The Art Job

Bookshelf

Artistic “work.” What is it? Novelists talk about years labouring over a manuscript, normally alone in a room with a computer, typewriter or pen and paper. The scientific definition of work doesn’t apply: “Application of a force to move a mass through a distance” or “transfer of energy from one mass to another.” However, less and less work of this latter kind is required as we harness fossil fuels, the sun, winds, and tides to do our heavy lifting, pushing, pulling, piling. 

But to legitimize what artists do as work, I like a definition less mechanical, something like “the expenditure of talent, skill and time in pursuit of an enlightening, pleasing or inspiring entity or event.” Someone else might protest that he/she too sits at a computer most of the time, but in the interest of business, and isn’t that work? Well, yes. I guess it is. Possibly whatever consumes our time, energy and resources in pursuit of any objective (or payment?) is legitimately work, but then, haven’t we broadened the meaning of the word to the point of . . . well, meaninglessness?

But for now, let’s call what artists do, work.

Probably the bulk of work going into a novel, painting, sculpture or poem happens before the artist picks up a pen, a brush or a chisel. Between the concept and the completed object or event lies technique, mastery of the technicalities on which the medium relies. I think many of us are naive about the amount of work required for mastery—or even competency—in a given field of creativity; I think many of us believe we could paint like Rembrandt or write like Yann Martel if we just put our minds to it; the volume of naive art, of uninspiring writing would attest to the prevalence of aspirations-to-artistry minus the most critical work involved: the painstaking development of technique.

This is not to set artists aside as special. Technique, or lack of it, separates the successful from the mediocre in business, agriculture, education, medicine, etc. in much the same way, except that there aren’t many who would think being a surgeon requires only commitment, for instance.

My focus is writing. My career has revolved around technique: basic grammar, style, structure, etc., always with a view to two objectives, maximum clarity and aesthetic appeal. Broad categories these, and consisting of many parts: active voice vs passive, present tense or past, viewpoint of the narrator, tone, audience . . . and on-and-on. But whether I think back to creative writing classes or to drawing and watercolour courses I’ve been in, I can’t remember a time that the discovery and practice of technique wasn’t exciting and pleasurable. To finally write the perfect sentence, draw a still life with perfect perspective is work, but only because one has to be there, must expend time and have a view of an objective that’s new and, dare I say, lofty.

The completion of a work—a crafted quilt, a bin of clean grain, a dozen jars of canned peas, a vintage car restored—is its own reward, not dependent on pecuniary possibilities. Artistic work is no exception. Artists are some of the poorest, neediest persons among us in the category we call, “making a living.” Not unlike priests, nuns, monks of old, the artist commits to the art, not to what it will buy. Here the scientific definition often comes to apply; the application of a force to move a mass through a distance might well manifest in the moving of a pile of dirty dishes from table to sink in a restaurant while a half-written novel is busily not-writing-itself on a computer at home.

Take the novel, When we all get to Heaven, which I’ve worked on for about five years and may discard. In it are bits that give me satisfaction as finished, pretty-good artistic achievements. Here’s one . . . you be the judge. I might have to work on it some more:

Blanche says nothing. She has a notepad on her knee but she’s clearly doodling, not taking notes. Her left leg is crossed over her right knee, she drops and recovers the back of a red, high-heeled shoe rhythmically as she doodles. I can tell she’s in a mood. The bell at the front door tinkles and she leaves the room, comes back almost immediately: “The furniture’s arrived. Do you want me to tell them to bring it in?”

    “No,” he says. “I want to show them where to set it up.” He stands.

    “I could have done that,” she says.