“To paint a still life, a painter and an apple must confront and adjust to each other.” ― Albert Camus
As fall approaches, and the summer ending, we witness all around us subtle changes; the weather, the temperature, the look and feel of the sky, even our individual human temperments change. It reminds me of last fall, as I sat quietly during a meditation session I caught notice of a small leaf swimming in the wind towards me, one that had escaped from one of a plethora of Japanese Maple trees that occupy my garden. It played in the air, dancing and making wonderful patterns, paths of action that would both fool and astonish the most astute of animation designers or dance choreographers. Slowly, it would give way to gravity, transitioning its position from one of a series of twirling motions to that of a sideways pendulum akin to the swinging weight of a grandfather clock knocking against the edges of the air, hanging at one side then swooping to the other, repeating itself until eventually descending towards a landing on the pebbled floor. I had not thought of the ground until that moment, not until the red leafy edges had caressed its cold stony surface, giving it both existence and meaning, one idea dying another being born.
In art, as in nature, adjustments are made continually; our art is always moving from place to place, changing its course, transforming from one form into another, till it reaches its final destination. This is the beauty of creation, an entirely unpredictable yet wondrous journey from beginning to end.
Often times, in our adventures as artists or craftsmen, we become too anxious about reaching the end. The goal of an end product, especially one to be completed at a predestined end date or time, creates a seemingly ever-present and unavoidable conflict within our minds. We lament the constant efforts necessary to make our work better. It is already an arduous task to do all the planning at the beginning just so we can begin. And after we’ve started, falling into frustration by the requirements, either externally imposed or internally driven by our own unique vision, to change things. Even near the end, the impatient rush to polish and clean up all the mistakes we’ve made along the way can be significantly taxing. It sure seems like a lot of trouble just to make things right! But that is the process and nature of making art — constant adjustment.
So there really isn’t any justifiable rationale to get all anxious or upset about it. All great craftsmen have an element of perfectionism or “quality obsessiveness” about them; it makes them good artists. And I’m not condoning excessive competiveness or workaholism; holding oneself to higher standards doesn’t necessarily mean being selfishly “success driven” or having Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Balance is important and in fact necessary. But good work takes the time and love of honest attention, not unlike a quiet meditation session. We must give in and submit ourselves to the happenings of the universe. And in the case of the artist, a submission to the necessary actions to make one’s work as good as possible is part of being a true and dedicated artist. Some might refer to this as simply pride and/or professionalism but I believe there is both great meaning and beauty in such a submission. Furtheremore, the foregoing of selfish desire in the work process allows us to use all our available energy for the task at hand, thereby enhancing the probabilities of success and heightens efficiency rather than hindering it. We only have to think back to any incident where we’ve rushed to get something done to be reminded how futile and ineffective such an approach was. So don’t lament changes, or the time and effort needed to fix things. Making adjustments makes your work better AND makes you better.
Living in the now is, and has always been, an “all-in” activity. So love doing the work you’re doing because, being an artist, you should already be doing what you love.
“To create today means to create dangerously.”
― Albert Camus
