Persistence

Knitting, while listening to music, has been my relaxation in the evenings after long days of writing and editing. I finished my green Gansey sweater a week ago, and started knitting a Brora shawl (it's a Brooklyn Tweed pattern) from a lovely fingering-weight wool. It's been going pretty well, or so I thought, until I looked closely under the light last night and saw a fairly significant mistake, oh, maybe 18 rows back. (I took the picture above several nights ago-- the mistake was already there but I didn't see it.) Dammit. I put the work away for an hour, read a book, and then, before bed, ripped out the last two nights-worth of knitting, back to the problem row, corrected it, and went to sleep.

Yesterday I had felt like I was nearly done with the manuscript, but after lying in bed for a while this morning, thinking about it, I've realized I need to make some additional changes, and they may take quite a while. I was ok with that, in fact, anxious to come up to the studio and get going.

This wasn't always the case. I've changed from a more slap-dash person to the way I am now, not in a flurry of flying yarn, but over time. Maybe it's often that way in people who have a certain innate facility: people who can "get by" without a lot of studying, or practicing, or editing, or wiping out the paint from the day before, and still end up with a pretty good result. But at some point, you either stay that way, or you realize you have to ramp it up, with a combination of patience, determination, self-observation and self-discipline.

Last night I thought about my father, who is fond of saying "a thing worth doing at all is worth doing well," my online friend Frances who just frogged thirty rows of a complicated cabled sweater because of a mistake; the top musicians who practice the same passage over and over for days and weeks; the authors I most admire who simply don't stop writing until they are sure they have done the best they possibly can. I don't think what I am talking about here is perfectionism, exactly, because there is no such thing as "perfect" in the arts, and perfection alone is not necessarily what we're after. It's not really obsessive behavior, either -- in the sense of compulsive repetition -- though I'm sure some people see it that way. I admire persistence: people who want to do their best, and don't lie to themselves about what is "good enough" when they know that with more effort, they can do better. You do it more for yourself than for anyone else. It's a quiet, inner feeling, not some sort of ego-centered, outward push -- because after a while you realize that that sort of effort doesn't get you to the same place.

The "Terra" shawl. This has a mistake in the garter rows, too, but I discovered it so late that I decided to forget about it.

I think I learned this lesson of going further in two ways: from having a business, and taking piano lessons as an adult. Somewhere along the line, I accepted as truth the criticism I had defended against: that I wasn't taking my design work as far as it needed to go. It was good enough, but it could be better. Instead of fighting and resisting, I started to just buckle down and listen to the inner voice that said, "It's not quite done," and not stop until I had found a solution or an answer to whatever wasn't fully resolved. Satisfying the client was easier than satisfying myself, and I had to do the latter.

And, in my late thirties, I listened soberly to my wise, older piano teacher who said one day, "When you first came to me, I thought you just wanted to play fast and learn a lot of music, but you didn't want to put in the work to really get all the notes."  I couldn't argue; she was absolutely right, and it had always been the way I had approached music. I liked to practice, because it was fun and relaxing, but I had always worked just enough to be able to fix the difficulties noted in the previous lesson and make a little more progress; when I was young, that was enough, it was pretty easy for me. But now, twenty years later, why was I there? My teacher waited until she thought I'd be receptive to hearing what she had to say, and then she dropped that one sentence in my lap, like a little subversive bomb. She didn't need to say any more. Was it worth it to me to work harder? It turned out that it was. I was never going to become a really excellent pianist, with fantastic technique -- I was too old, and didn't have the time or desire to devote myself to such a goal anyway -- but I became a better musician. I improved a lot, taking the time to figure out exactly what was on the page and how to play it.  With better technique and more accuracy, we could turn to the questions of interpretation that I found more interesting; in other words, it was possible to go both wider and deeper. My teacher held me to a higher standard than before, helping me with greater engagement and interest, and I found much greater satisfaction in my practice and my playing -- but her lesson reverberated far beyond music in my life.

