Thursday, 18 June 2009

• The song does NOT, in fact, remain the same.

  In recent years, there has been some consternation regarding certain artists who, much to their fans’ annoyance, have been known to go back and alter their earlier works.  Writer, director, and producer George Lucas made substantial modifications to his classic Star Wars trilogy, prompting many an angry fanboy to howl, “Han shot first, damn you!”  In certain circles, there was no small uproar over the allegations (I can’t recall whether or not they were ever proven) that legendary Led Zeppelin guitarist and creative mastermind Jimmy Page recorded new guitar tracks when he began remastering the Led Zeppelin library in 1990.  Oh, and while we’re on the subject of remasters, some older audiophiles claim that the current crop of remastered albums are too uniformly loud, robbing the original recordings of their intended aural dynamics.  No matter the medium—comic books, movies, music, what-have-you—fans tend to resent what they perceive as undue tinkering with the objects of their adoration, even when said tinkering is by the hands of the original artist.

   

  Personally, I’ve never been the sort that begrudges a creator the right to change his work after the fact.  Audiences have an annoying habit of viewing the media they consume as somehow belonging to them, as if public consumption makes the creation one with its audience.  This notion, however, is utter nonsense, wonderfully illustrative of the needy self-absorption that plagues so many ardent “fans.”  I look at art as a window through which I am allowed to revel in the vision of the artist; though I may develop emotional attachments to—and fond memories from—the art I consume, that does not make it mine.  That art remains the manifestation of another’s vision, and I am merely along for the ride.  Until the work enters the public domain and thus becomes a recognized piece of the collective culture, it is another person’s intellectual property, to do with as he or she sees fit, even if changing said property might be ill-advised or downright silly.

   

  I do not say this to invite debate on the subject.

   

  Years before doing any “real” work in comics, I self-published a 14-issue series read by no more than a few hundred people.  During the course of writing and drawing that series, I was basically learning the craft as I went:  the early issues were, artistically speaking, lightyears behind the final few.  When I eventually decided to stop printing the individual issues (no, I don’t have any left) and collect the entire series in one fat volume (no, I don’t have any of those left, either), I gave serious consideration to reworking the art on the early issues to reflect the progress I had made over the years…and when my readers heard about it, some of them went absolutely nuts.  While my work wasn’t nearly popular enough to prompt anyone to deem it culturally relevant and therefore inviolable, I was informed in no uncertain terms that the whole point behind reading a collected edition of a self-published work is to see how the creator develops as an artist.  It was an assertion I was confident I could counter in debate—shouldn’t the needs of the story be paramount, or have we become totally obsessed with all things meta-contextual, even in our escapist entertainment?—but at the same time, I found myself agreeing that, in the world of self-publishing, watching the artist come into his own is part of the allure for many indie comics readers. 

   

  When the collected edition went to press, the art was unchanged, and the book sold quite nicely.

   

  Recently, though, I’ve undertaken the task of remixing my own musical recordings, and today, I had to re-record several guitar tracks in one of my songs.  Mind you, I wasn’t correcting any errors:  those I have left intact, and I assure you, the discerning listener will find many errors in virtually every song I write and record.  I have retained enough of my self-publisher’s DIY spirit to understand that anyone interested in hearing these recordings (including, as it may turn out, my own descendants) will want to hear me progress as a musician, and that means leaving my early works alone…as much as is feasible.  See, since I’m going from mono to stereo and cleaning up the mixes, it sometimes happens that the original tracks are simply not suitable for such work.  And thus, today, faced with some guitar tracks that just didn’t hold up under the scrutiny of a stereo mix, I broke with my own tradition and re-recorded four of the guitar tracks in one of my oldest songs. 

   

  My early home recordings were sometimes recorded under downright crude conditions (not that I’m by any means running an advanced operation now), and I didn’t yet fully understand my own equipment.  Those songs just don’t fare well when compared to my recent work.  I will likely never be a master of the form:  my drumming is rudimentary, my guitar-playing is simplistic, and my home studio will never sound quite like the real thing.  But nevertheless, I just couldn’t leave that song alone…it just deserved to sound better. 

   

  While the audience may love a creative work, its creator loves it more, and what creator doesn’t want the best for his artistic offspring?

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