46. Fix it in the next one

Perfection exists, but it happens through the process

In the mornings, I write. In the evenings, I make pottery.

Because I consider myself fairly new to pottery, I'm still very much in a learning phase with it. As a result, I notice things I can apply to writing and to probably any other creative endeavor.

First, a pottery analogy

Making pottery happens in several stages.

First, it's just wet clay. Using the wheel, I make something out of this clay, and then I set it aside. I let it dry out a bit, until it gets to a stage called 'leather hard,' where the clay is not wet but neither is it bone-dry. In this leather-hard state, it can be trimmed and cleaned up. The analogous stage in writing would be a final pass of revision and proofreading before sending a piece off to the publisher or whatever. Once the pot is trimmed, I let it dry completely.

This bone-dry clay is ready to be fired in the kiln. The first firing is called a bisque firing. The purpose of a bisque firing is to transform the clay into ceramic — to chemically change its makeup. A bisque firing heats the clay to around 1850 degrees F. This temperature is just hot enough to transform the clay into ceramic material and leave the piece rough and porous, stronger than it was when it was just clay, but not cooked to a high enough temperature to transform it completely.

The porous surface of bisqueware allows you to apply glaze. The glaze can soak into the porous surface and bond with the clay so that the glaze acts as more than just a surface coat. Rather than thinking of glazing as just applying a sort of paint, this glassier substance soaks in and becomes a part of the clay to some extent, which hardens it and makes it more durable, easy to clean, food safe, and pretty.

Once glaze is applied to the bisqueware, then you fire it again to a higher temperature, typically around 2200 degrees. This higher firing fully transforms the clay into ceramics and melts the glaze into/onto it. During this phase, each piece — actually the entirety of the interior of the kiln — glows red or even white hot.

After it all cools, when you open the kiln, the clay pieces exist no more, and in their place, having passed through the experience of the firing, are these shiny ceramic things. Pure, slick, strong, and gosh-darn pretty.

Humbly engaging archetypes

Part of what I love about ceramics is that it is an ancient and very human endeavor. Like storytelling, we've done it since time immemorial. We needed drinking vessels, so we made them from the stuff of the earth. That's more or less what I like making: cups, mugs, bowls, teapots. Functional ware.

The ambition is not to make the archetypal mug, but through the repetitive process of putting care into something material, to become more able to make the archetypal mug, without deluding myself into believing I will ever make an archetypal mug. To have in mind the thing that wants to be made and then to make it, passing myself through the alchemy of process and to be changed thereby.

If I believed that I needed to make the perfect mug to justify my endeavor, I would have to stop myself before I could get anywhere. Instead, I find it necessary to hold in mind the thing I'm driving for, but also to be open to receiving input during the process. Maybe a better option will emerge through the process.

Anyway, if I am to expect myself to show up to work, whether at the pottery wheel or anywhere else, I need to accept that nothing about what I do is remotely perfect, and sometimes, it’s not even marginally acceptable. In Whitman's words, "the sound of the belched words of my voice." In almost all cases, even my best effort is “belched,” rather than “sung.” And yet... it is enough.

The process is both very humbling and very inspiring.

Fix it in the next one

At some point in grad school or thereafter I came across the phrase "Fix it in the next one," attributed to some painter, maybe. The point of the phrase was to accept the imperfection of the piece, to not attempt to fuss it into perfection, but instead to let it breathe, and allow the possibility of creating a work that transcends its flaws rather than has no flaws.

“Fix it in the next one” means it’s more important that I’m engaged in a process than that I seek to arrive at a form of perfected stasis. “This piece turned out this way, so let's see what the next one will amount to.”

When I do this, I honor the life of the piece and I trust the process. I stay out of the weeds of perfection-induced paralysis and of getting mired in overworking something.

The Mona Lisa

I think it's probably true to say great artists are known for their bodies of work, not solely a single masterpiece. Contrarians might say, well, what about the Mona Lisa or whatever? That’s generally regarded as a singular masterpiece, ain’t it?

But if you've seen the Mona Lisa (and everyone has, like it or not), you'll agree that this is a masterpiece not because it is breathtaking but because it was declared so by an artist who was already understood to be a master.

Which came first, the masterpiece or the master?

