I sat in the midst of a gaggle of theater students in acting class the other day. A lighting professional, one that seemed to think that even his speech was a symphony coming from his lips, asked the question “Who in here considers themselves an artist?” I sat for a moment, pondering the question, only to quickly realize that I had been outnumbered. The resounding response from my classmates was to all raise their hands whilst I sat and thought to myself, “You’re not an artist. Don’t you even begin to think that.” Let me explain my reasoning before I come to the pinnacle of this tale.
When I think about art, I think about painting. I’m not entirely sure of the origin of this thought, but it’s probably because I consider art to be the entirely realistic Renaissance portraitures with a menagerie of lifelike details within the frame. If someone were to ask me my definition, I’d have to say that I consider art to imitate life fully with every detail exact and perfect. While I realize that perfection is, to say the least, unattainable, I think some people come very close. What does this have to do with screenwriting, you ask? Well, we’re called to imitate life. We hold a mirror up to human nature and are to record, in the most entertaining yet sparse style, human behavior. I didn’t make that up, mind you. That came from the seasoned wise words of Professor Paul Wolff, a man who truly knew his place as a screenwriter. He taught me all my habits, of digging into the soul of the character, becoming the character, their physicality, holding a conversation with them, none of that is art. It’s just research.
The only possible means of considering screenwriting an art form is when it truly does mimic life completely. When the characters are so lifelike in every behavior and the dialogue is conversational and not stinted, then maybe it’s going to be art. But forming words on a page or imitating characters isn’t enough. Screenwriting depends on adaptation to the screen, on another artist’s perspective on words (the director), on the actors to bring life to the characters, who all run on the same belief that human reality can be brought to life via simulation. Even then, movies and television shows offer the audience this: an escapism from their own human reality. We provide that reality, the happy reality, the imagined reality, the reality that in the midst of everything can suck in your mind and make you forget about pain. And yet, I can’t forget about pain, because without it, I wouldn’t be a writer.
I can’t say documenting another person’s life is art. I can’t say that I’ve experienced every emotion that I’ve written; I’m too young, I haven’t enough life experience. But give me a character, and I’ll write him. I’ll explore every last fear, hope, sadness, joy, and pain if it means I’m coming closer to human life experience. It’s a process unlike any other, and many an artist has probably attempted this craft and given in to its impossible nature. Writing is the most difficult craft to master, and yet strangely, the most rewarding.
I’ll finish the anecdote now. While feeling awkward that I didn’t raise my hand, the lighting professional looks at me with a snide doubt in his face, asking another question. “Why don’t you think you’re an artist?” Straight faced, not a waver in my voice, I answer, “If I considered my work as art, I would’ve already obtained everything, and would have nothing to work for. It’s a craft.” I won out. He had nothing to say but, “That’s an interesting philosophy.” Take that all you artist wannabes.
