Mastery in Art (essay)

By Luke Labern

(A Step Towards)

Mastery in Art

I.

In moments of quiet reflection, somewhere between confidence and melancholy, a sensitive soul hopes that they will mature as they grow older. They hope that though the vicissitudes of life will make their growth erratic and at times imperceptible, over the course of long stretches of time—over the course of years, of decades, of an entire life—they will, on the whole, be a better proposition. They will be firmer in resolution. They will have learned from mistakes. They will do what they do (if they have indeed chosen what it is they wish to do) better than they did before—perhaps better than anyone else. In short, one hopes that over time, there is a trend towards improvement. For the truly ambitious—and for artists in particular—these sensitive souls hope to attain mastery of their given art form.

Casting aside all notions of arrogance, and perhaps accepting that few (if any) attain true mastery—let alone perfection—it is undoubtedly the case that mastery is a realistic goal. I believe that those blessed with the gift of rational ambition should not only be proud of their search for mastery, but should seek to attain it. Taking this potential goal, an artist—for it is artists that I am addressing here, though the notion of mastery can be applied to many areas of human accomplishment—can move beyond that ethereal, fragile moment of wondering ‘How good will I become? Are my best days behind me? Will I ever become a Great?’ towards a very specific, realistic and logical plan.

Let me be clear: though mastery and greatness are lofty concepts that contain a particular aura, these are achievable goals. These concepts truly exist: if one accepts that there have ever been masters, or have ever been greats (and I am talking here of the Kants, the Shakespeares, the Mozarts) then it is logically possible for a person to become great. The odds do not concern us. The logical possibility of becoming a master, becoming a great, is the transcendental precondition for the attainment of these values.

If we are to approach the subject of attaining mastery and of becoming great, then we must dispel the Romantic aura of these notions. This is not a denial of their value: indeed, their value is the very reason that these goals are worth fighting for, worth devoting one’s life too—and this, coming from the mouth of a man who believes in very little. Rather, if we are to aim at the achievement of these incredible accomplishments, we must stick with logical approach. Yes: though emotion—positive emotions, in this case—may draw one towards seeking mastery and greatness, it will be logic that will see it through. What follows, then, is an attempt to outline one of the necessary steps in attaining mastery—or, at least, making important steps towards it.

I began with the fragile notion of wondering if one was improving—with good reason. In art, there is apparently much mystery concerning the process of creation—even more so with the distinction between what makes a bad artist into a mediocre one, and a good artist into a great one. Perhaps it is because of my particular constitution as an artist-philosopher, but I believe the steady, precise and continuous focus on how one operates as an artist is essential to one’s success. This is not to discredit those who simply ‘let the magic happen’, and do not wish to tinker with that magic—but I am concerned with definite improvement, precisely because I seek to master the forms in which I work. I do not say such analysis is easy, or even predictable: like a great work, though planning can take one far, there is still work to be done. Just as life provides the artist with the materials for their work, practise—and, in this case, self-reflection—allows the artist to improve and make a move towards mastery. I consider this work ‘philosophical’, though I fail to see how a true artist (who is committed to their work) cannot be at least a part-time philosopher. Given that I am a writer, I will focus on the process of writing.

Recently, I have found myself in possession of a new capability. In reality, I have always been able to execute this ability—I have simply been unconscious of it. I am sure that this self-consciousness arose because of the things mentioned above (practise and self-reflection), though I know that it is a direct result of maturity. It is for this reason that I began by describing the sensitive soul who is concerned with improving over time. I consider this new capability to be one afforded solely by maturity, and a perfect example of a moment that such a soul has pin-pointed one particularly momentous occasion on which they improved permanently. As befits a writer, I find it essential to commit this particular capability to paper—for myself, but also for all others who wish to take their art seriously.

