In an essay, "On the Pleasure of Painting," William Hazlitt contemplates the question of "...whether the artist, or the mere man of taste and natural sensibility, receives most pleasure from the contemplation of works of art" (Table Talk, 17). In so many words, Hazlitt argues that artists understand art in a different way from those who don't practice it:
"Natural sensibility alone, without the entire application of the mind to that one object, will not enable the possessor to sympathize with all the degrees of beauty and power in the conceptions of a Titian or a Correggio; but it is he only who does this, who follows them into all their force and matchless grace, that does or can feel their full value. Knowledge is pleasure as well as power. No one but the artist who has studied nature and contended with the difficulties of art can be aware of the beauties, or [be] intoxicated with a passion for painting" (Table Talk, 17-18).
Hazlitt seems to suggest that--on some level--our ability to appreciate art depends upon our experience in actually making it. Painters can appreciate the skill of a particular effect, or the innovative nature of a new technique, because they are themselves deeply engrossed in the physical act of creation. To those outside the painting class, no amount of acquired taste or natural sensibility can make up for this lack of physical experience.
While I don't think Hazlitt's description fits all painters, I suspect his observation contains an element of truth. In fact, I think Hazlitt's notion proves true across almost any field of performance; that those who practice it see things differently than those who merely observe.
Music is a good example. The conductor of the orchestra with which I used to play was also a composer, and he would frequently point out nuances in the music he found interesting or which he wanted the rest of us to notice and bear in mind while playing. While also a performer, this conductor's experience as a composer seemed to allow him to think about the music in a different way--in short, as a fellow composer rather than simply a performing monkey. The relation between the conductor and the original composer became a kind of dialogue between two like, creative minds.
Sport also provides insight in this regard. When I watch a sport which I've never played, I find it difficult to know what is "quality" except by comparing it to how one person or side is doing against the other. Everything looks so effortless, and in some respect, easy too. How hard could it really be to score in handball, or do a vault in gymnastics? On the other hand, in watching sports which I've practiced a lot, I feel a much greater appreciation of how easy the athletes make such difficult and complex tasks look. I watch Michael Phelps swim the 200m-Fly, or Galen Rupp run the 10km, and am blown away by how easy they make it seem. Yet having trained for many years and raced both events, I realize how challenging it is to perform in the manner these "experts" of their craft do.
To return to music, the same is true with performance. When I listen to a recording of a bassoon concerto, it amazes me how rich and easy the performer makes the piece seem. Surely I could do that, right? Yet when I make a recording of myself playing the same piece, the difference in craft and skill becomes evident. Good intonation--which the professional wields like second nature--is in my own rendition wobbly and suspect. When I try to phrase a line of music, I find that it lacks the potency of my professional counter-part. What seemed easy just in listening turns out to be far more difficult to realize in practice.
From these examples, I begin to see how experience causes us to see those tasks in different ways, both in our own practice as well as that of others. We have a different sense of what is quality when we've labored and practiced the task ourselves. It's not to say that we can't appreciated those things we've never tried (such as handball, gymnastics, or equestrian for me); it just means that practice seems to give us a new sense of appreciation for excellence in a craft when we see it. If nothing else, perhaps we should be cautious in judging the capacities and abilities of others when we have not walked in their shoes, and practiced their craft.
Happy Saturday, friends :)
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