Artist envy

A note about occasionally feeling envious of other artists. Not of those whose work might be of similar intention, as for example Salieri’s no-doubt-exaggerated relationship to Mozart — I mean here, envy of practitioners working in different media. This is about practical differences.

First, envy of visual artists who always have something to draw or paint. David Hockney has made this point a few times: he can get up in the morning, look around, and see something to draw, wherever he happens to be. As a writer, I’m completely unable to get up and just write about whatever happens to be there, or what comes into my head. Against that, I note that when my sight goes, I should still be able to create texts, whereas a visual artist is going to struggle rather more.

Secondly, envy of musicians, especially composers, for being able to get away with repetition or duplication. It’s totally excusable (although sometimes abused, in my view) because performed music only exists in irreversible time. With the written word you usually have the option to go back. I’m also envious that music is a medium in which improvisation can be an art form itself, because it’s a performance art.

There’s much to be said for reflecting on these differences and constraints, exploring them and seeking to learn from them. In a couple of pieces I’ve experimented with what I would call varied perspectives (think cubist writing) and in others with the use of repetition. And when I find myself in a certain temperament, I will always allow the impulse to improvise (in the privacy of my own desk, of course, and the results have then to be honed, sensitively).

On Category Obsession Disorder (and not making it ‘easier for the reader’)

Turner, The artist's studio

The image is a sketch by Turner, The Artist’s Studio, which is currently on display in Tate Britain. It serves to epitomise the tension between the artist and the intermediary. According to the caption posted in the gallery, the phrase ‘Stolen hints from celebrated pictures’, written by Turner at the foot of the sheet, is likely a reference to ‘the unoriginal subjects some collectors wanted artists to paint’.

Turner through his genius was able to deal with this problem, at least by bringing an irresistible, individual take on such subjects. Eventually of course he withdrew from such demands. How though does the more modestly talented artist deal with intervention of this kind, whether subtle or overt? It could arise before or during the artistic process, or after the artist has sought to make the work public. And is it necessarily undesirable?

Well for a start, no it isn’t necessarily undesirable. From personal experience I can assert that working with a sensitive journal editor can be fruitful and result in improvements. But it depends on what motivates the editor to intervene, directly or indirectly. Typically, in my experience, this can be one of three things:

• to fit material into pre-determined categories or requirements;

• to make a text ‘easier for the reader’;

• or to help make artistic improvements to the work on the author’s terms.

I’m pleased to say I’ve certainly experienced the last of these, but I recently had a very unsatisfactory experience in which the first two motivations conflicted with the third.

The submitted text came to 1330 words. The submission process did not require me to state whether it was a ‘short story’ or ‘flash’ or a sick note. Presently I was advised that they would like to publish it if I could reduce it to 900 words or fewer: about one third, so not trivial. I was happy to try but found unsurprisingly that the style of the narrative was thoroughly compromised at anything below 1100 words. I asked, but it was not explained to me how a text of 900 words can be categorised as ‘flash’ and therefore publishable, but one that exceeds that limit is not and therefore cannot be.

It got worse: the editor then got their digital red pen out and decided to have a go — in the process, making a couple of helpful suggestions but also undermining the narrative flow and voice on which the text depends. I withdrew the piece, despondently.

There are two related issues here. The first is the obvious and avoidable problem of Category Obsession Disorder (COD), a phenomenon I’ve hinted at previously. The second is more complex and brings me back to Turner’s reference to the implied interference of collectors: to what extent should the artistic integrity of a given work be subject to change through an intermediary’s influence, for example an editor representing the interests of their journal? Literary journals are often their editor’s own creation to which they have committed much energy and unpaid time, shaped according to a sense of readership as well as personal taste. They have the power to reject, as the author has the power to withdraw. It’s an unanswerable question of course but merits reflection. Turner — not the first nor the last in this respect of course — experienced disapproval when he produced works that reflected what he wanted to paint, rather than what convention called for. At the same time, it’s not realistic for an artist to imply that their output is or should be detached from the social and economic conditions under which it was realised and might be made public, any more than it’s realistic to pretend that artistic creation is necessarily independent of such forces.

But one of the key features to emerge when this dilemma arises, I've found, is the phrase ‘making it easier for the reader’. For me, this is a deadly phrase, where we’re getting too close to lowest-common-denominator thinking. It may be perfectly legitimate, say, for an editor to ask for a challenging passage of text to be modified, for example so that the reader doesn’t feel they need to re-read it. It is equally legitimate for me as a writer to reserve the right not to modify it, if that is the reason, discounting any perceived challenge for the reader. As far as I’m concerned, art is seldom a matter of instant gratification, though an instant response might be highly gratifying. Feeling impelled to re-read is not necessarily a bad sign, despite the risk that some readers will surrender their attention without doing so. Often — frequently — I hear a piece of music that I think I ‘know’, or revisit a text or picture, and appreciate something different about it. ‘Easier for the reader’ is not necessarily an improvement, and often may be an impairment. Unfortunately, the power imbalance mostly remains on the side of the literary publishing industry, not on creative endeavour.

And as I conclude this post, I’ve just come across the following, rather scary, confirmation of this imbalance in a literary journal’s submission guidelines: “Upon acceptance, we may also edit your story (for length, grammar, or syntax) without notification, because we’re the editors, damn it".

Previously: A categorical hiatus

'Soul'?

I try to avoid using the word ‘soul’, except ironically. It seems to be used either as an excuse for not thinking about how to explain a sensation, or less commonly it’s barely-disguised religious mumbo-jumbo.

Now I’ve just come across this hidden example of the genius of Virginia Woolf:

“…she was conscious of a movement in her of some creature beating its way about her and trying to escape, which momentarily she called her soul…”

Th character in question is Sasha Latham, in a story called ‘A summing up’ (The new dress and other stories, Alma, 2024, p46-49). Referring to this ‘soul’, Woolf goes on to call it:

“by nature unmated, a widow bird, a bird perched aloof on that tree”

which, in the final paragraph

“flew away, descrying wider and wider circles until it became (what she called her soul) remote as a crow which has been startled up into the air by a stone thrown at it”.

That’s the way yer do it. I note that Jung refers to a “kind of soul… whose purpose it is to pin down and capture something uncannily alive and active” (Archetypes of the collective unconscious, para 55). As human beings we experience sensations for which we do not have the vocabulary: that after all is not uncommon, and that is one reason why creative writing is important. Sasha Latham is experiencing something, she finds a word for it, and Woolf describes the sensation, leaving the word neither more nor less useful, but the reader enriched.

As a footnote, regarding the phrase ‘mumbo-jumbo’ used above, I was concerned that this could have been culturally crass and possibly racist. Reference to my trusty etymological dictionary and dictionary of historical slang suggest that its possible origin in west Africa would probably not have been complimentary.