How Leonardo achieved mastery is a question I’m probably not qualified to answer, but I’ll do so anyway: it was because he continued to work, to iterate, to produce, to alchemize. Not because he really nailed it with one humdinger of a painting. If I'm wrong here, let me know.

Another relevant example that comes to mind right now is the story of the musician in Searching for Sugar Man. Through a peculiar twist of fate, a musician became famous in a different part of the world, where he had become a legend, totally beloved, and yet meanwhile he was just living a normal life in the US with no idea whatsoever.

But I guess his story is more an example of how strange audiences can be. The vast majority of the time, we have very little notion the effect our work has on others. That's why the artist’s focus should be directed towards the effort of refining themselves by following through with the process and discipline of offering what they believe to be their gifts.

As the artist, you don't have the vantage point of the audience. They're crucially important — the other side of the living, breathing equation — and yet, as an artist, actually you have no idea that on the other side of the world, someone else's life is forever changed by a song you played or a book that you wrote. Or not.

The listener

There's an old Chinese tale about a zither player and his friend that exemplifies this equation between artist and audience. The musician played the zither, and his friend sat next to him. His friend was the perfect listener — he knew exactly what was being expressed through the zither music.

When he played a song about mountains, the friend could describe the mountains. When he played about flowing water, the friend could describe the rushing streams. It was a perfect union. As an artist, that would feel amazing. Yeah?

Then at some point the listener died. So, the zither player broke the instrument and never played again, because the necessary other half wasn't there, so it wouldn't be the same act. The darn equation wouldn’t balance.

It's a cool story about the role that the listener plays. It’s profound to imagine that state of pure and unadulterated receptivity, akin to unconditional love.

But for those of us who are not perfect zither players with perfect listeners, we show up and make things and strive to fix it in the next one. Our listener is the presence we bring to the process, in union with the disproportionally glorious presence that sometimes meets us in the moment of creation.

This next thing that I do may be the most important thing I ever do, and it might not be. The story of mastery can't be told in a single snapshot, in one truly great work.

A writer like Steven King or whoever isn't known because he wrote one singularly good book, but because he churns out books that some people consistently love. What if only half this were true? What if nobody really loved the poor guy’s books or understood them at all?

Think of all the artists that were “before their time” and only became posthumously sainted through the courts of public opinion. What if they had given up because they didn't have the perfect zither audience during their every morning, noon and night?

The polarity of musician and listener exemplifies the success of an artist’s expression, but it's the body of work that makes a master, because it serves as proof of the process. The creation itself, the effort, discipline, alchemy of pursuit — these are independent of worldly reception.

I work toward what I love doing and what inspires me most, which I believe to be my most significant way to add value in the world, knowing all the while that my real effect on the world will likely be far different than I could have imagined. The actual path is far different from the imagined one, and this world a far cry from the realm of pure form.

Jorge Luis Borges in his essay La Biblioteca Total discussed the idea that given enough time and random combinations of letters, someone would inevitably write the most beautiful sentence ever written. This was part of his larger meditation on infinity, randomness, and meaning - themes he explored throughout his work.

Let’s say that person is you. You’ve just written the most beautiful sentence existence has ever known. So then what do you do after you’ve written the most beautiful sentence? That’s what I’m interested in. I don’t think it’s about the bestseller, but who you become as you create it, and who you become after that.

If my pottery ambitions were purely about output, I shape myself into a commodity, and that means I’m competing with Ikea. I don’t want to compete with Ikea. I want to be a true artist. But if it was possible to, in one fell swoop, justify my existence with a work of singular beauty, once and for all, well, then, I find myself in a paradox. Only ideal aims are worth pursuing. Yet, if I have idealized aims, I’m not capable of realizing such an achievement. And I may as well not waste my time on my current project, because it's not remotely good enough.

So, “fix it in the next one” also expresses that I myself am a flawed and incapable artist whose highest ambition is at best approaching the speed of light of its realization. It’s not true to say that I can never achieve warp speed and redeem my ambitions. It’s only the static form of creative success that is unachievable. Mastery is about aim and trajectory and continued effort — and that’s enough. It’s enough because, just like in the hero’s journey archetype, when I embark on the quest, I receive help along the way, and larger ambitions are more likely to succeed than small ones.