What Happened to Art?

Years ago, say back in late 19th century, many people were craftsmen. They created things with their hands, were proud of their accomplishments, and were somewhat respected in society for it. But then something happened; society changed. We began to look down on the craftsmen, praising instead the intelligentsia, encouraging all our children to get a college education and work in the field of the intellect. We only need to think of the lowly plumber or grease-stained auto mechanic to see the truth of this.

Way back when Henry Ford began developing his assembly line form of auto manufacturing, he had to hire ten times the number of workers he actually needed. Why? Because 90% of them would quit.

But why?

Simple. They were bored.

The people he would hire were artisans, craftsmen, people who were highly skilled in their field and who took pride in their work. These were people who would take a tree and turn it into a wagon. Well, maybe not. I'm sure many of them went to the lumberyard and used boards, but you get the idea. They were not the sort of people who enjoyed making the same widget over and over, day after day, week after week, with no reprieve in sight. They were far more interested in crafting and creating the whole wagon, responding to the peculiar qualities of each individual piece of wood, moving from one part to another as needed, keeping their interest by fabricating an entire object, not just one tiny little component over and over again, ad nauseum.

Within a few years, though, all that changed.

There were no, or at least few, master craftsmen left. Those who were educated in the new public school programs that were designed at that time never knew the satisfaction of a beautiful creation, from raw materials to completed product. They were trained to work in factories. Society had told them that this is what life was meant to be like, and they believed it, and their craft was relegated to the realm of hobby. Their salary was merely compensation for having to put up with the boredom of their work, no longer seen as a reward for a creating a work of lasting, or at least functional, art.

We went from a society of creative artisans who would look at each and every individual problem and strive to find a creative way around it to a group of people who were trained and taught to follow instructions from a collective think-tank of managers who had likely never built anything in their life. These new managers didn't see the art in the product their company made, but rather merely the broad lines: how to streamline the assembly line, and ways to fatten the bottom line.

These new managers and factory owners don't want creativity in their workers but instead hire people for their ability to take a set of instructions and problem-solve by looking up the correct page reference in their corporate-approved manual. Even the companies that strive to encourage their workers in making their job more efficient are often ham-stringing their employees by taking their suggestions and either filtering them up for approval and back down again as another paragraph in their manual, or giving a token reward of a few dollars while upper management reaps in millions. Either way, the lowly worker is no longer seen as one worthy of respect, but rather as a, well, lowly worker who is expected to follow the rules.

As Frederick Wilson Taylor said, "...(M)anagers assume... the burden of gathering together all of the traditional knowledge which in the past has been possessed by the workmen and then of classifying, tabulating, and reducing this knowledge to rules, laws, and formulae." The founders of the MBA program at Harvard loved this, as did Joseph Stalin.

In short, process replaced craft.

"All possible brainwork", Taylor went on to say, "should be removed from the shop and centered in the planning or laying-out department..."

And that brings me to today, and my work with chain-mail.

Over and over I see on the internet, or hear from mailers who stop by my booth, "Am I doing it right?"

That very question presupposes that instruction manual approach. Just the other day I had a friend over who had begun to make a bracelet and was talking of taking it apart because it wasn't what he wanted. "It's no good", he said. "It's not JPL-5."

"So? Who said that you had to make JPL-5? What you have made is beautiful, and worthy of finishing. Why waste the time taking it apart? Why not just finish it?" He was surprised, and possibly even ashamed, that he hadn't recognized that himself. He had fallen into that trap, even though he knew better.

"Is it ok to use this?" "Can I do that?" "Where are the instructions for this?"

While these may be reasonable questions for a rank beginner, I feel that they should be discouraged. Instead of answering them with a dichotomous yes or no, we should, perhaps, respond with a more educational, "What happens if you do use this or do that?" "Look at that item. Can you figure out how to make it? Here are the ring sizes, to give you a head start."

