“It could have been better.” — Joan Armatrading
Drawing quickly with a shell, using sumi and walnut ink. | Laurie Doctor Sketchbook
I have been thinking about perfection — not as that human reach toward the ever-distant horizon, which we must strive for — but as the frozen thing that stops us from moving forward because we get discouraged, embarrassed, self-defeated or afraid. The never good enough feeling that assails us. The most recent assignment in my writing group was to watch a video of Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire put to the music of Joan Armatrading’s It could have been better. It brought to mind how we stop ourselves by thinking I could never do that, and alternately, the transformation that can happen with vulnerability and courage.
I don’t usually interrupt the flow of writing with a link, but if you are inclined, this is worth watching:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OnFehAmnr-g&list=RDOnFehAmnr-g&start_radio=1
Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers float and fly across the floor, her gossamer white dress swaying with her unblemished beauty, his black tuxedo tails trailing in flight. Every perfect step, each perfect turn, every leap into the air is impeccable. They look but don’t see, touch but don’t touch, moving in perfect harmony. But we know that any faltering moments, any instance of having to pause and find each other or correct a mistake, have been edited out long ago. I wonder what is lost when every wrong move is deleted? It could have been better if Ginger fell, or Fred tripped or lost a step, and the false wall of perfection fell too. We humans are tied together in our vulnerability. The separation between the performers and the audience will open at the moment of vulnerability, and then something different happens.
In 2016, Patti Smith was invited to sing the seven minute Bob Dylan song A Hard Rain’s A Gonna Fall at the Nobel Prize ceremony. After the first stanza she lost her way. Not, as she said, that she forgot the words that she has known since she was a teenager, but that something came over her and she froze. For the first time in her career she lost her nerve. For the first time she was faced with an international audience of royalty, singing a song written by someone she deeply admired and wished to honor, and could not continue. There was no opportunity to edit. She stopped and opened her eyes. Instead of ignoring what happened, she looked out at the audience and apologized. She asked to begin again. She started over, still shaken. Now she had the entire audience with her, rooting for her, wiping their eyes.
She said later that it was of course humiliating and terrifying, to be in front of the king and queen and lose your way. But she knew from her experience that performing is about communication, that her allegiance is to her audience, and that she must tell the truth. Afterwards, with the Nobel Prize winners, she apologized again. But no, they all said, this is what made the difference — to know that this stumbling happens to you too, that we all go through this. We were with you, everyone was with you.
Patti Smith reflected more later on her experience, and on questions regarding doing the work you love: Why do we write or paint or sing? Why do we commit? Why do we perform? “It’s above all for the entertainment and transformation of the people. It’s all for them. The song asked for nothing. The creator asked for nothing. So why should I ask for anything?” she said.
“It’s above all for the entertainment and transformation of the people.” This is the difference between art and entertainment — the second part, transforming. You can entertain without transforming. It requires less of the artist and the viewer to stay on the surface. Art is something more than entertainment. It is something more than the glitter of “celebratrocity.” Transformation comes with the willingness and courage to be vulnerable in front of royalty and blazing lights. To break through disguise and pomp and procedure by acknowledging what is broken. This daring is accompanied by an animating force that enters by opening to the difficulty you find yourself in. Her courage is fortified by the question: “So why should I ask for anything?” In asking this question she knows that her work is no longer about her, but about her commitment to her audience, and to being truthful.
In the end, there was the feeling that the failure, the getting lost in the middle, allowed both Patti Smith and her audience to enter the song. To be inside the song. As she continued, the words became increasingly more powerful. It is spellbinding. It was not lost on her, she said, that the lyrics begin with I’ve stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains…
Choosing to be separate from their audience, Fred and Ginger fail to reel the audience in except as spectators to unassailable perfection. In allowing some of the stumbles to be visible, it could have been better.
How have you dealt with failure, disappointment or recovery? I’d love to hear from you.
Here is the link to Patti Smith’s performance: