A few weeks ago, during yet another wave of controversy over the National Endowment for the Arts¹, Michael Kaiser (president of the Kennedy Center) wrote in the Huffington Post about problems in the arts today. An excerpt:

The arts are in trouble because there is simply not enough excellent art being created….

Have we created and documented all we need of art? I don’t think so. Is the world short on talent? No, again.

But the institutional nature of our arts ecology, a relatively recent phenomenon, means that groups of people are now more responsible for arts making than the individual. Boards, managers and producing consortia are overly-involved.

And these groups are misbehaving. They are overly-conservative, subject to “group think” and so worried about budgets that they forget that bad art hurts budgets far more than risk-taking does.

While it’s ambiguous, I think Kaiser is generally talking about large organizations (like the Kennedy Center), organizations for whom stunt casting and $60-million-dollar musicals (which he calls out in the article as well) are actual possibilities. The distinction in Kaiser’s article between producing excellent art and being a champion of new work is a little fuzzy here; I think the two are related, but are not necessarily the same. (It’s definitely possible to excel at one and not the other.) It deserves mentioning (and has been mentioned) that small venues are much more likely to take the kinds of artistic risks that lead to both great art and new work, but I think this is kind of an aside to Kaiser’s main concern: the lack of that kind of risk-taking in organizations like the one he runs.

I basically agreed with Kaiser’s main point, and yet it’s been bothering me ever since. Here’s why:

Discovering “masterpieces” isn’t the point of producing new work. Fostering the growth of living artists is.

That sounds really egotistical, doesn’t it? Like I’m sitting here on a couch (which, admittedly, I am) saying that all y’all should be out there fostering my growth. (While you’re up, I would also like a pony, please.)

That’s not what I mean. What I mean is this:

Artists all start at the beginning. They grow the same way anybody learning a skill set grows: by study, by experimentation, by taking risks, by failing, by learning. Over time, successes (however one defines that) will hopefully emerge. But the failures and the experiments are a critical part of that development. Nobody wakes up writing masterpieces and writes a masterpiece every time, just like nobody bats 1000.

For many artists, producing work requires the participation of others: typically, composers, playwrights, choreographers fall in this category, among others. I rely on other people—I need other people—to be able to produce my work. While I’ve had some amazing mentors, there’s very little I can learn if I can’t have the experience of rehearsing my pieces, of hearing my pieces played. For artists in disciplines like mine, the willingness of others to take risks and experiment with us is an essential part of our development.

I think it’s perfectly understandable that any arts organization would want to produce the best possible work. But to approach new work with the sole goal of producing new masterworks is the best way to ensure that there will never be any. Any arts organization using this approach will guarantee that they will not be responsible for fostering the growth of young artists. And, if there are new masterworks out there, that organization won’t be the one to find them. Somebody else will be there first—namely, the arts organization who took a chance on that artist.

Besides: “masterpiece”?

There are two definitions I’ve heard for “masterpiece syndrome”, which to me seem to be two sides of the same coin.

In one, “masterpiece syndrome” is a type of writer’s block from which composers (and others) can suffer. Typically, a young composer wants so much to write a masterpiece, and is so daunted by the task, that s/he self-censors to the point that s/he can’t write. Nothing is good enough, so nothing gets written.

In another, “masterpiece syndrome” is something suffered by arts organizations and audiences, who think that only pieces that are generally considered to be masterpieces are worth programming or hearing. Only pieces on a certain mental list are worth performing, and they recycle that list, season after season.

I say they seem to be two sides of the same coin because they both fetishize the idea of the masterpiece. It’s the only thing worth making, or producing, or seeing. It’s the be-all, end-all of creating art.

But really, it’s a Platonic ideal. We all have some idea of what being a masterpiece means, but it’s much more difficult to define what makes a masterpiece, or what specific works are masterpieces. And reception (how a piece is regarded, how it does or doesn’t continue to be performed) is a very complicated issue. Social, political, and logistical factors always influence reception, and reception can change over time. It’s oversimplistic to say that the best art naturally rises to the surface and stays there, and that all any piece needs is a world premiere to prove that.

Pursuing a masterpiece is far, far less creatively rewarding than the simple act of doing. Of just writing, of just playing, of just listening, with an ear out for what’s good, but without a self-conscious, stifling concern about greatness. Let that take care of itself. As a maker or presenter of art, you can only afford to worry about quality to the extent that it doesn’t get in your way. Or, put another way, quality art is best achieved when you aren’t engaged in a romanticized, obsessive, pursuit of quality.

I once read about a ceramics teacher who divided her class in half and told each half that they would be graded in different ways. The first group would be graded based on the quality of a single pot that they threw over the course of the semester. The second group would be graded solely on the number of pots they threw that semester: the more, the better. By the end of the semester, the second group had emerged as overwhelmingly superior potters.

I know ceramics isn’t the same as composition. But there’s something to be said for doing, just doing; I believe that there’s an intellectual equivalent of developing good muscle memory, of refining skills simply by exercising them again and again. And for a composer like me, we need other people to go through that process with us.

Which brings us back…

To basically agreeing with Kaiser. “Bad” art is not the problem. Risks need to be taken, for the future of the arts to be as vital and exciting as its past. Say instead that boring, stale, recycled art is a problem. A season consisting of safe bets is the problem.

To basically disagreeing with Kaiser. Masterpieces aren’t a healthy goal for any arts organization. Risk-taking is going to give rise to good (maybe great!) art, mediocre art, and bad (maybe abysmal!) art. All of these are parts of the process. Paradoxically, the best way to make great art may be to not worry overmuch about greatness.

We’re all afraid of something: of not writing music that’s “great” enough, of not selling enough tickets or getting enough donations, of being exposed to the unfamiliar. Acting out of those fears is the best way to make them a reality.

¹ Even though it hasn’t figured much in the news lately, it’s still going on: the NEA’s budget is part of what’s on the table this week.