The Butterfly Effect

I've been using an analogy for the better half of the year now, and I think I'm ready to share it in this column. It borrows from a portion of chaos theory that deals with the idea of sensitive dependence on initial conditions. It's called the Butterfly Effect. By simple definition: if a butterfly flaps its wings in Indonesia, tiny changes in the atmosphere are created that may cause a tornado to appear (or prevent one from appearing) somewhere else in the world.

I've long adored this analogy. It's somewhat inspirational to think that a small action could potentially have such grand consequences. I have recently succumbed to using the analogy in career advising.

Professional artists can attest to the frequency with which their work (often from years ago) has come back to them in new form. Their performances, teaching, projects, interviews, lectures, and even random conversations have a way of circling the globe and returning with great force. Maybe they understand this intuitively. It's as much a part of career development as breathing is a part of life.

But for young artists, this sort of cause-and-effect is difficult to grasp. We put together an idea, write a solid proposal, research a prospective sponsor, and submit the project for consideration. A few weeks later, we receive notice that our idea has been thoroughly considered, but regretfully declined. We move on. Many of us take the initial rejection personally, and cease any further flapping of wings.

What is difficult to gauge is how our idea—although initially rejected—may have affected other people and their own ideas. Even though we may have moved on to new things, that earlier idea and our ingenuity have a far-reaching ripple effect over which we have no control. Both the idea and the people it comes into contact with are shaped and affected. People may remember you, your initiative, or your vision as something good and noteworthy. They may come in contact with other people who ask, "Do you know someone who ..." Or they may themselves be changed by your idea.

A few of your ideas will have immediate effects; others will seem to drift into the ether. Don't believe for one moment that they have disappeared.

At first, I used to be embarrassed each time one of my own creations came back to me. Some of them were downright silly. And when these things come back to you—especially in odd situations—you can feel more than a little awkward. "Weren't you the guy who ...?" My initial response used to be defensive. Of course I believe in my ideas. But I am also sensitive about my reputation and my career. The insecure side of me wants to bury the weaker ideas—the ones that have either the greenness of youth, or else were not thoroughly researched or rehearsed. On the other hand, my more astute and mature self realizes that these ideas are the result of my own winged actions. Just as the butterfly has no control over the tornado, I have no control over how my own ideas are circulated. I am simply flapping my wings and attempting to effect change in my environment.

Which brings me to my point. From the career perspective, flapping wings is generally a very good thing. The more ideas you put into motion, and the more initiative you take on behalf of yourself and your colleagues, the better your chances for affecting your environment. The key to understanding this analogy is time.

In artistic time, we understand the correlation between flapping our wings and the effect that has on the audience. We perform in a darkened theater, and our audience is changed—sometimes profoundly. The effect is immediate.

But in career time, the relationship is far more disjunctive. You might put into motion an idea, and then think nothing more of it. You might even come to believe that fanning the air of your career is a lesson in futility because you have never experienced an immediate reaction. Many young artists give up on career ideas because there is no tangible proof that their efforts will evoke an immediate reaction. A few of your ideas will have immediate effects. But most will seem to drift into the ether. Don't believe for one moment that those ideas have disappeared. They are out there, too, and some of them may come back to you in a different form—sometimes years down the road.

If you have been following my reasoning here, by now you have figured out that if you want to affect the long-term prospects of your career, start flapping your wings. Flapping is inherently good—whether or not you are consciously attempting to move the air in front of you. Your environment will be affected not only in the theater, but in everything you do and everyone you come into contact with. That brief conversation you have while sitting next to someone on the plane may affect that person, or influence his decision on something, that will come back to you later.

Derek Mithaug, director of career development, is a Juilliard faculty member and alumnus.