So what’s that supposed to be, then?

In idle moments of lockdown I’ve been catching up on some of the televised portraiture competitions from the Battersea Arts Centre. 

I paint, write, doodle on the keyboard, and am blessed with some exceptionally creative relatives, and so in a personal way I’m familiar with some of the tribulations of the creative process, but I know little of portrait work. Therefore the following observations may be tritely familiar to those who are better informed. If so, I apologise, but the fact is that I found watching these artists, struggling to achieve something inevitably very difficult, against the clock and under the glare of the TV cameras, inspiring and comforting during these anxious days of ambient death and disease.

Typically, in every programme there are three sitters, each of them drawn or painted within a four hour period by three artists - amateur or professional - who have already demonstrated their ability by submitting self-portraits. Naturally, all the artists featured had their own preferred way of doing things, which under the pressurised circumstances proved to be to their advantage, or not. Many techniques were employed, some conventional, some far less so, and the results weren’t always convincing or satisfactory. Nor were they necessarily “interesting” failures, although all the efforts were well intentioned, fuelled by a determination to succeed. Some were absolutely wonderful.

Given the nature of a competition, the objective being to win, understandably there were pressures to be daring, to stun, to elicit something more than the politely mouthed “wow” by the sitter (finally permitted to see what has been made of them, hiding their horror and disbelief), and so it was. The journey towards “getting there” could be fascinating, even if the destination sometimes disappointed.

Rather than attempting hyperrealist precision – impossible anyway given the time constraints – very often the candidate was trying to create something unexpected or even slightly wild, to add artiness and painterliness, consciously avoiding simple verisimilitude. Vagueness and abstraction might be introduced, along with colours and dynamism not objectively visible, qualities felt in some way by the artist to be latent in the sitter and needing to be emphasised, plus trademark special effects that they hoped would add something personal and appealing. Nevertheless, by the end of the day, or rather the four hours, the essence of the subject had to be captured, had to “look like them”, otherwise the attempt had – pretty much – failed. However much subjective sparkle is added, realism cannot be denied entirely

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A few things I noticed. 

Fairly early on in the process the artist will often “get” the look of the subject, so that one can say, “yes, that’s him” or “that’s absolutely her”. At this point one can see that they’ve captured that distinctive “look” perhaps almost in a shorthand way, a caricature or cartoonish kind of way. Sadly, infuriatingly, so often they then go on to labour their chosen medium until the likeness is lost among a mess of unfortunate brushstrokes and bright ideas that didn’t quite work out. 

Knowing when to stop, with any art form, is a skill that cannot be taught and is always situation-specific. When is the work finished? Is it ever? Surely an unnecessary cheesy adjective (like unnecessary or cheesy) could be removed here, a comma inserted there; that dark patch on the chin ought to be softened; that high note could be attempted again, the bass could do with a tad more echo. If the moment when it is best to stop is only 20 minutes into a 4 hour competition and everyone is watching, the temptation to “improve” will be well-nigh irresistible. Otherwise, what are you going to do for the next 3 hours 40? Tinkering can be so detrimental, hindsight so cruel.

On occasion, the first version of something, whether of a painting, a poem, or a piece of music, may be the best that can be achieved. If the artist is on a roll, is in the zone, in the flow, is inspired or is enjoying any one of those near-synonymous labels of rare but magical highs of creativity, the work pours out effortlessly from the unconscious mind, ready made, down the arms and out through the fingers, as it were. The first “take” may be the most inspired and absolutely right version that will ever be achieved. Usually, it isn’t. The form or content may be all there in principle, but polishing and tidying up are normally required.

Very often the artist (or musician or writer), has to work “against” something, which in practice is what he or she has already produced, either in the current work or a previous one. The first marks on the canvas (or other recording medium) may be feeble, crude, awkward, inarticulate and wrong. However, they need to be “got down” so they can be worked upon; a start has to be made somehow, otherwise indefinite floundering may ensue. Parts as yet undecided in detail will need to be blocked out, overall structure planned. You don’t want the left ear falling off the edge of the canvas.

Once the initial attempt has been made, then it can be altered, deformed and improved towards the final product, with details added and tweaks performed as deemed appropriate. This process is similar to but is not quite the same thing as “doing a rough draft and then writing it up properly” – as we were perhaps taught to do with school homework. No, this is a deeper creative process, perhaps closer to carving or sculpting – or even wrestling - than to editing or striving to be neat. 

Typically, despite many notable exceptions in all creative media, the artist doesn’t know in advance what the final product will look, sound or read like, although they may have a mental picture, and recognise it once achieved. Or, at the end, they may be forced to accept that what they have produced isn’t what they had in mind, isn’t good enough, doesn’t “work” – or is acceptable only as something other than what they had intended.  Only once the creative process is well under way they may discover what it is that they are in fact trying to do; they may surprise themselves. In an essay published in 1998 the late Jenny Diski wrote: “One of the great pleasures of writing for me is starting out in the wrong direction and discovering how all points can eventually lead to home”. That particular writer evidently had her own demons, but more generally it can be said that a creative individual works his or her way into a work of art of any kind, writes into it or paints into it or plays into it - into it and against it - slowly finding out what it will be, experimenting, withdrawing, plunging in again, trying this and that until they have it.

Particularly annoying - or in a more positive assessment particularly revealing and informing - is when the painting, piece of music or item of text is completed, or nearly so, and then its creator suddenly realises in a eureka moment of supreme horror / excitement how it should have looked (sounded, etc), how or what it was “supposed” to be. The response at this moment may be despair, rejection, abandonment, exhilaration, a risky attempt at “fixing” the problem, or it may be the start of a motivation to go on to the next thing. There has to be a mechanism whereby a creative person moves from one project to the next, and this could be one of the components. 

This late-in-the-day realisation may be accepted as just another stage in the “working against” principle, part of that uncertain and meandering journey from first daub, scribble or squawk to finished masterpiece. Under normal circumstances that’s all to the good. Unfortunately, if the four hour deadline is approaching, for those brave bared souls on public display, it may be too late. Let’s hope that – at “time’s up” - what they’ve done is good enough.