copy, and copy real well.

"You haven't begun to see a painting until you've copied it."

While preparing for this post, I discovered a new word today: diaphanous.

di·aph·a·nous /dīˈafənəs/
adjective
sheer, (especially of fabric) light, delicate, and translucent.

So if you see it below, it’s because I want to use/practice. Because, why not? ONWARD!

Dear Readers,

About a month or so ago, I let my YouTube player run while I cooked dinner for the night. Thanks to the algorithm, the autoplay was running across videos about art technique, and I landed on one from The Met’s official page. It featured a Black artist named Jas Knight, and I remembered liking his voice enough to turn away from cleaning my brussel sprouts to look at the video over my shoulder.

He was standing in the center of a museum with a canvas out, and I caught him mimicking a portrait from centuries ago that hung on the wall, adding strokes onto his own to recreate the work. As the voiceover continued of him getting deeper into the role he demonstrated, I heard him call himself a “copyist.” And I think my life sort of changed in that moment.

“You haven't begun to see a painting until you've copied it,” he said (watch the full video here). “Well, you haven’t begun to copy a painting until you’ve seen it.” I finished my dinner being very eager to do a little dive in what a copyist does, which is pretty explanatory from the word itself: someone who copies. One of my favorite things about watching Jas paint was the diaphanous approach he took to the art. For him, copying wasn’t just about imitation, but was an opportunity to meet someone’s mind from centuries ago. Figure out the motivations to the color, the pose, the brush strokes, the texture. His respect for the work and the artist humbles him, and he meets himself and his newfound skills every time, across every canvas.

On the Monday after the weekend I watched this, I was talking to a co-worker of mine about romantic comedies and how far gone they’ve fallen. My passion for the genre runs deep from my intrigue with people that I love to mirror in my storytelling. How our relationships encourage us to love, hate, enjoy, or disregard each other. Romantic stories, whether comedic or not, get to this in a very urgent way. Which is why it pains me to see the genre suffer or become extremely lackluster, the way that it has. How much of an investment there ISN’T in telling great love stories like there used to be. I mentioned a recent film that tried hard to be that, but when I watched it, felt like it was copying all of the characteristics, but forgetting the why’s of the romance. The introduction, highs, lows, and unionship of the relationship did not feel earned, nor did it feel interesting or genuine. “It took place in New York, the characters have an obsession about classic films and how sweeping they are, the soundtrack sprinkles some Louis Armstrong in there, but I can’t tell you if I cared about any of it. It felt like it wanted me to know this was a romance and forgot the romance,” I told him.

He, then, on his own merit, brought up the rights and wrongs of copying, particularly in filmmaking. “The truth is, copying isn’t really avoidable. And it gets a bad rap, but it shouldn’t. Copying is an art and an instruction manual.”

We then went deep into the pool of film, since this is the industry we work in. “Take Tarantino for example. It’s very obvious he copies, and he doesn’t shy away from it. But his copy comes from a genuine place of admiration, and his storytelling comes from a place of his own exploration. He can mimic certain things, but he isn’t RELYING on it to make the story great — the stories he makes are already great and are nurtured by the genre.”

Hearing him say that was very affirming. I shared with Kyle my discovery of Jas Knight and the profession of being a copyist, and I told him how much I want to cater to the genre of romance and self love exploration. That what we have right now hasn’t sufficed for me, but my voice caters to it. That I loved to copy Nora Ephron (who, by the way, wrote on the best romantic comedies ever, as well as wrote a book titled, “Everything is Copy”) and what she did with "When Harry Met Sally”, and that I want to lean less on achieving the banter because it seems cool but paying most attention to why the characters can’t help but banter, in this way, with each other. How chemistry, inner/outer stakes, and past fears dictate present wants.

And he gave me advice that was sensational: “…you know what I like to do sometimes? So, Ari Aster is one of my fave filmmakers. I know, I know. BUT. Sometimes? I’ll rewrite his scripts. Just to get close to the words and why he chose them. I’ll have it open and, on my own document, write word for word how it appears. And when I tell you I’m blown away at what I feel when I reach certain places in the script…? It’s amazing. Honestly. You should do that with Norah’s work, or any of your favorites, too.”

I think it’s so wonderful how often the things we were taught as kids will usually remain the tools we’ll need for the rest of our lives. And that if we take some time to trust that we know more than we think, we’d be surprised how many questions we can answer ourselves.

Copying is not new; we grew up doing it as kids. When we didn’t know how to draw, we’d trace our favorite comic book characters over and over until we got it. When we didn't know how to be adults, we copied the closest and most farthest examples. When we didn’t know how to cook, we copied the recipe straight out of the book. And with each time, what happened?

We learned to draw, and found ways to elevate the copy.
We learned to adult (sort of… has anyone REALLY figured that out?) in our own ways (sometimes, maybe, not everyone) and found our realities so much richer than the people we copied (as intended!).
We learned new recipes, new tastes, and new techniques. Until we could explore flavor, texture, and the cooking methods of our own genius.

Copying guides you towards skill. There is liberation in being led until you can ride your bicycle all on your own. And sure, copying can very well be an art or an actual profession, but it’s also a stepping stone we walk upon in the beginning of our journey to exploration. The fascinating part is what we copy and what we learn about ourselves afterwards?

Every new phase of my life where I felt my voice when writing needed a change, there was a person or style that I looked to for help. I remember when I wrote like Meg Cabot in high school, filling up binders I’d decorate with stickers on its cover with pages from my own teenage books. Or when I got to college and wanted to be a journalist, wrote like some of my favorite bloggers when I owned my own. A few years ago, I was hellbent on writing like Toni Morrison, or writing movies like Kathleen Collins. And every time I copied, I’d come to the humbling truth that I wasn’t these people, and their voice wasn’t my voice, but I learned a new technique. I used to feel bad, though. Like it was wrong to copy. That I should “already know” how to speak my mind.

But, what the fuck, lol. How am I supposed to know that right away? You… can’t. Expression is a constant practice. And that practice has to start with being taught by someone whose copied in their own way and from there, has forged their own identity.

Under the video for Jas, I read some of the comments from people who weren’t painters, sharing how copying translates into their fields. Here are two that stuck out to me:

I am a jazz musician; I know nothing about painting. When he said "You haven't begun to see a painting until you've copied it." It instantly chimed with me. Transcription is the musical equivalent. When I have transcribed (with utmost attention to detail) the solos of Charlie Parker, or Oscar Pettiford et al., I have found myself transported through time, and experienced affinity that can never be taught by any other means. It is a very profound experience.

and this:

Not a professional artist, but this reminds me a lot of working on someone else’s code. Like trying to find the mindset of the developer on the other side of all the lines. And then continuing to understand them more and more as you translate their voice into your own code.

Austin Kleon, a writer who I’ve followed for since college, has built a career on teaching us how to build confidence within our art by—you guessed it—copying. His book, “Steal Like An Artist,” (click here to get the book AND read his amazing blog) is the ultimate guide to redefining the purpose of copying and how necessary it should be in our practice of SELF. And he uses so many creative techniques from other people’s work, such as blocking out text from newspapers with a permanent marker and leaving some words revealed to create his own poem. For years, he has embraced the goodness that comes from recycling and repurposing content, and it’s brilliant.

One of the simplest, best things he’s said was:

'Start copying what you love. Copy copy copy copy. At the end of the copy you will find your self.'

—Austin Kleon

“We guide each other through this life. And it’s when you stop seeking guidance that you fall prey to an inner, self-generated demise.” I wrote this when I prepped myself for this post weeks ago. And it reigns true.

To my scaredy cats out there: if there is new territory you want to venture into but you aren’t sure how or where or when or this or that… just copy. Start with a copy.

As for me? I’m in a space where I have to reapproach my ideas of romance and how I’d like to speak through it, since this is the genre I feel called to lend myself to.

So with that being said, I have a script to copy.