Some thoughts on mistakes in art-making

Of course wrong notes exist. As a composer, I’ve written too many of them to count—and I’m proud of it. I know it’s a truism to say that no work of art is perfect, and that mistakes will always reside in it. The questions, though, are where, when, and how they make their way in, as well as in what direction they lead. So much potential seems to blossom from those details alone.

Creating a work of art can often feel a little like navigating through a dense forest without a map, insofar as if you were hoping to make it from point A to point B, chances are you’re screwed. After all, there are simply too many trees, most of which look too similar… so you take a wrong turn. But here’s where things get interesting: it’s very possible this wrong turn could lead you to find something well worth the mistake, like a spooky cave system or some quirky herd of animals off to your left. Perhaps you’d even stumble upon a pot of gold, one which you can redistribute to those you meet on the other side of your trip.

It’d be convenient if the actual art-making process were so simple, but things seldom turn out that way. Suppose you make enough wrong turns to get seriously lost in that forest—no one wants to put themselves in such a dangerous position. And yet, just think that a single additional wrong turn could be the one to land you right in front of that well-hidden pot of gold! Now, the stakes are raised for a potential reward, and as such, a question of balance comes up: when is it no longer responsible to keep making wrong turns? I have a few ideas. One reasonable litmus test seems to be that you do have to find your way back out of the woods eventually (in order to take care of yourself—and, of course, to redistribute the gold from that pot you’ve hopefully found!). But there’s another, possibly more subtle ‘test,’ one which involves getting acclimated to what diversions prove worthwhile and which don’t. If you know of a particularly gorgeous lake deep in the woods, by all means revisit and dive in; if at another point you see a bear in the direction you’re going, however, best be on your way. 

Notice that all these possibilities remain inaccessible when one sticks to the correct forest path, whether it be a narrow path or a beaten one: such is the price of perfection.

And what does it mean to hold oneself to artistic perfection, anyway? It doesn’t only strike me as an unhealthy standard, but it also seems to carry a whiff of individualism, something incompatible with the sort of collectivity and reciprocity we need to persevere through trying times such as these. After all, mistakes at their best can prove to be a superior force for community organizing: if we have the vulnerability to share our mistakes alike, surely we can help care for one another’s blind spots and build a stronger future together. This seems to me like what the best art does anyway, even within itself: its elements, given the freedom to be what they are, support one another and are responsible stewards for the work in which they reside.

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I wanted to conclude these thoughts by presenting a piece of mine to show a little more of my perspective—one chock-full of mistakes! Based largely off of details from the music of a composer I personally despise, Johannes Brahms, and the mistakes I perceive in his work, Full Fathom Five V envisions Brahms’s role in an imagined musical apocalypse along with the very real political consequences of his musical philosophy. What place does Brahms’s vision of ‘developing variation’ have in a world eager to deflect, terrified of facing its own demons? And what is hell, anyway, other than what Giorgio Agamben calls “that place in which the divine government of the world survives for all eternity, even if only in a penitentiary form”? I could hardly think of a better force to wield against this hellfire than refusing to do one’s penance for one’s imperfections—speaking truth to power, and refusing to let guilt get in the way of action.

Of course, my thoughts above are already full of mistakes; with each passing day, I intend to hold myself ever more directly accountable for them. Yet, if art’s strength lies in manifesting a better world, I want my ‘mistake-full’ work to present a tool that’s as earnest, malleable, and characterful as can be. If it does, then I can hope that my mistakes haven’t failed my community.

—Forrest Eimold