Prompt 287. Cautionary Tales & Creative Collaborations

& the writer Hanif Kureishi on the joy of working with others

Photo by Jen Rosenstein

Hi friend,

It was years ago that I first saw that now-infamous Detroit News headline about Frida Kahlo—“Wife of the Master Mural Painter Gleefully Dabbles in Works of Art.” It comes across as almost comical at this point, as if published by some satirical news site like The Onion. But far from it, as the article that follows makes clear. When Frida is quoted, she is confident and assertive—“It is I who am the big artist” in the relationship, she says—but the reporter is shockingly dismissive. She describes Frida as “a miniature-like little person with her long black braids wound demurely about her head and a foolish little ruffled apron over her black silk dress.” She says that though Frida has “acquired a very skillful and beautiful style,” her technique is “as far removed from the heroic figures of [her husband Diego] Rivera as could well be imagined.”

When I came across that article, I felt a flash of anger on Frida’s behalf and read it as a kind of cautionary tale. My past experiences had already made me wary of creative partnership in a romantic context. I had vowed never to date someone in my field, as I believed it invited comparison and competition. But the article also highlighted the danger for a creative woman of having her work and creative autonomy cannibalized by the trope of the supportive wife.

After my first bout with leukemia, I worked hard to develop a sense of independence in every area of my life. It became a point of pride—to feel like I could support and take care of myself, both personally and professionally. But I overcorrected in a way that was extremely isolating. When I was writing Between Two Kingdoms, I worked on the manuscript mostly in a vacuum for years, and it was a pretty torturous process. I would find myself wrestling with an issue, say something structural, and rather than reach out to a writer friend for feedback, I would end up banging my head against the desk—quite literally. After that, I’d get consumed by voices of doubt and sink down into a defeated place. It happened over and over again.

Since then, I have grown and learned so much about the importance of cultivating a creative community and making space for collaboration. It began with the Isolation Journals, which from day one was more work than one person could handle, and I had to rely on a handful of creative friends to help me wrangle this thing. I’ve come to understand that, past a certain point, it’s not possible to do it alone—and there’s no valor in that anyway. If anything, you’re missing out on opportunities for growth and synergy.

But until I relapsed two years ago, my husband Jon and I mostly kept our creative lives in very separate silos. He would disappear into the studio for a week; I would go to a writing residency, or maybe hunker down in my office and glare at him if he so much as cracked the door. He was more willing to show me unfinished work, playing me songs in their early incarnations, but I did not. I only showed him Between Two Kingdoms once it was in its final (and I mean very final) form.

My greatest growth has stemmed from creative collaborations—from the vulnerability of going to someone and saying, “I don’t know how to do this,” or “I need help,” or “How can I make this better?” In that process, the contours of what I believe is possible have been expanded. But I worried that letting a romantic partner into my creative life was too close—that I would lose my sense of self. I thought the contours of who you are get blurred in a way that detracts, rather than enhances—that undermines your worth.

But when I got sick again, I realized I didn’t want that division between my creative life and my romantic life. My work is core to who I am—I’m thinking and daydreaming about it all the time. And now that the walls have come down, Jon and I have entered this new delicious collaborative space. We talk about all aspects of what we’re working on—the material, the process, even the business of creative work. When I’m working on a new painting, I’ll snap a photo and send it to him—not because he’s going to give me detailed feedback, but because what I reliably get from him is deep encouragement and unwavering support. Our documentary American Symphony was a heightened foray into collaboration, where we took the raw material of our personal life, and we transformed it. It’s where we were able, as the writer Eudora Welty once said, “to confront an experience and resolve it as art.”

Jon performing his song “It Never Went Away” from American Symphony at the Oscars last Sunday

Today we have an essay and prompt on the beauty of creative collaboration by the brilliant writer

Hanif Kureishi

of The Kureishi Chronicles. In late 2022, Hanif was on a walk in Rome when he collapsed and, during the fall, injured his neck and spine. No longer able to use his arms or legs, he’s been sending out dispatches from his hospital bed with the help of his son Carlo. I’m such an admirer of Hanif, both for the beauty of his writing and its rawness, honesty, and vulnerability. May his words be a reminder that we are stronger, more capable, and also just plain happier when we’re working together.

