“Art is never finished, only abandoned.” ― Leonardo da Vinci
Lately I’ve been considering the fact that I should/could edit all my previous releases. Lucky me, I’ve got plenty of other projects to keep me busy, so I can postpone this idea and overthink it until it becomes terrible.
But, if I were to decide on reading my books again, years after I last did that, I know that I’d feel compelled to change a lot of things. First of all, my style has changed quite a bit. And the way I understand fiction, the word, the way words form sentences. Or, better said, the way I prefer them to form sentences.
So the following question arises: is art ever finished?
No, I don’t think so. I believe that you reach a point when you have to let go. The love you had and lost and now you have to let them go, knowing that you will forever be theirs, even if they do not want to be yours.
Maybe I was a bit over the top with that metaphor, but you get the idea.
I think that art is finished when the inner critic is kind of satisfied. It’s all about whether or not a certain artwork adheres to certain standards. It’s a process that has a lot more to do with the craft part of any creative endeavor, rather than the artistic side.
Did you ever create something under the spell of what seemed like fantastic inspiration? As if you were, for a short while, capable of creating magic. And then, after a few days maybe, you return to whatever it was you created and it’s just awful?
Art is almost art. This sounds like a retarded thing to say, but it’s true. Art is almost perfect, but it’s not. Art is almost magic, but it’s not. Art is almost life, but it’s not. Art is almost. This is an even more retarded thing to say, but this, too, makes an awful lot of sense.
The craftsman in us, the one who has consumed art, who knows what is what, who has certain standards, goals, and a clear vision of what he intends to do with his art, he’s the one who has to abandon his creation. He has to let everything go, for the artist would keep on working and working and editing and rewriting until the end of time.
The artist’s main goal is to create.
The craftsman wants a finished product.
The human wants to leave something behind, something to fight off the darkness that inevitably falls upon us all.
And I believe that every single day there’s this battle inside us, and this is why it’s so easy to procrastinate, to be lazy, to become the awful kind of perfectionist, plagued by strange rituals and addictions and whatnot.
It’s such a terrible fate to be an artist. The only thing worse than being one is not being one.