The Art Of Effort.
Why Creatives Are The New Athletes.
When thunderous noise scolds the ears, a sudden silence feels softer than a kiss. Stillness brushes over my neck so lightly I can taste it in the back of my mouth. Between roaring spectators, bands of banging drums, high-pitched horns, and humdrum city shouts, the sudden noiselessness unearths a connection between two seeming opposites—art and athleticism. I march on, submerged in an ocean of runners, my breath a steam engine in the winter light. I search for the border between physical and creative pursuits. In both, we face resistance, take action, gain momentum, and push through to completion. The similarity makes me wonder: do we underestimate physical effort as a tool for artistic growth?
The notion that artists shouldn’t value physical pursuit is not uncommon. Writers like Kafka, Woolf, Schopenhauer, Proust, and Tolstoy prioritised a sedentary existence that prized intellect over physicality. Judging by the quality of their output, this clearly worked for them. Yet what if their dismissal of physical exertion shrouded a hidden sixth gear, what if, with the right lightness of touch, we can use one to benefit the other?
When I began to make creative work, primarily films and short stories, I approached the act of making in the same way I approached sport. I was passionate, competitive and strung up. I wanted to become the best. It was only after surrounding myself with people who also made films, that I saw how such a mindset infected the worst qualities in our group. The competitive spirit in sports, with its objective outcome— you win or lose—doesn’t translate to the subjective nature of creative work. Creative work thrives on collaboration, not rivalry. The moment I realised I was approaching art in the same way I approached sport was the moment I stopped dead in my tracks and asked myself what the hell I was doing.
“When I'm in writing mode for a novel, I get up at 4am and work for 5-6 hours. In the afternoon, I run for 10 km or swim for 1500 meters (or do both), then I read a bit, and listen to some music. I go to bed at 9pm. I keep to this routine every day without variation. The repetition itself becomes the important thing; it's a form of mesmerism. I mesmerise myself to reach a deeper state of mind. But to hold to such repetition for so long—six months to a year—requires a good amount of mental and physical strength. In that sense, writing a long novel is like survival training. Physical strength is as necessary as artistic sensitivity.”
— Haruki Murakami
Murakami’s routine is not for everyone. It sounds lonely, monotonous and strict, yet maybe that’s the point. By decreasing the wealth of choice usually available in his daily life, he can increase his ability to live closer to his work. At the peak of physical effort, your mind can’t convince you of boredom; your body can’t allege to idleness and your soul, most often blanketed beneath the demands of both, rises to the front. The notion of "mesmerism" strikes a chord within me because I’ve felt the power of pushing my body to its limits. As fatigue sets in, no mask stays put in place, no excuse measures up to satisfaction, and emotion pours out of me like it has no shame. In those moments, whether running a race or facing a blank page, discipline and effort dissolve the barrier between body and spirit. Who I am stands naked before me.
As an ex-elite gymnast, I’ve observed the ugliness rivalry can evoke. Physical exertion is, in my view, misunderstood. Commercial gyms promote aesthetics, muscles in mirrors, fleeting confidence built by chasing a six-pack. Such a mindset spills beyond the changing rooms into the rest of life, ensuring every personal goal is measured against others. The lightbulb clicked for me when I discovered that the artists I admired weren’t fuelled by the competitive need to be great but by the innate curiosity to discover more of themselves. We make creative work because it reveals to us how we truly feel, what we truly think, and so creating a piece of work is an uncovering of the self. Connecting with the body through physical training means polishing the vessel which houses the engine of creative work. A creative block can dissolve during a deep stretch. Anger can dissipate between up-down reps of pull-ups. Focus can be found through the most menial of exercises, and confidence fostered through facing consistent challenges.
In the rhythm of the race, miles vanished beneath my feet, and I began to feel a lightness—not just in my body but in my mind. The resistance I faced was no longer an adversary but a guide, peeling away layers that shielded me from the truth. I found not just new energy but a mirror—a way to reconcile body and spirit, art and effort. Physical exertion isn't just a tool for artistic growth—it is an integral part of it, a means by which we unearth the self. If we dare to push ourselves to the edge, whether on the road or in our practice, we find that art and athleticism are not opposites but twin forces; one amplifies the other. The lesson came to me in the loud silence between the noise: to create deeply, we must move deeply, not away from ourselves, but into the heart of who we are.
"The lightbulb clicked for me when I realized that the artists I admired weren’t driven by a competitive need to be great but by an innate curiosity to discover more about themselves." Looking at sports in that way as opposed to the mainstream competitive way—as something that feeds back into creativity—feels incredibly genuine. Thank you Ilan for this inspiring post.
Where has this post been all my life?! Thank you for articulating this so well, Ilan. Indeed, this is something so vital and was expressed profoundly... "The lesson came to me in the loud silence between the noise: to create deeply, we must move deeply, not away from ourselves, but into the heart of who we are."