Sending love,

Suleika

Some items of note—

• For those of you who are new here, each Friday in our Isolation Journals Chat we share a small joy that we want to hold onto. This week I wrote about some joyous chance encounters with fellow Tunisians at the Oscars. To read about the “couscous connection” and to add your small joy to the chorus, click here!

• Our next meeting of the Hatch, our virtual hour for paid subscribers, is happening today—that’s Sunday, March 17, from 1-2pm ET. Our community manager Holly Huitt will be hosting, reveling in the epistolary form—in how connective, intimate, and generative it is. You can find everything you need to join here!

Photo by Jeff Hochberg/Getty Images

Prompt 287. Something They Can’t Do Alone by Hanif Kureishi

Since an accident left me without the use of my arms or legs, I have never been so busy. Last night at around nine, I watched a few minutes of The Glass Onion, which I enjoyed. Then I lost connection and everything went dark. I fell asleep, woke at one, and was conscious for the rest of the night. I had many ideas, but since I can’t use my hands and make notes, I have to shout them at my poor son Carlo, who is trying to get some sleep. This is how I write these days; I fling a net over more or less random thoughts, draw it in and hope some kind of pattern emerges.

On the writing of my book, Shattered, which Carlo is helping me with, it has become clear how pleasurable it is to write with someone else. We work from ten until one every morning, and get about five pages of editing and rewriting done. We are cutting, reshaping and expanding the dispatches, keeping them in the present tense, and arguing over improvements. It reminds me of working on plays and movies with directors and dramaturgs, where there is plenty of amusing gossip about politics and sport, even as you work. It is consoling to work alone as a writer, but it is a blast to have companionship and banter.

My wife Isabella’s grandmother, a screenwriter who wrote many films—The Leopard and Rocco and His Brothers for Luchino Visconti and Roman Holiday for William Wyler—said in an interview that the best way to write comedies was to work with others, since you can test the humor as you go. The internal critical voice, the one that tells you that you are no good, is muted when there are others to cheer you along.

Music and cinema emerge out of creative alliances, from the Beatles to Miles Davis, Alfred Hitchcock to Robert Altman. Would we have heard of Lennon or McCartney if they had never met? Maybe the most important thing an artist can do is go to school with the right people, or have the ability to recognize a compatible talent. An artist can then do something they can’t do alone.

Your prompt for the week:

Write about someone—a family member, friend, or creative collaborator—who silences your inner critic. What do they allow you to do that you can’t do alone?

If you’d like, you can post your response to today’s prompt in the comments section, in our Facebook group, or on Instagram by tagging @theisolationjournals. As a reminder, we love seeing your work inspired by the Isolation Journals, but to preserve this as a community space, we request no promotion of outside projects.

Today’s Contributor—

Hanif Kureishi

was born in Kent and read philosophy at King’s College, London. A playwright, screenwriter, filmmaker, and novelist, he is the author of dozens of works, including the Oscar-nominated screenplay for My Beautiful Laundrette (1984), as well as The Mother (2003) and Venus (2006). His novel The Buddha of Suburbia won the Whitbread Prize for Best First Novel in 1990, and his novel Intimacy was adapted as a film in 2001, winning the Golden Bear Award at the Berlin Film Festival. He has continued writing across genres, including the novels Gabriel’s Gift (2001), Something to Tell You (2008), The Last Word (2014), and What Happened? (2019). Awarded the C.B.E. for his services to literature and the Chevalier de l’Ordre des Arts des Lettres in France, his works have been translated into 36 languages. Read more at The Kureishi Chronicles.

For more paid subscriber benefits, see—

• American Symphony: A Conversation, where Jon and I spoke with director Matt Heineman about “peak compartmentalization,” learning to say “I’m not okay,” and Matt’s covert ops at the Grammys

• A Creative Heart-to-Heart, an unfiltered conversation where Jon and I talk about how the creative process helps us marry our joys and sorrows

• Marriage Vows & the Myth of Good Catch, an installment of my advice column, Dear Susu, where I answer the question “Is it selfish to ask someone to marry you if you’re sick?”

Our Isolation Journal No. 1 and Surrender Tote

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