The process of creation is often described as something that demands a prominent place and time for itself. Perhaps because that is how the artist wants it to be seen. It is precisely in the search for the genesis of great masterpieces that idiosyncratic curiosity is prepared to peer into special contexts and conditions of contemplation of what is, for the most part, infinitely mundane and ephemeral. We know, for example, that while C.S. Lewis was writing his justly famous Letters from the Barn Screw, Mrs Moorn, busy with her housework, teased the writer every half hour on the pretext of petty, trivial chores. Velázquez painted his best group pictures on his royal post after being ambushed by rival and envious colleagues. And Menyhért Tóth, tired of his farm work, began to paint after ten in the evening. But Radnoti did not become a great poet because of his study and his polished desk, but because of the agony of the lagers and the forced march, which brought out the most beautiful memories.

The list could go on and on, if the external conditions necessary for creation were not present, and the work was in fact created in a decidedly counter-inspirational medium. No one can believe that masterpieces are created on a Sunday morning, wearing a silk dress and with legs crossed. Poverty, acute illness and disappointment in love can inspire great deeds, but masochism must not be exaggerated. The principle of the worse the better fails if we seek trouble ourselves or try to create it artificially – by self-destruction. Because all normal people like peace and quiet, leisure time, when they want to immerse themselves in something. Experience has shown that, regardless of talent, the real work is whether we can create the inner and outer conditions for the important things. But this never means complete freedom and an immaculate environment, because that would mean moving away from the very environment that could ultimately be the contrast to our work. The battle is often fought with grand gestures for the nuances that can ultimately produce something important. One concentrated hour in a clean room can be more productive for a writer than two months hanging around a pub. Or the search for a particular colour of pigment can set in motion a whole series of paintings, but the motivational power of coffee at the right temperature should not be underestimated.

But the external freedom we have long won is worth nothing if we have not gained our inner independence. The wide open waters of inner freedom are difficult to navigate. Whole life’s works are stranded in harbours that only seem to be art because they are lapped by the same water that licks them from the safety of the pier, while it takes others into the deep, where they can no longer spare the personal navigation system that is the true sign of adulthood. Typically, three anchors hold back or drag the life’s work.

Epigonism

The first is epigonism, which is a double-edged phase of becoming an artist, because without it no true life’s work can be born. All great art is born out of the admiration of someone, and all great artists begin as amateurs. Not all imitators become original artists, but all original artists began as imitators. Those who cannot be moved by the lives of others will never be moved by them. The real interest is not in the subject itself. Those who begin with themselves end up alone. Despite this obvious utility and humble position, we must leave behind the safe cloak of stylistic nostalgia if we are to find our own voice. But this bold departure never means abandoning ideals and admired role models. In fact, we often see the charm of a disciple who, having long outgrown his master, is still stuck in that posture of gratitude that makes his own greatness seem less than that of his master, and exalts the master, who could just as easily have learned from him, above himself.

State-of-the-art

The opposite motivation to the epigraph is the cackling and convulsive search for the sublime modern. Being contemporary and being unique are not always the same thing (nor, of course, are they mutually exclusive). There are many works that meet the requirements of trendiness, that speak according to the word order of the grammar of contemporary language, and yet they still ring with emptiness, and we can’t decide which of the dozens of creators is noticing the work. This is where curators and aesthetes without a sense of quality only deepen the confusion, because for the sake of external form they also trap works without internal credibility at the main entrance to the casual canon. On the other hand, there are impressive and distinctive works of art that stand out from their surroundings and are confusingly anachronistic. They will only be valid in the future, or only the future can justify their former local value. Those who consciously seek the pulse of the beating heart of their age usually fall out of their own rhythm and ultimately out of the bloodstream of their age. I think this vanity could be spared by good and select company. The pressure to be contemporary and to have a valid message will affect an artist if and until he has nothing of his own to say to the world. After that he may even let go and let the natural and hitherto considered self-expression take the place of conformity.

Feedback

It is only the privilege of madmen and geniuses to be able to shut out feedback from their environment. But this is a dangerous and unacceptable mode of operation for any normal human being. A qualified case of arrogance is when one isolates the development of one’s inner norm and self-image from the outside world. This, of course, can never succeed, for there are few among us who are truly mad and genius. There are many more examples of the opposite: for example, when the artist’s flattened compass is pulled by published reviews or the lack of them, by the sales index or the taste of the gallerist’s current clientele. But the momentum of the creative arc can also be disrupted by a tap on the shoulder or a suspicious look from friends. The pursuit of success and positive feedback can be positive doping, but it rarely brings inner satisfaction to the artist. Only a superficial cynicism would see it as moralising when someone, satiated by the high inputs and the ‘cult of pleasure-seeking’, starts looking for his own secession. And yet, as a host of historical examples prove, those who have done the most for the world have always been those who have turned their backs on it. But the important milestone in achieving artistic freedom is not the complete elimination of influences, but the selection of relevant authorities.