One of my cousins is a fantastic woodworker (Jileswoodworks.com). As a kindred spirit with a passion for fine carpentry myself, when we get together, it’s very easy for us to ramble on for hours of conversation around the craft; from tools to materials and everything random rabbit trail and cul de sac in between. Seth is what I would call an artist. Like any skilled craftsman, he works with the smooth hands of one whose strength has been finely tuned to his work by years of repetition, but his best work carries a certain creativity and ingenuity that goes beyond craftsmanship and into artistry. He is brilliant and innovative.
Yet in our shop talk, we often come back to a very important theme; the economics of the art. Very few people are actually willing to pay for an artist, and rightfully so. The art exists in the mind (or soul if you want to get metaphysical about it) of the artist. If you really want art, you must essentially pay for a creative to execute his own will, and not conform to any vision of your own. This either requires a sponsor who is willing to pay for scores of pieces that fall short of excellence in order to earn the one that transcends, or it requires the artist to create in his own time and at his own expense until he grinds out in sweat and blood, a piece that is recognized for the art that it is.
Once upon a time, I would have thought of myself as an artistic type. But my trade, the job is to develop and execute someone else’s vision, not my own. As a result, my creativity is often limited to the context of the desires and needs of my customer. This can at times be stifling if I let it get to me; I rarely work for someone who likes the things I like or wants to do the things I want to do; and every so often, I am hired to build and install something that flatly don’t like the aesthetics of. I am much less of an artist than my cousin, so this tension is less of a problem for me than it might be for him, but it does lurk in the background, and raise its head every so often and drive me to evaluate the dueling identities of aloof artist, and savvy capitalist.
In the end, it’s the savvy capitalist who pays the bills, so I do what I’m asked, and to the best of my abilities, I execute the visions of other people. Yet all the while, I take notes, lock away the things that I discover that I like, and I save them for later. Maybe one day when I remodel my own home, I’ll get to let my inner artist out of the backseat and let him drive for a while.
But in the meantime, I’ve been surprised by the beauty that I find my role as executer of other people’s vision. Even with an excellent road map (as I am often provided with, by designers, architects, and homeowners), I have found that there is a little recognized skill in the art of articulating and applying design, that I have learned and developed over the last several years. It requires some level of technical knowledge of the materials, processes, and tools, but much more it requires the ability to hear the customer’s needs, often through a miasma of misunderstanding. Folks might know what they want, but not know how to describe it, explain it, or understand if it’s even possible to get it. It is an absolute delight when a customer comes to me with some kind of vague idea of what might be neat to have, and then by means of a lot of careful listening and rephrasing, consideration of my accrued technical and structural knowledge, and then with even more careful execution, be able to provide a delighted customer with a feature that is wholly unique to themselves.
Similarly, I find myself surprised by the beauty of clean, tight work. When the critical path of a schedule flows without interruption, with each contractor weaving in and out of the job fluidly around each other, never interrupting each other’s work, it’s wonderful to feel and observe. When the job ends and all surfaces are clean, tight, flat, plumb, and square, and every finish and reveal noticed and properly attended to, even if the finishes aren’t the ones I have chosen, I can very much appreciate the beauty of the completed whole.
Finally, and probably least surprising, I find myself delighted by the beauty in the team of people I get to work with. I have long felt that construction is a very sensible industry – a customer wants a particular product, and they hire me to provide it. I then in turn hire the team that I need to bring that product into being and seek out the vendors from whom I can procure the necessary materials. With kindness, clear and proper communication, and a willingness to understand, there is no reason why everyone shouldn’t get what they need and want. Still, it’s impossible to build a quality team without encountering some folks who simply do not properly mesh with the vision and process I aim to provide, so we go our separate ways. Maybe it’s the people of the Central Coast, or maybe it’s people in general, but even these instances seem to be rare and not particularly painful, and the resulting team, from the smiling vendors behind cash registers, to the owners who sign my checks, I have been surprised by the capability and beauty of the team around me.
Maybe I have not become an artist as I might have once envisioned an artist to be, but in pursuing the humble and earthy needs of income and shelter, I may have actually stumbled on a hidden artistry I never knew existed. If an artist’s goal is to attempt to create, engineer, steward, and delight in beauty, then I count myself privileged enough to be one.