That question, "what am I doing here?" is important. I'm never going to be a master artist-knitter like my friends Alison or Rachel or Judith, capable of creating incredible, intricate lace shawls -- and it's only recently that I got more careful about correcting mistakes and tried to improve my skills by choosing harder patterns. But I have no aspirations or illusions about myself as a knitter, whereas art and writing are the areas to which I'm really dedicated.

I'm the first one to say that everybody has talent, regardless of what we were told as children, and to encourage people who once drew or dreamed of playing an instrument to begin again. Any art form is primarily about creativity, and satisfaction in the doing/making -- if it isn't fun and joyful, then why do it? The thing is, that once you get over the initial hurdles that kept you from starting, and you gain some facility, then you have to decide how serious you're going to be. For an amateur, it may simply be about pleasure and satisfaction in the doing, and knowing you are making progress. As a professional, I've had to ask myself that question, at different levels, all my life, and there doesn't seem to be an end in sight. I don't think I'm going to "retire" as an artist or writer.

People tend to think art is all about talent, but frankly, talent only goes so far. It's like a seed that has been planted; all it represents is potential. Some artists who have early success treat it as a destination, and for the rest of their lives they coast; some become bored. Others, equally talented, never find the same level of success, but they work at their art with dedication and joy all their lives. The best musicians I know, people in their forties and fifties and beyond, still practice for as long as it takes for them to perform confidently, at their peak, and they constantly challenge themselves with new repertoire that stretches their abilities and their understanding. Talent certainly plays a part, but without about a huge amount of hard work, you're balanced on a pinhead -- maybe there's a stretch of days when you dance brilliantly and everybody's dazzled, but sooner or later you're going to fall off. What's required is some sort of crazy combination of stubbornness and passion for the art form itself, driven by an inner search rather than "success" or praise from the outside, that propel you through the painful days of showing up and doing the work, the days when you struggle with doubt, fears and loneliness, the days when you wish you were a "normal" kind of person -- until the work starts to shine with an inner light that you aren't even sure you put there yourself. And when it's finished, you get up and start all over again.

Comments

[Rachel Barenblat]

Reading this post, the line that leaps out at me is "they work at their art with dedication and joy all their lives." That's how I want to be.

[Pica]

Oh, Beth. So much here that resonates. First, I am really amazed you put me in "artist knitter" category, and gratified, but I think I have never completed any knitting project -- 225 at last count -- that didn't have at least one mistake. (I will own the charge of audacity, proudly, but I'm a sloppy knitter; at least now I don't mind ripping 30 rows to fix something egregious.) Second, I am just now taking a digital illustration class (I am a whiz at InDesign but never really mastered Illustrator). There's one required text, Graphic Design: The New Basics by Ellen Lupton and Jennifer Cole Phillips -- "In a world where almost every designer has instant access to vast image databases and online search sites, there is little wonder why the landscape of contemporary graphic design is mired in mediocre solutions that capitalize on convenience." This was me. This is what I had become, as a designer. So glad I got out, and am pushing myself in all kinds of new ways. Persistence: underrated, so important.

[Natalie]

Dear Beth, first of all: HAPPY BIRTHDAY! Hope I've got the right day and that it's a lovely one for you, in every conceivable and inconceivable way.

Your consistent and lucid perfectionism has always been evident in every aspect of your personality but it's lightened with humour and grace. When I undertake something, whether artwork or other creative task, I also have my nose pressed close to the grindstone and won't move off un! Thanks for all your good thoughts and enjoy a carefree day. Much love xxx

[Michael Lewin]

A beautiful piece Beth that really resonated with me. Much to reflect upon - many thanks…..

I wrote the following piece for New Vision last year. I’m posting it here because I couldn’t resist the connection between the carpet weaver that I mention and your piece about being a knitter…..

