Art is in the mistakes?
This does not really apply to literature as much as, say, visual art, or even music. Or does it>? Maybe I’ll get to that.
Anyway, talking about vinyl records today in class made me think of this, and I think it is true of concerts even more. And isn’t this one of the reasons that painting is more artistic than, say, taking a photograph? The mistakes are a vital part of the process…it is what humanizes things, for me. I think we are always looking for mistakes in films, like we mentioned in class, because we want to see evidence that there is a human behind all of the equipment, after all. When someone’s voice cracks in concert…or forgets the words! That is what you remember…that kernel of humanity…I went to a Lyle Lovett show once (I am a big fan, I have to say, though I know I am in a small minority J) and was a little disappointed that there weren’t any little mistakes, or little personal touches that made his performance different from the recording. With painting, it is more difficult to pinpoint, but I think that the fact that each brushstroke could have gone a different way…that no painting is an exact representation of events (though I suppose the same could be said of a photograph, but not in the same way, I am going to have to insist) but the artist’s perception, and translation of them. And again, surely when a painting is complete, there are things that the artist wishes were different, little details that came out wrong, but make the whole work more special as a result…maybe even better than it would have been, in retrospect.
Back to music, I was just posting something about this on James’ blog, but I am going to repeat it here anyway. When I was a music major, many years ago, my college choir made a CD. It may sound fun and exciting, but really it was anything but. The process was so painstakingly perfectionist, this unreal effort to make a perfectly clear, seamless, flawless digital recording. My conductor was manic about it, we must have made 40 recordings of one song, because the piano sounds like it was in a tunnel, or Mark cleared his throat inbetween the chant and the Kyrie, or the hum of the lights was interfering with the pitch of the second sopranos (come on, give us a break, lady!). She would play us these “perfect” recordings by the Tallis scholars, or the Kings College Choir, and, sure, they are beautiful, but in an untouchable, unrealistically perfect way. Why is it desirable to hear a recording where the singers are so perfect, they sound almost like instruments or machines, not human voices? Hmmm. Does it say something about the innately flawed nature of humanity? That we need things to have flaws, to reassure us that our imperfections are OK? interesting. So, anyway, we finally finished the CD, we sang in the dark, with a new piano, and no one dared move or sing a note slightly off…if someone was sick, they weren’t allowed to sing, or even come near the rest of us if they might be contagious… in the end, I guess it sounded good, but to me, inauthentic. I prefer singing with the group in concert, feeling the pressure and the nervous zing of energy from singing in front of an audience, feeling like part of a living group of voices joining together. The mistakes we inevitably made, made it more vital and genuine. Even the audience gets into the act of making a performance unique. If people coughed, or clapped at the wrong time, or a child sings along to a familiar christmas carol, it makes the performance different every time, unique. It is remembered for the way a new soloist faltered at the beginning, and the final high notes ring truer and clearer because of it. We are able to enjoy the beauty of her performance because of the flaw at the beginning, almost as if we can forgive that perfection, or forgive may be the wrong word, but certainly enjoy it more, because the pressure of perfection has been removed. Hmmm. I think that vinyl works with this idea, because it is a flawed method of reproduction, and therefore more loveable because of it. I still have all of my records from childhood (albeit nothing on which to play them) because they are irreplaceable, and the cover art is part of it, but not all. The sound is special, unique, and constantly evolving, as they get older and are played. The performance is fleeting, fragile, the next time I play it will be different. OK, I have rambled enough here, but I am going to give this more thought…imperfection…hmmm…How would this translate to literature, though?
This does not really apply to literature as much as, say, visual art, or even music. Or does it>? Maybe I’ll get to that.
Anyway, talking about vinyl records today in class made me think of this, and I think it is true of concerts even more. And isn’t this one of the reasons that painting is more artistic than, say, taking a photograph? The mistakes are a vital part of the process…it is what humanizes things, for me. I think we are always looking for mistakes in films, like we mentioned in class, because we want to see evidence that there is a human behind all of the equipment, after all. When someone’s voice cracks in concert…or forgets the words! That is what you remember…that kernel of humanity…I went to a Lyle Lovett show once (I am a big fan, I have to say, though I know I am in a small minority J) and was a little disappointed that there weren’t any little mistakes, or little personal touches that made his performance different from the recording. With painting, it is more difficult to pinpoint, but I think that the fact that each brushstroke could have gone a different way…that no painting is an exact representation of events (though I suppose the same could be said of a photograph, but not in the same way, I am going to have to insist) but the artist’s perception, and translation of them. And again, surely when a painting is complete, there are things that the artist wishes were different, little details that came out wrong, but make the whole work more special as a result…maybe even better than it would have been, in retrospect.
Back to music, I was just posting something about this on James’ blog, but I am going to repeat it here anyway. When I was a music major, many years ago, my college choir made a CD. It may sound fun and exciting, but really it was anything but. The process was so painstakingly perfectionist, this unreal effort to make a perfectly clear, seamless, flawless digital recording. My conductor was manic about it, we must have made 40 recordings of one song, because the piano sounds like it was in a tunnel, or Mark cleared his throat inbetween the chant and the Kyrie, or the hum of the lights was interfering with the pitch of the second sopranos (come on, give us a break, lady!). She would play us these “perfect” recordings by the Tallis scholars, or the Kings College Choir, and, sure, they are beautiful, but in an untouchable, unrealistically perfect way. Why is it desirable to hear a recording where the singers are so perfect, they sound almost like instruments or machines, not human voices? Hmmm. Does it say something about the innately flawed nature of humanity? That we need things to have flaws, to reassure us that our imperfections are OK? interesting. So, anyway, we finally finished the CD, we sang in the dark, with a new piano, and no one dared move or sing a note slightly off…if someone was sick, they weren’t allowed to sing, or even come near the rest of us if they might be contagious… in the end, I guess it sounded good, but to me, inauthentic. I prefer singing with the group in concert, feeling the pressure and the nervous zing of energy from singing in front of an audience, feeling like part of a living group of voices joining together. The mistakes we inevitably made, made it more vital and genuine. Even the audience gets into the act of making a performance unique. If people coughed, or clapped at the wrong time, or a child sings along to a familiar christmas carol, it makes the performance different every time, unique. It is remembered for the way a new soloist faltered at the beginning, and the final high notes ring truer and clearer because of it. We are able to enjoy the beauty of her performance because of the flaw at the beginning, almost as if we can forgive that perfection, or forgive may be the wrong word, but certainly enjoy it more, because the pressure of perfection has been removed. Hmmm. I think that vinyl works with this idea, because it is a flawed method of reproduction, and therefore more loveable because of it. I still have all of my records from childhood (albeit nothing on which to play them) because they are irreplaceable, and the cover art is part of it, but not all. The sound is special, unique, and constantly evolving, as they get older and are played. The performance is fleeting, fragile, the next time I play it will be different. OK, I have rambled enough here, but I am going to give this more thought…imperfection…hmmm…How would this translate to literature, though?
posted by Jenni Lovato at 12:44:00 AM
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