The devil is in the detail

I’ve been preparing for an audition recently. I’m learning a particularly tricky bass line played by one of the stalwarts of the low end, Jaco Pastorius. Aside from the note bashing and training my fingers to do what I tell them, a lot of time is spent listening to the piece very slowly (thanks to nifty software developments) picking out all the little nuances that make this particular performance unique and the performer unmistakable.

And I’m not the only one. As a classical pianist I’m not alone in pouring over manuscripts trying to absorb every performance direction and assimilate it into my own performance technique. Painters too will stare unblinkingly at masterworks, trying to burn through the layers of paint to see how the original artist created their work. Actors will watch ad nauseam paradigmatic performances by great actors to try and glimpse the physical nuances that set them apart in the hope that by imitating them they too will become great.
All this focus on the minutiae of art has led me to think that the genius of artists is a self-perpetuating myth. They spend ages perfecting little things that only a dedicated few people will take the time to really notice. That is unless they join the canon of whichever artistic endeavour they have chosen to master, then even their faults and oversights will be praised as genius (Go on, count how many consecutive fifths Bach wrote in his chorale harmonisations).
So why bother to spend disproportionate amounts of time on details that most people will overlook? Because for those that do, it gives a depth of understanding that we as humans crave; a connection to the artist that makes them more human and us more divine. It’s what makes being an artist and human so fantastic.