The Anatomy of an Artist: A Study in the Constituents of Art by Mrinalini Gajmer
What even is the purpose of human existence if not to exhaust it in the pursuit of true art and perfection? Let not the word define its constraints, one who is proficient in their craft, who is, by layman’s terms, ‘good at what they do’, is an artist. ‘Art’ is, of course, a colloquial term for occupation, ‘profession’, and every ‘job’. For ‘everything worth being done, is worth being done well’. All that is to be done can be done as art, yet not every doer is an artist.
Most unsavory of tasks, most inglorious of events, are raw silk, waiting to be woven into an intricate tapestry. In the hands of the unwilling rather than the untrained, sorrow starts seeming ugly, uncouth, vile. Those that take the clay from the banks of sorrow, mold it into idols, are artists, those who burn in the face of failure, yet drive back to craft .
Who is the ‘true artist’ then, other than a euphemistic means to establish hierarchy? An ideology, a theoretical concept. What a large faction might argue to be a derivation of the Supreme Being or God, the highest form of the art itself, standing personified. Flawless, immune to err, not the victim of any folly. A true artist disposes of all that hinders, that trivializes their art, that dims their brilliance, and since to be human is to err, all that humanizes them. Only then is the ‘true artist’ achieved.
What is the purpose of distinction between the two, more precisely, ‘what makes a doer, an ‘artist’?’. Leading by the presumption that, artists are the successors of very few doers, their act itself creates separation. To the doer, the ‘act’, is simply an action, with the active and the passive. To the artist, the ‘act’ is a performance, a play, of poise and pretense. I have been reminded that even garments should be hung up with the mannerisms of a portrait being painted, by my mother, who had been reminded of the same by hers.
Art and beauty are not synonymous. One’s absence does not deign the other futile. Yet, those who take the ‘gut and gore’, the ‘unconventional’ and persist to craft with them regardless of societal stigma, have overcome, a sizeable hurdle, to be called an artist. Why is simply being an artist not enough? Because it is never for title that one crafts, but for the craft. To tend to it, to critique it, and to perfect it.
When the possibility of a better creation, dangles tantalizingly ahead, the creator will always fall prey. When one’s heart, soul and spirit are poured into a singular passion, the fruits it bears will naturally morph into the cusp of their conscience and the axis of their soul. The purpose that bards sung about a millennium ago, has materialized in front of them, they have discovered their meaning. Why would anyone not sway to the grand two-step, even if it lasts for a decade, if, it immortalizes the cadence of the singer, the glory of the skilled heels? The mortal vessel, built of clay and dirt falls pallid, in comparison to the Utmost. Call it the basal human urge for perpetuation, for immortalization, for ‘undying glory’, but they don’t “practice” their art, they embody it, or at least they desire to do so.
The pressing query still stands unanswered, ‘What Makes An Artist?’. Quintessential in writing, yet true by word, an artist is certainly identifiable, be it one of prose and poetry or war and woes, for certain variables, ‘make’ them.
Passion, a fire, which churns to life, birthing all. A ‘spark’, that ignites the passion, the ravenous urge. A forest fire warming the heart, the true ‘calling’, which beckons with a siren’s song, ushers forth, the listener, to come. Come and immerse, drown, dedicate your live and promise ones to come, to this, your celestial message. For you are nothing, nothing without, your art, your purpose. Every vessel, every ruby bead, every shred of consciousness is set aflame and the warmth of a thousand dying stars courses rapidly, through one. An artist is conjured here, drunk on passion, blazing in flames. This is the mother of the Faustian bargain, or the ‘deal with the devil’. It looms over their sense of purpose, condemning it for not striving to become the absolute. The artist readies themselves, to denounce, even this mortal vessel, and the spirit it hosts, if it were to bring them the absolute, and sets it onto those sinuous hands, of the devil. A price paid.
Tragedy. If embers birth the artist, then mounting waves shape her. Tears of sorrow, doom, glory, pain spill over. The artist is not a solitary being for, she is accompanied, by melancholia. Mortal peril, or a gradual fall into the abyss it is forever a tragic drama, from which the artist’s first scene opens. Cruelty of the art, is imposed on the artist too. All suffer the same plight, incurred with their magick. Poor hands, tired shoulders, and that mighty head forever raised towards the heavens he painted, Michelangelo persevered for his immortal chapel, never to see the grounds he walked, again, remaining affixed towards his heavens. A fate that he didn’t choose, one that followed him. Later on, when the weaves of time, have frayed, this shadow will sit quiet and heavy, waiting for the artist to realize that her sorrow is the only one who remains. An abandonment of, or by the rest, that is hard to discern but is palpable now. Even now, a gentle caress remains of the potent air, this tragedy, the artist’s first muse. A laurel studded with thorns to crown a doer, finally an artist.
Obsession, not be confused with passion, the protagonist’s character is of course embossed with this most visible jewel. Bond, the one between the art and the artist is forged- distinct, and understandably potent. It is one of exceptional devotion, yet not the kind, shown to gods, of dedication yet not one meant for measly ambitions, determination but not the kind meant for conquest. The kind that drags the scraped knees and broken bones, bruised hands of the destroyed artist back, back to craft. Notwithstanding the failures, the sheer disappointment the self-loathing and ambiguity towards oneself, the kind of magnetism that tightens like a noose around the tired wrists, even if they have plummeted to the depths of despair and doom has consumed the spirit within. It is the sheer force driving the artist back even when they have been humiliated by their craft to a point of betrayal, of deceit when their best efforts, the apex of their aptitude is still not sufficient. A vicious wheel they smile into.
Madness, or the best possible outcome, the great ascension, the metaphorical morphing of the artist into her art. Completion of the great pursuit, the birth of a true artist, the accomplishment of all that there was to life. A trance like state, where the artist sees the halo of glory, where she has refined her art and by extension herself to a point of achieving the Utmost. In naivety, the salvation, the ‘moksha’, for the artist where she has become, what she wanted, she has exhausted herself in the pursuit of perfection, she has scattered into a million stars, she is no more in possession of the ‘human’ quality of err. The artist is now inhumane, a true artist at last, the artist is now ‘Mad’ for she is not human. Thereby, the road to success shines bright, for it burns the soles that walk it and blinds those watching.
Now, I believe we are fairly acquainted with the anatomy of an artist, what makes them, what breaks them. Perhaps, you will be able to identify one on the street for it does take ‘one to know’.
About the Author
Mrinalini Gajmer, from India is an 11th grader, a student of humanities, who is passionate about debates, social behaviours, the human condition, poetry and creative writing. This is one of her very first works, yet one that is heavily inspired.