Just this morning I was asked to make a few flowers to go around a beautiful metal hummingbird on someone's wall. I asked them the colour of the room, about the view from the window, and the size of the space on the wall around the hummingbird. They had seen some of my small flowers and thought they might look nice with the bird, but I happen to know that hummingbirds don't feed on those types of daisy-shaped flowers. And those flowers, in relation to that bird, are way too small. They make the hummingbird look to be the size of an eagle. I'll make a few of them, as requested, to match the room, but my pride in my work forces me to create a more conical larger flower, one that a hummingbird enthusiast will recognize as relevant to the scene. Has one been made before? Not that I'm aware of. Do I have instructions? Nope. But I have materials. I have my inspiration. I have a vision. And I have perseverance. While I hope to get it done by tomorrow morning, it may or may not happen. But I will have made a start, can show them what I have, and hopefully create something new and beautiful which they will love, and of which I will be proud.

Will it be "right"?

No.

It will be a work of art, like all my work. And all of yours, too, if you only allow yourself to see it that way.

Memory

Summer is my busy time. This means that I end up writing about one article every month, if I'm lucky, as opposed to my usual two or three a week in the winter months. It's not that I can't think of anything to write; quite the contrary. There is a lot to write about. It's just that by the time I get home, unpack the car and get a bit of food or water in me, I'm completely exhausted. I've wholly forgotten all the ideas that flit through my mind during the day. Gone. Pfft. Even if I write them down in my notebook, I still can't remember to think about that notebook when I arrive home.

But writing isn't the only thing that suffers from my lack of memory at this time of year.

Of course, there is the usual parenting issue of calling the child by the pets names, or forgetting where I put the keys. There are the odds and ends that end up oddly in the freezer for no explicable reason. And there are the countless times I end up remarkably dog-like, walking into a room and having no clue why I went in there in the first place.

Memory is one of the major casualties in the summer.

Of course, it's not just me.

Yesterday, at the market, one of my neighbours came up to me and asked me if I had an extra table cloth. It seemed that somehow he had left his at home. Of course, it just so happened that another neighbour had picked up a brand new table covering for me just the week before, so yes, I did happen to have an extra one.

That was an unusual request, to be sure, but not, by far, the only one.

Over the years I have left at home things like my change float (which is the stack of small bills that I use to give change to people throughout the day), my credit card machine, various boxes of stock, all my mannequins, and even my pliers. Oh yes, even the Mobius Balls have suffered this indignant fate.

My various neighbours at the market also suffer this aestas careo memoria.

There have been many days when a friend leaves a pile of boxes at their booth site only to run back home to get some essential thing. I've seen people try to set up their booth, having left their tents, tables, or various display items at home. One of my favorites are the times when someone has set up their tent, hung all their items from it, placed all of their stock ever so carefully where it all belongs, and then discover that they forgot to put their banner on said tent. It is quite amusing watching as they try to find various ways to hang their banners without lowering their tent. Being taller than most there, I offer to help, but it's still fun to watch.

The best of all, though, was my own sad story. There was one time that I got in the car and headed out to work, bright and early, ready to face the morning traffic into downtown. It was sunny and there were some good tunes on the radio. It was looking to be a great day. The temperature was just right for that wee hour, signaling weather that would be perfect, neither too swelteringly hot nor too cool for comfort, with just a gentle hint of a breeze for good measure. I made it downtown without too much difficulty, a little bit of traffic, a few minor snarls. I got caught behind an ancient bicyclist on the bridge, and had to wait for this seemingly one-legged arthritic tortoise to get across, not being allowed to pass cyclists on that particular bridge. Then there was the garbage truck in the alley, so I had to wait for them, too. Of course, these guys were particularly virtuous, striving to demonstrate excellence in a job well-done. They took extra care to ensure that the garbage was placed ever so carefully in the back of the truck, and even more care to place the bins back exactly where they had been. They were something like world champions of the OCD refuse collection olympics. Finally, I was able to pull in, and back up to the place where I unload. With my daily sigh of relief at getting there intact and in a somewhat timely manner, I got out of the car, walked around to the back, and popped the trunk.

Only to discover that I hadn't loaded it before leaving home.