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The last time I drew for fun was during my first day
at the College of Fine Arts of the University of the Philippines.
After receiving four years of formal training in art and design
theory, technique and history, I could only draw when it was
required of me.
It was only decades later after I
graduated and a few months after I had left a career in Web design
to pursue my love for journalism that I was able to complete a
series of drawings necessary for a revamp of my personal
website—itself an effort I had procrastinated over for three
years. (I finished my drawings and the new Flash website in just a
month.)
The first and last time I wrote a
short story worth publishing was as a noncredit student at the
doctorate program of the UP Creative Writing Center upon the
invitation of Dean Cristina Pantoja-Hidalgo. Today, after four years
as a staff writer and columnist for The Manila Times as well as a
cover story contributor for Mega, Lifestyle Asia, Manual and JetSet
magazines, I only have the time and the desire to write for
assignments.
I love doing what I love for a
living. But somehow, something inside me died.
It seems I have stumbled upon the
dividing line between designer and artist, journalist and novelist,
copywriter and poet, wedding singer and garage band, standards
crooner and singer/songwriter, classical corps de ballet and the
lone contemporary dancer/choreographer, artisan and artist.
The designer selflessly pleases
market needs and fulfills utilitarian expectations while the painter
indulges in self-expression. The journalist writes on-demand what
events dictate while novelist takes his own sweet time to craft all
the whims of his imagination. The studio session player performs
what his clients want with utter perfection and utmost versatility
while the garage band player sings her heart out with little formal
schooling but with much do-it-yourself bravado.
There’s immeasurable value in
formal training. It’s not job titles or diplomas, but the rigor
and discipline of academic and professional training that
distinguishes the professional from the amateur and bestows upon him
credibility and confidence. We are taught to be selfless, that
it’s not about us but about what our clients or our audiences need
from us. More than technical excellence, formal training instills in
us principles and ethics.
That’s why anyone can be a
blogger, but few can write balanced reportage mindful of
socio-historical context. Anyone can sing on karaoke, but only few
can claim to be pitch perfect. Anyone can paint white on white or
doodle like a child, but few can be guided by theory as they follow
the footsteps of Russian Suprematist Kasimir Malevich or Dadaist
Marcel Duchamp.
But why is it that many session
players find it hard to write their own songs, or even define their
own musical identity? Why is it that some journalists who can draft
800 words in an hour find themselves dumbstruck when there are no
deadlines and assignments to prod them?
In honing ourselves, some have
lost their edge. Is the dust that we shed as we polish ourselves the
best part of us? The roughest parts of our selves may be our very
character. All that we can call our own in this life are our scars
and our mistakes.
Those who burden themselves with
the history of their art find themselves cowering under the shadow
of immortals. Those who take pains to study theory find themselves
entangled by constraints. Perfectionists procrastinate with bouts of
self-doubt and stage fright; they are never good enough for
themselves. And those such as I who know just enough to get by are
always fearful of being exposed as the hacks we really are.
In the end, there is no excuse
not to create. If the untalented and the artless can do it, so can
we, even better still. It’s been said that you first have to know
the rules before you can break them. So break them. If only I could
only follow my own advice.
E-mail Culture Vulture at
rome.jorge@ gmail.com or log on to blog.360.yahoo.com/hanepdesigns.
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