PERFECTIONISM

“Perfectionism doesn't believe in practice shots. It doesn't believe in improvement. Perfectionism has never heard that anything worth doing is worth doing badly and that if we allow ourselves to do something badly we might in time become quite good at it. Perfectionism measures our beginner's work against the finished work of masters. Perfectionism thrives on comparison and competition. It doesn't know how to say, ‘Good try,’ or ‘Job well done.’ The critic does not believe in creative glee or any glee at all, for that matter. No, perfectionism is a serious matter.”
Julia Cameron

I have always thought of myself as something of a perfectionist, someone who wants to achieve his best no matter what. Reaching out to attain a ‘ high bar ‘ mark, an idealized notion of excellence. And for years I pursued this unrealistic approach to life - although never, ever having attained it - until a tutor said to me once, at art college:
“ Give yourself permission to undertake bad work.” This startled me at the time and made me think more deeply about this issue. In a painting context, he was saying let go of all the striving, the struggling to realize some idealized standard and just surrender to the process, let the painting take you where it wants to go. This felt, for me, somehow counterintuitive, going against the grain of all that I thought about regarding taking control, deliberate intention, setting ‘ standards,’ etc. Yes, all elements of perfectionism. But the tutor’s suggestion of letting go, the ‘Tao of painting ‘ did impact on me at a much deeper level, and it later helped considerably in my work.

Giving yourself scope to explore - especially with no set agenda that perfectionism dictates - is wonderfully liberating. It allows you to achieve somewhat surprising results from which you can learn and develop – stepping stones to a slow build-up of an alternative path – one of real authenticity. Perfectionism is about controlling, it’s about forcing unrealistic targets and standards on us that are difficult, if not impossible to attain. It inhibits and restricts us from accepting ‘ imperfect ‘ results which are actually ‘ good ‘ results if only we accept them with graciousness as markers to something better – part of our journey to self-improvement.

In Islam there is a beautiful tale about a master carpet weaver……
After many, many years of disciplined practice in his small studio he finally attempted to make the perfect carpet - his piece de resistance, his opus magnum. Through a lifetime of dedicated workmanship he felt he had acquired sufficient skills to accomplish the task. Everything was set up and with a great deal of concentrated effort the weaver started. Eventually, his work was nearing completion and he felt, within his heart that he was indeed just about to complete the perfect carpet. It was magnificently woven with not one single thread out of place. Every fine pattern was delicately stitched with perfect symmetry, balance and colour harmony. When he reflected on his workmanship, the miracle of how it all came together he became surprisingly uneasy about his triumphal achievement. As he made the last few stitches on the carpet he decided to miss- sow them saying: “ Only Allah is perfect.”

Trying to slavishly achieve perfection often reflects a false, fierce pride which is a distortion of our true, inner self. Sometimes being ‘ just ‘ OK is really OK. It’s an implicit acknowledgement of our human frailties and limitations which can prevent us from feeling ‘ superior, ‘ ‘ better, ‘ ‘ special.’ To me, the acceptance of imperfection is perfection – a grounded space where humility and grace can make an appearance saying that if we are indeed perfect then it is in our human imperfections. The universe and all the natural laws around us, in all their full and glorious splendour may be considered perfect but we are not, and we do need to recognize this reality ( which I’m certain we all do ). We are still ‘ work in progress, ‘ a human race that still has still much more to learn regarding so many things but in this imperfection of ours we can still shine, we can still work to make the world a better, fairer, more just place……

“There is no perfection, only beautiful versions of brokenness.”
Shannon L Alder

[Duchesse]

The prominence of mastery and and the relative lack of appreciation for the amateur is a mirror of our culture. I have long tried to fully realize the talent I have in some realms, but, at other times, the striving for perfection limits the joy of discovery. I've been flushed with enjoyment throwing a lumpy pot and composing resoundingly mediocre poems. But I keep those out of sight!

At the same time I have doggedly rewritten work, usually by then for nothing because I have already exhausted a budget. And i have been in awe of mastery in so many domains.

I am absorbed by your post and this topic.

[Hattie]

So pretty. Such fine detail.

[Roderick Robinson]

I'd be extremely grateful if you could tell me how one detects/recognises one's own artistic talent. The criteria are all sliding-scale (eg, if you sing comparison with Renée Fleming wouldn't necessarily be useful). If you depend on others, people tend to be kind. Art is an area where good intentions may turn out to be the worst failing of all.