All artists are chasing after
perfection, in whatever medium their version of perfection exists. Be it the visual artist, the novelist or
poet, or the musician, in the back of their mind they’re hoping that their next
creation will be the clear, unobstructed expression of the artistic vision they
hold locked deep in their Heart of Hearts.
It’s not easy to come by.
Somehow, it always seems one more step removed from what you’ve
accomplished. We come close, sometimes
close enough to experience some of the ecstasy of true perfection; it is this
experience that drives us to try harder, spending long lonely hours honing our
craft that we may become the vehicle: the open conduit through which our Muse
may speak. Perfection, however, is a
concept. When you get down to it,
although it may start with an idea, in the end art is really about doing (this
is something I brought up in the post on improvisation and composition). It is experiential; consequently, conceptual
hang-ups only get in the way of the creative process. Strange as it may seem, it has been my experience that only by
forgetting about perfection do I come closer to attaining it. Indeed, this is truly art: the intuitive
application of craft. Intuition is pure
experience. Conception plays only a small part in it; one doesn’t think about
what one is going to do intuitively.
One just does it. The
conduit is open. The vision is clear.
Agnes Martin had some
interesting ideas about art and perfection.
In Writings/Schriften (Hatje Cantz, 2005), she writes that art is not
perfection, it is about perfection. Art
is the product of Humanity and, as such, can only be as perfect as people are
perfect. She also says that, if you’re serious about making art, you’d better
be prepared to spend a lot of time alone working at it. This brings us back to the old Francesco da
Milano story about the nature of musical performance, in which he states that
there are three things essential to its make up: first, you study technique and
learn to play you instrument; second, you practice, refining your technique
until you are able to say something with your music. The third is something beyond your control. He called it the “Gift”. It is what separates great art from all the
rest. All you can do is work on the
first two aspects to the best of your ability, in the hope that you will leave
yourself open to receiving the third, the Gift. This brings us back to doing it; art is all about doing
it. It takes a lot of doing. The last I heard, Yo Yo Ma still practices
six hours a day. I would suspect that,
at his level, he’s given up hoping for perfection; he is what he is (which
seems to be perfect enough on listening to him). One last eloquent musical voice:
Pat Metheny. In his most recent
Downbeat interview (Dec.2013) he said he wishes he could play better, write
better and be a better musician. This
is Pat Metheny we’re talking about: twenty-time Grammy winner, Downbeat Hall of
Famer, has made more recordings than any one person could remember, let alone
name. What’s implicit in his statement
is that he doesn’t say that he wants to be the “best” of these things; he is
just working to improve them. Being the
best would imply perfection and Mr. Metheny knows better than that. He’s still on the journey. Though he still feels he has a way to go he
feels blessed just to be able to travel that road; that he has never reached a
stage of “Perfection” and that he never will.
And (the best part) wanting to say you have reached it is
irrelevant.
While the popular idea of the
performance of composed music as an expression of perfection is elusive at
best, the concept of the perfect in improvised music is even more
ephemeral. It is a constant seeking,
testing and exploring; it is a quest for that perfect phrase that is, most
amazingly, spontaneously expressed and a pure product of intuitive
direction. It is the ultimate
expression of Milano’s principles. The
improvised performance is probably the most thrilling way of seeking the
unattainably perfect in music. Conceptual thought operates on the sidelines while the bulk of the
expressive work is accomplished simply in the doing. The very spontaneity of
the act raises the level of excitement to ecstatic heights, and it seems that
the closer one gets to perfection, the greater the ecstasy. Each new phrase comes as a surprise and
serves as an instant jumping off place for the next line. Indeed, while mistakes in performance are
perceived as compromising the perfection of a composed work, mistakes in
improvised performance can push the music in a new direction and actually
contribute to the perfection of the whole.
As such they take on new meaning and aren’t necessarily viewed as
mistakes, they are considered more like opportunities when approached
properly. The proper attitude and reaction are of the utmost importance when responding to a mistake, and will determine what direction an improvisation
will take and the degree of success one will have traveling that new road. Considering this, I find a “mistake” may be
more constructively viewed, within the context of improvised performance, as a
“surprise”. Ultimately, the performer
is, in effect, manipulating the concept of what perfection is and spontaneously
giving it a new definition to fit the circumstance. He or she may even be manipulating circumstance. It all blends together to produce the
ecstasy of the quest; and in the final analysis, though actual perfection may
never be attained, the perfect pursuit of perfection may actually be its
closest manifestation…which, really, is just plain wonderful.
