Attention to Detail

The mouth of Franz Hals' "Laughing Cavalier" is a smear of red highlighted with
what looks like toothpaste. Close up you'd be hard pressed to say what the
marks represented. By 1851 that style was out of date. Late one summer's
evening, Millais rowed across a river to sketch the flowers on the far bank by
lamplight. You'll see those impossibly detailed flowers in the Tate's
"Ophelia". In contrast there's Picasso's drawings - bare lines on a white
expanse - and Schiele's work where areas of untouched canvas compete with
highly wrought flesh. Later still came hyper-realism, where painting aspires to
photography.

When a poet writes "he rowed across the river to paint flowers", readers are
trusted to fill in the details if they wish. It doesn't matter if they
erroneously think that daffodils proliferate on the riverbanks. The poet's
"flower" is that of a toddler's first doodle: a generic icon. If the writer
says that the flowers are "yellow", we wonder why that feature is emphasised.
Writers cannot mention without pointing, whether it's at objects or their
secondary properties. Because of that, poets have to be as careful as
pre-budget chancellors about what they say. Every word matters, but they don't
tell the whole story. In contrast, painters cannot paint mere "flowers" - they
have to be yellow, drooping, or windblown. Because there are always so many
details, none can be singled out.

The world's becoming more graphic, less poetic - we are offered a choice of
details to concentrate on rather than being trusted to fill them in. Any lack
is a vacuum that must be filled: we have to know the history of each killer,
interview those they knew at school, know in which beauty spot the body was
buried. If we mistrust what we see our response is to zoom in. There are always
more details to find, more trees to obscure our view of the woods. Yet we are
scared to get away from it all. Walking in the countryside, we take along our
binoculars, our mobile phones and Sunday papers. Even if we notice hosts of
daffodils we would no longer describe them as golden - in truth they aren't.
Yet facts are often no more than props for poets to feel their way into a poem,
scaffolding. Like an actor's false nose, they are as much for the performer as
the listener. Like experimental findings, they are useful only for what we can
derive from them. We are becoming obsessed by the fine print and the
appendices, forgetting the abstracts. Too many writers play safe by giving us
everything on the principle that more is better, betraying a lack of
self-confidence, an inability to select. The law of diminishing returns
applies, further details becoming exhausting rather than exhaustive, obscuring
rather than illuminating the original, squeezing the reader out of the text.
Picasso was right when he said that it takes a master to know when to stop.

Art ranges from Pure Abstraction to hyper-realism. Poetry too has abstract
forms (Schwitters' sound poetry for instance) but its range (excepting perhaps
dialogue) doesn't extend to the reproduction of the real world. Poetry has to
accept that it can present appearance little better than it can smells, that
because the natural world has to be translated into words, all aspects of
reality are equally available, equally distant. Poetry needs to combine the
untouched abstraction of "flower" and "summer" with the selective power of
adjectives, the pinpoint precision of quotation, and especially of proper
nouns. The blanket-bombing of Millais is absent. Instead, details are pruned
back to let the spaces speak, and lines define not just area but volume. Under
magnification the phrases and words may look mundane or even careless but the
pieces aren't meant to be observed in isolation. Each word is modified by its
context. Meaning is distributed, oblivious to word boundaries and even the
boundaries of the work. When a modern poet writes "golden daffodils" the extra
meaning isn't discovered by zooming in on the individual words, but by panning
out to take in Wordsworth's poem and our response to the Romantics. The measure
of a poem's precision is not the amount of detail it contains, but how well it
targets the factories of knowledge in the hinterlands of the reader's mind,
where the details are best left.