Years ago, as a first time visitor to Paris’ Louvre Museum, I found myself emotionally overcome (yes, I mean tears, folks) when I came to face to face with Giotto's’ altarpiece St. Francis talking to the birds. Lured by an unidentified magnetism, I endured the tears that I tried to hide, as I stood inches from the painting—touched by the realization that I was standing in the same circle of space as the artist—my breath kissing the same area of the work that the artist’s breath had warmed.
The figure in the painting had returned Giotto's stare just as it was now returning mine. My eyes focused at the same level as the artist's. My nose inhaled the ancient paints and lacquers just as Giotto had dizzied from the fresh smell of linseed oil mixed with finely pulverized pigments as he applied them--brush kissing the canvas.
Where his shadow, anchored by his shoes, had darkened the floor in front of his canvas, mine now did the same.
Up close, detailed color particles gave the masterpiece a mottled look. Inspecting the brush strokes, I saw the path of his progress. The crowded dabs of color gave life to the whole when seen from a distance.
I studied the painting. The dull grisaille of the under-painting was barely noticeable under the finishing colors and the sealant. Each step employed by the artist gave authenticity to the process of creating a masterful work of art.
It is the same with writing. An author’s premise is the under- painting, words, sentences and paragraphs—the detailed particles. The first draft is the primer, the grisailles—the re-writes. The editing is the polish that finishes and preserves the work.
All the layers are there, just as they are in the visual arts. That’s how we get masterpieces in fiction, non-fiction and poetry. We can approach writing as if it was art, or we can approach writing like the art it is.