This work thus stands at an interesting position: by outlining a capability that I have earned via time and effort, I may perhaps be saving considerable amounts of time for those who read it. That being said, it may well be the case that it requires a particular maturity to truly grasp the concept and put it into practise. A younger version of myself, reading this, may not have known quite what to do with the information. Regardless, it is time to outline this capability. Note that it is applicable in any art, and quite possibly in any sphere of life—but I will instantiate the action in the composition of a short piece of writing.

The capability can be described in controversial, but no doubt accurate terms, as:

The ability to control time.

            II.

No: I have not yet mastered the ability to enter the past. I do, however, know how to change the future—by means of controlling the present.

This capability, as you might have guessed, has to do with the act of composing. Sometimes described as the ‘artistic coma’, this process—the critical process responsible for the greatest works of art, from Hamlet to The Dark Side of the Moon to Pulp Fiction—is often described as mysterious. It is only mysterious in the sense that it is fascinating, and perhaps frightening: the mystery itself can be attributed to the psychological process (how, for example, do I pluck words from my consciousness?)—but as artists seeking to master their form, we are interested (in this moment, at least) with a different aspect of the process:

How can the artist control the process and influence it?

This is a vital question: many artists—particularly writers—are resigned to the fact that the only thing they ‘control’, in terms of stimulating inspiration, is planning. The process itself, once it gets rolling, happens of its own accord: the writer’s job is to ‘let the characters speak’, and so on.

I, too, resigned myself to this fact—but I have always had an odd relationship with planning. I understand its importance, but I undoubtedly work best when I am in the process of composing—it is then that my most profound thoughts come (indeed, as if by magic). However, as I said, I believe all of this is simply a confused way of looking at the process. I believe my analysis is almost Kantian: whilst the writer is commonly believed to react to the process, I believe the process can be manipulated by the will of the writer. Perhaps not a Copernican turn, but an intriguing thought nonetheless.

My exegesis requires a little more conceptual groundwork to be covered first. In particular, I must describe what the common description of events is using my own schema, before explaining how this schema can be exploited for sensational results. Whilst it is undoubtedly the case that this line of thinking can be reduced to the form of an aphorism, I believe this extended analysis will better outline the powerful creative turns it can lead to. If nothing else, I write for myself: and I find this method of controlling the creative process gives me a profound sense of optimism.

Let me outline the issue at hand.

III.

As I mentioned, the capability we are concerned with relates to process of composition. Crucially, what I am referring to is an artist’s sense of time during that act. To clarify, by ‘process of composition’, I am referring not to the general process, but the precise act in which the work of art is produced. In the case of painting, this is the brush stroke; in the case of the composer, the notes or silences used, and in the case of the writer, it is the act of placing the words themselves.

It is important to understand this point: the act of composition, though labelled as if it were one thing, is really very many. There is the long-term planning, the act of sitting down to compose, the moment one enters the mind-set of composition (ignoring all distractions), the little micro-pauses between the salient act, and the salient act itself.

The capability we are concerned with in this essay resides in the space between the last of these two acts. It will be helpful to illustrate these acts.

Process of composition

[Pause for thought before acting] -> [Salient act (application of words, colours, notes) 

Incredible as it may seem, the powerful capability to which I have been alluding does not refer to the actual act of placing words or paint, but rather the pause before that act is completed. In order for the importance of this to be understood, we must first accept that this is indeed the case. To illustrate this, I will present an example.

What follows is an example of fiction. (I am assuming that writing fiction is a more considered and difficult act than writing non-fiction, though the same principle may well apply.) The following paragraph comes not at the beginning, but in the middle of the story. (I have not chosen the beginning, for it is likely that a writer has already decided on their opening before sitting down to write. What interests us is the state of mind of the writer during the composition—deep into the process; deep into the coma.)

 She looked at him and could not understand what he was trying to tell her.

‘What do you mean?’ she asked him, her voice wobbling.

‘He’s dead,’ he replied.

She mouthed the words herself—‘he’s dead’—as if by performing that act she would somehow comprehend their meaning. She didn’t.

