Perfection
Perfection. Is it possible? Does it exist? Is it worth striving for? It can seem like such a long, difficult road to reach one’s idea of perfection in any art or craft. Every different art has its own unique challenges. All require passion, a bit of talent and, most of all, lots of hard work to overcome.
My thoughts dwelled on the subject of perfection on a Sunday evening, riding the train home from Bognor Regis, where I had watched the last part of a competition for classical guitarists, at the Chichester Festival of Music. I was really moved by many of the performances there; the sheer love of the guitar, the evident ambition for excellence, and most of all, by the fact that sometimes, the most stirring performances had their imperfections and mistakes.
I have reached a stage in my guitar making where I am redoing anything and everything - any small mistake of workmanship - until I’m satisfied that my work meets, or at least almost meets, my idea of perfection; so that every guitar leaves the workshop perfect. For classical guitars in my price range, it is genuinely important. I think it’s the right approach; often I learn a great deal in the act of redoing a task. However, at the same time, sometimes I feel crazy, spending what can seem like forever redoing tasks, repairing ‘mistakes’ that perhaps no one would have noticed anyway. It can be difficult to find a balance between seeking perfection, and obsessing to the point of counter productiveness.
At the Chichester Festival of Music, it was wonderful for me to see people on a similar artistic journey, and particularly interesting to notice that some guitarists were dissatisfied with their performances that I had enjoyed so much. It made me remember some ideas and philosophies that I know will help me in my path towards excellence in guitar making. For example, as a kind of salve for anyone on a similar quest for perfection, there is the Japanese philosophy of wabi-sabi (nothing lasts, nothing is finished, nothing is perfect). I also reflected on the fact that I often prefer an artist’s, author’s, or guitar maker’s early work, while they are perhaps still struggling to define who they are and are not yet a master.
An example from my own work
I’ve just finished redoing the lacquer on the sides of an upcoming guitar. The guitar could have been finished a month ago, but I was unsatisfied with the job I’d done filling the grain. (Some woods have deep grain that needs to be filled, to create a perfectly flat surface for polishing). The grain needs to be filled with a filler that compliments the colour of the wood. After completing the varnishing process on this guitar, and looking over the guitar in the sunlight, I felt that the filler I used actually detracted from the beauty of the wood. I felt particularly bad as the wood had been given to me by the luthier Rik Middleton, who confided to me it was his favourite kind of wood. Aiming to follow my own principle - that the closer you look at a guitar, the better it should get - and wanting to do Rik’s favourite wood justice, I removed the varnish and tried to solve the issue. It actually took about three tries and a few weeks! it was a struggle but the issue is now solved.
Was it worth it? Would anyone have noticed anyway? Now that it’s fixed I feel much more confident about the guitar and the standard of my work. I also learned a great deal in the process of fixing it, not only about the problem itself, filling to grain, but other things too. For example, during the long process of fixing the grain issue, I ran out of 2-inch brushes, and was forced to apply the lacquer with a 1-inch brush instead. I’d have thought this would be too small, however I was delighted to discover that I could achieve a more even layer of lacquer with this size brush.
I think my conclusion here is that although no, I don’t think any guitar player would have noticed anything wrong with the grain, I do think in this case, the relentless pursuit of excellence has improved me as a maker. I’m sure it won’t be the ‘perfect guitar’, but it will be the absolute best I can do at present.
Striving to do one’s absolute best is a far better goal than striving for perfection. Any artistic creation that is unique, imbued with character and passion is far more impressive than something perfect. I greatly enjoy reading, but there is not one single perfect book in existence. Perfectionist tendencies can become too much, and can cause a person to enjoy their passion less. Such tendencies work best, when the artist pushes themselves to do their best, but at the same time is loving the process, recognising that really, nothing is perfect and in the grand scheme of the universe, it really isn’t that important. I would say that most artists must have in their brain, in a state of flux, a cocktail of not only perfectionist thoughts, pushing them to do their finest work; but that the healthiest artists also have, in balance, wabi-sabi type ideas, compassionately mitigating the perfectionism.
Examples of perfectionism in other arts
There are a few composers I know of with some marvellous pieces but a very small output. One example is Maurice Durufle; he wrote some beautiful pieces, such as an amazing organ suite, a requiem and sets of motets. And although his perfectionist nature led to these marvellous works, it did inhibit him from writing more, and he couldn’t appreciate his own, wonderful, fantastic work. So he was constantly revising and updating his work, even after publication.
Apparently the artist Leonardo Davinci was a notorious perfectionist, leading again to a smaller output and many unfinished works.
Sometimes it’s good to look at examples of bad art, a painting, or to read a poorly written book, or watch a bad film, to remember that some level of pride and perfectionism is important; only it should be in balance, there but in a healthy way.
Tools against perfectionism. What is wabi-sabi?
