John Singer Sargent, one of the most prolific portrait artists of the twentieth century, was a ruthless painter. His philosophy on painting: to never preserve something that didn't work. He thought that good art emerged from staying vigilant about your work's flaws. Once identified, the flaws would be expunged, and a total trashing of the painting would commence. In a review of Sargent's artistic process, historian Evan Charteris said that whenever Sargent "was dissatisfied, he never hesitated to destroy what he had done."
I first learnt about this approach through casually watching an art history video essay, of sorts. As a self-proclaimed John Singer Sargent fanatic, I knew he painted alla prima, otherwise known as wet-on-wet. I also knew Sargent often painted with minimal sketching, drawing directly from the figure or subject of his work. This sort of "sculptural" approach to painting felt appropriate for his painterly style and for someone who often painted plain-aire.
But I couldn't help but linger on his comfort in throwing away his painting at the first semblance of a mistake. How could it be that he had so little regard for his own work? I've been thinking about this question, and as someone who almost hoards their ideas, I believe that I have much to learn from Sargent.
This exploration begins with my own personal issue of never being able to throw anything away. I keep receipts from restaurants that I've been to, concert programs, acorns I find on the street, and press my favorite fall leaves every year. I can justify these activities by giving the objects I collect a purpose: the random stickers go in my junk journal, and the dried maple leaf can be made into a little card. My desire to hold onto the things around me, physical or not, is quite pervasive. When I begin painting or start writing, it almost never occurs to me that I can restart. I will toil over planning exactly the words I want to use and exactly the color I need to mix. In my mind, what I have begun to create is already a prized possession.
So it was baffling to me that Sargent took his work and tore it down to the studs. He would rub the paint off the canvas, repaint, and try once again. This happened over and over again. As I read more about his process in Charteris' book John Sargent, this continuous reworking was described in greater detail.
One of his former students talked about his practice by saying that "it was… impossible for a painter to try and repaint a head where the understructure was wrong" and that "no tinkering can ever rectify an initial failure." Sargent was clear about poor foundations. If they were faulty, you restart. Letting bad habits and miscalculations fester was unacceptable to him.
In theory, I love the idea of being able to immediately recognize my flaws and fix them. I love that, through keen introspection, you can become an engineer of your own processes, creative or not. But at this moment, I cannot say that I can fully embrace the act of restarting. I find myself begrudgingly letting go of a sentence I have just written. Stashing it away in a separate file that I always title 'graveyard', just in case I might need it. When I study or learn, I often do not catch my weak spots. When I edit my work, it is as if a small wound is created with each sentence I cut or sketch I erase.
A series of questions always emerge from my "scrapping" process: What if I cannot produce something as good next time? What if I cannot fix the failure? What if I am not good or strong enough to try again? Perhaps I am not yet brave enough for Sargent's method.
Now, for the sake of balance, I also should add that starting from scratch at every mistake isn't always the answer. Otherwise, I would likely have no artistic output or failed in many of my academic endeavors. To that point, other contemporaries of Sargent, such as Gustav Klimt, used successive, thin layers of paint to slowly build up to their final product, defying some of the Sargentian technique. The layering tradition, pioneered by notable Dutch and Flemish painters (van Eyck and Rembrandt), establishes baseline values and maintains the inner light and warmth of the work. What is interesting, though, is that across both techniques, the process of scraping mistakes and trying again is present. Sargent just goes one step further and begins the painting again.
So if restarting is so key to the process of creation, why is it so daunting? Philosopher Hannah Arendt comments on this in her formative book, The Human Condition. Arendt brings up the idea of 'natality'. She defines this as the innate ability of humans to engage in the process of beginning. Arendt says that inherent to beginning is restarting, and "that something new is started which cannot be expected from whatever may have happened before" (The Human Condition, 177).
What she so potently articulates is that the core of restarting is becoming acquainted with novelty, and with unexpected circumstances. When we complete each "birth," as she calls it, we are defying stagnation. My interpretation of this is that Arendt is telling us to act boldly. I think she wants us to acknowledge that restarting, beginning anew, is radical. If Sargent's methodology is to be believed and Ardent's ideas applied, then scraping the paint and starting from scratch is to transcend the uncertainty of succeeding or failing. Because, just by trying again, I performed a magical act. To me, natality is to make ripples. The freshness of a new "creative birth" can give us strength and enable us to make bigger, braver acts, to do harder things. And I think it's awfully hopeful to feel that my inherent human faculties make me capable of something great. I am great because I failed.
Now, I don't think that is some sort of groundbreaking message or prophetic advice. Nor do I think I will always push past the initial discomfort of my mistakes to allow for what Arendt classifies as rebirth. But it gives me grace and room for exploration. As I continue to make things and write things and paint things, I think Sargent and Arendt serve as beautiful reminders of what I am capable of doing. To strike a balance between holding on to what I consider precious and letting go of what is obscuring my success, in order to become.