On Remaining Unfinished
By Thom Walker
A brief contemplation on the finality, looking back, and the excitement of what’s yet to come.
For all that we talk of the future, art seems to have something of an obsession with the past. Why is the ‘retrospective’ the goal of so many within the art world? Looking at all the work made in the past as an indicator of importance in the present, or even predicting the value in the future, is perhaps the only way we can even attempt to keep up, to understand, what’s going on in a world in constant flux. In many ways, on account of the sadistic persistence of time, we are always a step behind of the now, maybe accepting this is the pragmatic approach. Perhaps instead of trying to keep up, walking backwards with our back to the future is the more blissful way of living. Maybe there is something reassuring in knowing the landscape in front of your eyes has already been, and knowing exactly where it sits in relation to all before it. Maybe it’s simply reckless naivety on my part, but sometimes I think it might be quite exciting to turn around and let the ferocious winds of time rush into your face, not harmlessly wash over your back.
It frustrates me that people always talk about the last work they made, or ask about the last work you made, or the last work they saw. Tell me about the next work you’re going to make. Tell me about what’s still to be done to that half-finished work. Tell me about the thought you had that might, maybe, become a work. Tell me about how excited you are for the idea that you had, that you can’t put into words. There’s something morbid about a finished work. When it’s all there, complete, to be viewed in its entirety and understood as such, when it’s no longer developing, is that not it’s death? When a person dies, we mourn. We mourn that no new memories can be made, we mourn that the person is no longer changing, they are set in our memories. When a person dies, we mourn, yet when an artwork dies, we’re meant to celebrate.
How often do works get killed, or at least put to sleep, just to meet a deadline, just to show someone, just to be easier for them to understand, to process? Imagine the reaction you’d get if you told someone that, as opposed to meeting their friend, you’d get a better, clearer picture of them from a photograph and a two-paragraph biography. Even when you know what the next step will be, isn’t there something to be said for the excitement of the moments prior to the step?
As I write this, I am reminded of Christmas. I love Christmas generally. I love food, I love seeing my family, and, to reiterate, I LOVE food. Yet every Christmas, without fail, I am caught by surprise by the odd gap that appears in the middle of the afternoon until early evening. I am not surprised by the presence of the gap, but rather by the strange melancholy that comes across me. Whilst my mum and dad are washing up, and my gran is putting the just-washed crockery into the wrong cupboards, when my brother’s social energy has become exhausted and he has returned to his bedroom, I sit quietly, contented, but somewhat in mourning. Not mourning that the food has gone, or that my gran will soon be leaving, but instead mourning the excitement of knowing these things are yet to come. I’ve never wished it could be Christmas every day, but at times I have wished that December 22nd would last a bit longer.
Whilst I would love to say that this contemplation was sparked by some insightful comment about how we should be looking forward to a post-pandemic world, considering how we can do things differently, do things better, that would be untrue. The truth is that these thoughts were germinated by my own selfish desire. Over the past year, I have made a lot of artwork, and had even more ideas for things I’d like to make. In almost all cases, the works have remained unfinished. I have lists of ongoing works and ideas for the future, I have half finished paintings, have written scripts, film that just needs editing, even books with just the last few pages left unread. When I find myself with a free evening, or a free day, or – as has been all too regular in the past year – a free week, I find myself desperate to start a new project, a new piece. I’m currently baking more pies than I have fingers and toes to have in them, and I have no intention of changing this.
The thing I have realized in the last year, is that beginning a project or starting a work is something I do for myself. Finishing them is purely done for others. Why on earth would I want to deny myself the excitement that comes with an unfinished work? Why would I want to replace the adrenaline, the hopefulness, of wondering whether an idea will work, just for the sake of knowing the answer? Why not draw the process out as long as you possibly can, play as much as you can, keep it changing, keep it alive? I understand that sometimes, to see a project to its conclusion, from egg to apple, from beginning to end, comes with a pleasure of its own. All things must end, but I want to let it die naturally, when I’m ready to let it go, when the excitement wears off or the curiosity becomes too much. Perhaps there’s something to be said for delaying a while, perhaps it’s a good idea to leave things unfinished, however long they may remain as such.