Wabi-sabi is everywhere in Japan, having imbued the culture for many centuries. It is difficult to translate such a deep idea into English. My first encounter with the idea was the phrase, ‘nothing lasts, nothing is finished, nothing is perfect’. It is an appreciation of the beauty in imperfection, in impermanence, of the effects of time on a beautiful thing.
I think in western culture, we perhaps don’t realise how much we idolise perfection. But nothing in nature is perfect! In regards to guitars, I don’t want to put down good workmanship (I’m a victim of perfectionism myself when it comes to my own workmanship) but far more important than that, are elements such as style, character, meaning and depth. Workmanship/technique alone doesn’t move peoples’ emotions.
When I think of wabi-sabi, I think of my Grandpa’s guitar. I can picture it leaning against the curtains in my grandparents house, next to the back door leading into the garden. The vivid greens of the garden and blues of the sky are a bright splash of colour against the warmth of the living room, and the light of the garden frames the guitar. The guitar is more than 50 years old, its soundboard cracked in many places, aged a golden brown, its polish a beautiful patina; it has probably been knocked over more than a few times by the many grandchildren; it looks so comfortable - at home. In a way that a new guitar never would.
Visiting the Chichester Festival of Music Guitar Competition:
I ought to describe the event that led me to this deep-think on perfectionism. I had asked if I could display a guitar of two at a guitar competition at the Chichester Festival of Music. I have found that there are pockets of classical guitar communities, people who really passionately enjoy the guitar, not only around the country, but around the whole world. It’s lovely to seek out these communities and meet the people, and bring along with me my work; I find it really informs my guitar building. I really learn a lot from these events. This Chichester Festival of Music competition was actually held in the town of Bognor Regis, near Brighton.
I didn’t grow up learning the classical guitar, and hadn’t attended any guitar competitions before, so didn’t really know what to expect. I have been to three competitions for guitar makers. They’ve all been brilliant learning opportunities, forcing me to push the boundaries of my work to new levels, see what other people are doing, and network amongst people with similar passions and goals. I have found however that I’ve always been too nervous to properly enjoy the experience.
The Chichester festival of music, and there on the blue table is an Edgeworth guitar on display.
At this competition, there were different categories that guitarists could enter, and prizes for the best performances in each. After each category was over, the adjudicator would give the players feedback and award the prizes. The event was marvellously hosted and organised by Sasha Levtov, a true force of guitar nature, who is not only a lifelong guitarist, but has inspired many of England’s classical guitarists as a teacher; whose sheer presence in the room and brilliant nature noticeably eased the nerves of all who were to perform. The event was adjudicated by Paul Gregory, who teaches and also sells guitars; when he was giving feedback to the players on the performances, it was such a delight to hear the outpour of musical passion and knowledge, so articulately expressed, even though I’m sure it must have been nerve-racking for the players. Sometimes he would talk about the history of a piece, and the composer’s intention, casting a whole new light on the piece just performed.
I didn’t attend the first day but arrived around noon on the second day, sitting next to Connor and Ivonne, who were to perform in their guitar trio later. I noticed the hall was an interesting shape, it seemed to have been built for chamber/guitar music. It was great to hear the range of different guitar sounds, see the different playing styles of the performers, and notice their different song choices. Everyone did fantastically, I was filled with admiration for them all. It also makes me more intent to actually play guitar more, so at similar events I might be able to play something small, and at least share in the vulnerability of performing, instead of just observing.
I particularly enjoyed Ian’s performances of some classic Spanish pieces, especially Granada by Albinez. I also loved Joe’s pieces, and for days after, the piece that stuck in my head was the Cancion from Suite Compostelana by Federico Moupou, which I’m fairly certain was played by Joe. He also had an interesting guitar; it was loud and he got a lovely tone with it; I thought his instrument seemed powerful in an uncontrollable way, like a big beautiful kite in a storm, so Joe had to keep it under control. This idea added a sense of story and drama for me and was my favourite performance of the day. I loved the tone quality and the arrangement in Connor and Ivonne’s (and one other person’s) guitar trio. A funny moment was when the adjudicator Paul had awarded Linda a prize for an awesome performance; he looked closer at the trophy, and in surprise noticed and read aloud just how many times Linda’s name was already inscribed as winner on the trophy, going back over 20 years. There is something magical about the classical guitar that inspires such lifelong passion and interest, and it really happens all over the world.
In conclusion
The drive for perfection can result in amazing work; it is of course important to always try to get better and better. But perfectionism unfettered can stifle enthusiasm for one’s work, and stall progress. I think perfectionism mixed with a wabi-sabi philosophy might just be a winning combination towards excellence in art, promoting both quality of work as well as compassion for oneself as an artist. Listening to the guitarists at the Chichester Music Festival, with my limited knowledge of actually playing guitar, I could just listen and enjoy without worrying about the small elements of technique that the players were probably obsessing over. Instead, I was wonderfully moved by the music, and amazed at how they had developed this amazing skill to such a high level. I saw my passion mirrored, and think people probably view my art in a similar way to how I viewed theirs.