Now, in order to get to grips with the capability at hand, it is important that we recognise how this passage was composed. In short, I composed it ‘without thinking about it’. I wrote intuitively, letting the words fall where they may—in much the same way as I write non-fiction. However, unlike non-fiction, it is vital to remember that fiction is a more sensitive use of words. It is not the meaning of the words that matters—not solely. Rather, the phrasing, the sounds, the silences, the pauses and even the look of the words are all vital. Whereas non-fiction can be paraphrased without loss of meaning, fiction cannot it. It is for this reason that the capability is so important:

Whilst one’s ‘default’ patterns are highly useful in most areas of life, they should never be relied upon in art.

To explain: all artists of all kinds have a kind of default setting—patterns in their art form which instinctively come to their finger tips. It is these defaults, these intuitions, which allow others to mark their talent out. The gifted musician is naturally able to decipher and mirror emotion in notes; the gifted artist is able to draw things in proportion with remarkably little effort; the gifted writer is able to string together meaningful sentences without thinking about.

Indeed, the ‘default’ patterns of a gifted writer are more refined, more useful and more meaningful than that of a less gifted writer. The idea of this essay, however, is to allow the already gifted artist to distinguish themselves from their defaults.

The aim of this essay—and the capability I am outlining—is to allow an artist to recognise their defaults and reflect upon them.

To return to the example: let us look at the constituent components of the passage and assess how I, as their writer, might have written them differently. (It should be clear that the capability I am referring to is also useful in the process of strict editing—but it will be of greatest use in the act of composition itself.)

If we take the second line (“‘What do you mean?’ she asked him, her voice wobbling”), we see one possible means of composing the line. In particular, you will see that I have instinctively chosen to compose the line in terms of dialogue followed by a simple description, adding further detail at the end. The line is thus composed of three components. Note that at the time, though I was ‘thinking’ about composing the line in some sense, it is much more likely that the words ‘fell from my fingers’’. I instinctively chose to write the line in that way—it was not what I would call a concerted, conscious effort.

This first example, then, explains how the most common form of composition is done: unconsciously. The schema to which I am referring is in place, but it is not being utilised. Let me show you how I would now approach this passage using the capability at hand.

IV.

The structure of the line (in three parts) is, as we have seen, only one potential manifestation. What are some others?

Ignoring deeper questions (such as the potential to rephrase the dialogue in different terms), I will suppose that I wish that phrase to be used (“What do you mean?”). There are still infinitesimal options available to me.

Perhaps I wish the dialogue to be spoken more quickly—to add to the drama, to encourage the reader to read faster. In that case, one option would be to simply present the dialogue on its own: “‘What do you mean?’” A logical next step would be to continue at least the next line—though perhaps the next few—in the same terms, an exchange of dialogue, much like in a play.

Another option might have been to place the dialogue later in the line, prefacing it with some other relevant information: “She knew her voice was about to wobble. ‘What do you mean?’”

Another option would be to fragment or even efface the dialogue: “‘What do you—’ Her voice trailed off; she could not complete the thought.” Or: “She remained silent. She could not speak.”

As we can see, all of these are viable options. Though some may prefer different options (and perhaps the same author will prefer different options depending on their state of mind at any given time), the important thing to remember is that the original line, the intuitive, is exactly that: intuitive.

Whilst intuition is a profound tool in the artist’s kit, the ability to reflect on one’s intuitions is an equally important tool. It is, I hope you agree, a mature tool.

V.

To increase the chances of your incorporating this ability into your routines, it is important to reflect on your own intuitions. What are the default patterns that crop up in your work, time after time? They may be a particular word, a form of sentence, the use of rhetorical questions, little phrases—only you will know. (This applies to artists of all kinds: there may be certain shapes, sizes of lines or even tools that you instinctively cling to; the musician may find themselves heading, time after time, to particular intervals, particular keys and particular tempos without thinking about it.) For me, the phrases “in short” and “quite simply” crop up in almost every work I write (they are even in this essay).

