klugness

Imagining Things

Of Abandoned Robin's Eggs, Genius Artists, and Pasta Pesto

July 23, 2023 by Klugmeister

10 minute read

This image of "photo of robin's eggs" was created by Klugmeister using artificial intelligence software. The image was reviewed by Klugmeister before posting on this web page.

During elementary school my teacher informed the class that a robin will no longer nurse its egg to hatching if the egg is touched by human hands.

I don't recall how my teacher got on this topic—perhaps it was a discussion during science class?—but it struck young Klugmeister as strange that a robin would reject its egg just because it was touched by a human. I asked my teacher whether the egg was "still good," and she said it was. I must admit I was somewhat irked with the robin for abandoning its perfectly healthy egg just because it had human cooties. If third grade me were in charge of robin school, that robin would be assigned to detention for sure.

To my young self, "touched by a human" seemed like a dumb reason to throw maternal instincts out the window. Don't all mothers in the animal kingdom do everything within their power to protect their young? (I'm now aware of examples from Yellowstone Park where the herd will reject an animal that's been in contact with humans, but I didn't know that then.) If the robin would reject its eggs over human cooties, would the robin also:

• stop eating worms just because one of them gave him the side-eye?
• refuse to visit any bird bath that openly welcomes blue-gray gnatcatchers?
• report to the neighborhood cat the geo-location of the rude eastern towhee who neglected to say "good morning" in response to the robin's friendly greeting?

The whole "touched by a human" rejection just feels like a scene from Mean Girls rather than a scene from Our Planet. So...I guess young me decided then and there that—like Austin, Texas—robins are weird.

Since then, however, I've come to realize that I have a "genius artist" personality. (A definition is forthcoming.) As a result, I feel like I now "get" the robin and its behavior. If I were hanging out on Pandora with the robin, for example, I'd say "I see you" every time we crossed paths.

So...what changed between 10ish me and 60ish me? Oh wait—I've gotten ahead of myself. Before I try to explain how the robin and I worked out our differences, I need to say more about the "genius artist" personality, since I have a rather quirky definition for that.

I'm sure there's a lot of online information out there on genius artists and their key characteristics, but I'm not talking about high IQ or artistic traits or whatever the other websites say. For purposes of this blog post:

Genius Artist

Someone who pours him or herself into a creative endeavor and completely ignores any suggestions from outside observers concerning the creative endeavor

This image of "photo of pasta pesto" was created by Klugmeister using artificial intelligence software. The image was reviewed by Klugmeister before posting on this web page.

An example may help illustrate what I mean. The Mona Lisa is probably the most famous painting ever, so those who regard my definition of genius artist as bogus may nevertheless regard Leonardo da Vinci as a genius artist. However, what would qualify da Vinci as a genius artist in my book is not how fabulous the Mona Lisa painting is—it's how aggravated the painter would be if some well meaning person saw da Vinci working on the Mona Lisa and made a suggestion like:

• Doesn't it need a little more blue? or
• Portraits are sooo last week—can't you do a nature scene? or
• Why can't you be more like Michelangelo?

I could see da Vinci being miffed over any of these comments, and frankly I have the same sense of outrage when someone makes a suggestion about something I'm cooking. Mind you, I have no special talent for cooking, so my outrage isn't based on the fanciful notion that I'm a talented chef. Despite my admitted lack of cooking talent, I find that I'm about as receptive to suggestions about how better to prepare my dishes as da Vinci was to the person who kept asking for "more blue."

Yes, yes, I'll admit that I dump in an entire container of pesto sauce when I make pasta with pesto sauce. That's probably excessive, but I like pesto sauce, and I refuse to make the dish any other way. (I'm also partial to rotini as the pasta type, but I'm not adamant about it; I'll even use macaroni in a pinch! Note I forgot to tell DALL-E to show rotini as the pasta style when I asked the Artificial Intelligence to generate the accompanying photo of pasta pesto, but it didn't seem important enough for me to redo the photo, even though Christopher Nolan surely would have. Alas, I digress.) Sure, the same person who suggested that da Vinci paint a nature scene might suggest that I use, say, only half a container of pesto sauce, but I just refuse to do it. Because I, Klugmeister, am a genius artist.

Interestingly, I wouldn't be upset if the person making the suggestion:

• refused to eat the pasta pesto I cooked, or
• cooked his or her own pasta pesto dish with less pesto sauce, or
• painted his or her own nature scene using only pesto sauce, organic tofu, and turmeric

Just don't ask me to change the way I cook the dish.

This image of "photo of perennial garden" was created by Klugmeister using artificial intelligence software. The image was reviewed by Klugmeister before posting on this web page.

Interestingly, I'm not a weirdo when it comes to others' suggestions as long as the suggestions aren't about creative endeavors, but I am an inflexible weirdo when it comes to other types of creative endeavors such as gardening. In these situations, I find that it's best if I have full creative control. I know it sounds totally selfish, but there is actually an upside to allowing me to have full creative control. One advantage is that I will pour myself into making the garden design the best it can be. I will be excited about it, I will plan it carefully, I will work hard to implement it, and after it's done I will take pride in my work. If, however, you ask me for "a little more blue" or "wouldn't that euphorbia plant go better over there?" to the point that I finally agree to your suggestions, it's a bad day for me.

Why is it a bad day? Because, whether I like it or not, something deep inside of me will reach the conclusion that the garden project is no longer my baby, and will automatically induce me not to be excited about it any longer. In fact, like the robin who abandoned its eggs, I'll be pretty indifferent. If someone else (let's say you, the reader, since there's no one else around) wants to pursue the project, I'm willing to dig holes or plant this or that (assuming you tell me where you want it to go), but my desire to pour myself into the creative endeavor has been extinguished. I've officially become a worker bee who doesn't treasure the work—I'm just following orders. Why? Because it's your project now—all because you asked for more blue! Crazy, huh?

While asking me for more blue isn't tantamount to kicking me in the jewels, it seems awfully odd that I have a similar negative reaction to that simple suggestion. I'm like the kid who decides to take his ball and go home when the game doesn't go his way. Frustrating, huh?

Note that a person who doesn't possess this useful intell about the genius artist personality will no doubt be confused as to why the dude who initially seemed excited about implementing a garden design no longer seems to care—just because someone asked for a couple of minor changes. Welcome to my world—yes, I'm pretty eccentric. But now that you know this quirky characteristic of genius artists, you may now understand why it's best not to try to get me to makes changes when I'm engaged in a creative endeavor, unless you never wanted me to do the project in the first place or you would prefer to be responsible for it yourself.

In fact, reading this blog post may give you a better understanding of this quirky creative dynamic of genius artists. This knowledge will likely come in handy if you happen to know other genius artist wackadoodles who behave in this same irrational way when others try to tweak their creative brainchild in even the most minor ways.

I guess you could say I'm the John Fogerty of gardening, or the John McEnroe of cooking.

So...that's why I get the robin. Young me was baffled by the robin, but old me understands where the red-breasted worm lover is coming from. In fact, I'm very much like the robin. I will lay eggs and make every effort to nurture them to hatching, as long as a human doesn't touch the eggs. Once a human touches the eggs, the human might as well go on and raise them to hatching because I certainly won't.

Klugmeister, signing off.