work, but in each other. New capacities; new confidence; new forms of expression. It felt like alchemy: individual visions dissolving into a shared field where something emergent and alive was being born.

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Connect with the local place

Part of the creative process is not just making work — it’s allowing ourselves to be moved by the world around us.

We carved out space for artist dates — intentional excursions to encounter beauty, surprise, and inspiration outside of ourselves.

We took a trip to Dia Beacon, a modern art museum that felt like walking through a living canvas. We spent hours meandering through vast rooms of light, texture, architecture, and silence. Some of the most inspiring pieces were the ones that invited engagement — not just observation — prompting us to imagine new ways of designing experiences. We found ourselves particularly struck by Steve McQueen’s work, which reminded us of the visceral impact that light and sound can have on us.

Later in the week, we sat for a long time in James Turrell’s Avaar exhibit at the Catskill Artspace. The minimalism. The way he manipulated light. The stillness. The architecture. We left floating, inspired by how a simple and elegant design could evoke such a powerful and lingering sensory experience. These encounters became seeds of influence for the work we’re building.

It wasn’t just the art institutions that impacted us — it was the local place and people, too.

On one of our trips into town, we struck up a conversation with someone at the market while asking where we could find fresh spring water. That one conversation turned into an entire thread of unexpected connection: a visit to a nearby farm, a walk through the land, an invitation to dinner with the family, an invite to an improvisational music night in their barn. Eventually we offered a deep listening experience we had been prototyping in private with this newly cultivated community. There was something profoundly nourishing about this relational spiral — art leading to connection, connection leading to art. It reminded us that inspiration doesn’t always come from retreating alone into the studio. Sometimes it arrives through unexpected encounters. Through generous strangers. Through the land itself.

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Take care of your vessel

It’s essential to tend to the body in tandem with creative work.

We moved. We took breaks.

The body is not a side character in the creative process — it’s the main portal. Some of the most important ideas didn’t arrive when we were in front of the piano or the page. They came during a walk in a local cemetery, in a meditation, at the kitchen table. Because, the body must feel safe enough to walk towards tender edges and let the vision come through.

We fed ourselves well.

We simplified this dimension by following somewhat of a mono-diet. We made big batches of soup (using local ingredients from our new friends’ farms) so that we always had something nourishing, healthy and grounding available, but weren’t spending tons of time thinking about what to make or engaging in elaborate preparation. Interestingly, this still became a huge creative zone for us — we kept up-leveling each time, playing with new spices, and overcoming unexpected creative constraints (like running out of olive oil and ghee at the same time). Over time, our meals became touchstones — we’d sit down with our soup and sense into how far a seed of an idea had evolved.

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Stay in the experiencing (not the explaining)

There’s a temptation in creative work to rush toward meaning. To name what’s happening or package the process. But meaning-making too soon can collapse the mystery.

We practiced staying in the experience. Not asking “what is this for?” but “what is here now?”

We listened. Sometimes that meant sitting in silence. Sometimes that meant recording a voice memo of a potential new composition on the spot. Sometimes it meant exploring vocal work without knowing how it would fit into a piece. Staying with curiosity and the present moment experience — without grasping at it — allowed novelty to emerge. This requires a degree of self-regulation — to sense the desire to grasp for answers, because it feels safe, rather than staying open and in the question.

And, we sensed when it’s time to make choices and generate a new forms or experiences.

While we intentionally allowed ideas to linger in the possibility space, we also sensed when it was time to move out of the abstract and progress something into form. At the midpoint of the immersion, we paused and got “serious” — with levity and play — gathering everything that had emerged so far. We outlined the ideas we were excited about and began translating them into tangible next steps. We made a detailed list, distributing to-dos across the remaining days in a way that felt aligned and spacious. We leaned into the art of essentializing — distilling complexity into clarity, noticing where we could create resonance and potency with less rather than more. The constraints of our timeline became a gift, helping us choose what truly mattered and find creative power in precision.

And, we challenged ourselves to produce an experience — not just to ground our ideas, but to feel how they landed in a relational field. Were they impactful? Did they evoke the atmosphere, emotion, or insight we hoped they would? We turned to our new friendships in the local community and hosted a deep listening journey in one of their homes. It was a beautiful convergence — a way to integrate what we’d been cultivating, while also honoring our shared desire to be in genuine relationship with place. 

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Tend to relationship

True collaboration generates ideas, forms, and worlds that cannot be created alone. A great collaboration requires humility.

We prioritized the relationship just as much as the work we were creating.

I believe finding the right collaborators is essential — people who not only share an artistic ethos, aesthetic, and will to create, but who can also meet me as a person — people who move with tenderness, questions, and a desire to grow. Because collaboration, at its core, is an intimate endeavor. And a creative field is only as strong as the relational field it rests upon. With this in mind, we spent time upfront establishing shared needs, intentions, and agreements before focusing on creating any forms. For example, we got really clear with one another around our respective needs for rest, movement, and solo processing; we made an agreement to share “bad” work. 

We let go of “this is mine” and opened to “this is ours.”

One afternoon, I felt a spark of inspiration and decided to make a bone broth, which evolved into another batch of soup. Meanwhile, Robert was composing a piece of music, following a thread that had emerged after our visit to Dia Beacon. Later, as we sat down to eat, I said something like, “Wow, this might be the best thing we’ve made yet.” (Feeling inspired and empowered in the kitchen is relatively new for me). He laughed, “We?”

That small moment opened up a deeper conversation: even though I had chopped the vegetables and stirred the pot, the soup — like the music, poems, paintings, and experiences that were emerging — was born from the shared space we were holding. The field we were in together made the creation possible. It’s radical to the ego to consider this: that someone’s presence alone can be value-adding. That the unseen support, energy, and attunement of the other can shape and uplift the creation — even if they never laid a hand on the work itself. This was one of the most profound lessons of our time together: co-creation doesn’t always look like shared labor. Sometimes it’s about the invisible architecture we build together — the space that allows inspiration to arrive at all.

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Because it’s not just about making things — it’s about beautifying the process itself

We left the immersion with ideas to develop — soundscapes, immersive experiences, poems, installations. But more than that, we left with a deeper blueprint for creative collaboration. One that honors beauty, boundaries, and the unknown. One that centers the process as much as the product. We’re dreaming into what’s next — dialing in sound; working with visual layers; weaving in ceremony more consciously. But for now, I’m sitting with the wonder of what we experienced: The art of co-creation. The power of shared presence. The quiet truth that creativity often arises from the space between.