Please remember that I am not criticising intuitions: I rely on mine much of the time, and indeed I find them very effective. When it comes to non-fiction, I consider them important weapons. When practising scales, you may find particular keys allow you to practise with greater ease, or to become comfortable more quickly. The key to maturing as an artist, however, and heading towards mastery, is to be critical:

Do not just acknowledge your intuitions—reflect on them, and know when to ignore them.

In my case, for example, when I find myself about to write “in short” in a work of fiction—particularly when it is in the mouth of a character—it is essential that I stop myself and ask: “Do I really want this character to sound like me? Is this how they would speak (in this situation)? Am I taking into account their personality, their experiences, the context of the situation? Is there a better way to phrase this? Need this character speak at all?”

Asking this question undoubtedly takes more time, but it undoubtedly leads to a richer and more sophisticated work—and perhaps most importantly of all, the more thought one places into the act of composing, the richer their entire output will be. The less one relies on their intuitions, the more authentic one’s work becomes—precisely because when one does use their intuitions, they have truly chosen to do so.

It may be remarked that this ability to reflect on one’s intuitions is what occurs when editing. It is. However, to undermine this ability to reflect on the fly is a mistake. If I allow an intuitive pattern into my work—say I allow that character to say “in short”—the whole of my work is changed. Even if I go back and change that phrase, the rest of the work that follows stands in a new relationship to it. Each word, note or dab of paint is related to every other. Editing is one thing—being truly conscious in the process of composition is another thing altogether.

The act of reflecting on your intuitions can reveal much about the way you think and the type of artist you are. Again, simply by focusing on the phrase “in short”, it is clear to see that the reason I use this phrase is because I tend to explicate a difficult concept at length and also seek a concise way of summing up the point I have made. This intuition of mine thus reveals the following pattern in my work:

[Complex thought, thoroughly explained.] In short, [concise summary of conclusion.] 

As you can see, this reveals the subjects that I tackle are often complex (often philosophical, to be precise) and also hints that I am aware of how to guide a reader through a piece—knowing when to enter into heavy detail and when to summarise. That I use “in short” almost always as the beginning of the finale sentence of a paragraph reveals yet more.

So: what are your intuitions? What patterns do you rely upon, and what do they reveal about you? Will you be able to consciously reflect on your intuitions in the act of composition and enrich your work? As I have said, if you indeed do so, I believe you will make great strides in your development as an artist. It goes without saying, of course, but every artist is in competition only with themselves. Your goal should be to be a greater artist than you were—it’s as simple as that. (I take it as a given that each artist truly after the status of ‘Great’ already considers themselves to be the greatest artist in the world—or at least the one with the most potential.) The battle is between you and you.

VI.

The key to this ability, then, is to become more self-aware. Yet it is not necessary to fundamentally change the way you work in order to benefit from this lesson. You know your process better than anyone else ever will: if what you are doing works, then by all means stick with it. Though I believe it is almost inevitable that at some point you will accept that you can improve (whether in power, efficacy or style), the point of this ability is merely to understand how you rely on intuition, and decide when to employ it.

Indeed: you could work on this ability for its own sake. You need not use it every time you compose. If you were to spend a little time writing or drawing merely in order to test your intuitions, it will become clear to you with exceptional rapidity what patterns you rely upon. You need only reflect on them intermittently in order to benefit from them. Undoubtedly, reflecting on your intuitions once (as opposed to never) will benefit you. That we can be sure of.

As you will remember, we looked at this illustration:

Process of composition

[Pause for thought before acting] -> [Salient act (application of words, colours, notes)

As I said before, this ability lies in that little interstitial space—that ->—between the pause and the act. You can consider this ability part of the pause itself; that is up to you. The thing to remember, however, is that though the act of composition itself—the salient act—is what produces the words on the page, the paint on the canvas or the music in the air, it is the time you take to reflect on the world—and yourself—that will lead to the greatest leaps in your improvement.

Perhaps you will even become a master; a Great.