Marco Pierre White: All I’ve got to do is make the sauce. That is what I’m being paid for. I’m not being paid for anything else but to make the f***ing sauce.

Interviewer: I was engaging you in something—

Marco Pierre White: — Sorry I didn’t want to cut myself.

Interviewer: You can listen and you can cooperate—

Marco Pierre White: — No I can’t. I can’t, I’m sorry… if you wish me to cut myself on screen then I’ll do it for you. I’ll do whatever is expected of me to do. If you want me to chop the chicken, I’ll chop the chicken. If you want me to chop the mushrooms, I’ll chop the mushrooms. If you want me to make the sauce, I’ll make the sauce… but don’t expect me to sell my heart. Never expect that.

I think about this excerpt often. It’s from Marco Pierre White’s first TV series, released way back in 1989, simply titled Marco. For those who don’t know, Mr. Pierre White is one of the best chefs of his generation. By 1994 he’d earn his third Michelin Star at the age of 32. He’d then go on to voluntarily give all his stars back.

Unsurprisingly, the man also had Gordon Ramsay as an apprentice, and seeing a 19-year-old Gordon pootling about in Marco’s old shows, all demure, was certainly a shock to my system, having myself grown up on media like Master Chef and Kitchen Nightmares.

But why am I mentioning all this? Because if you don’t already know who Mr. Pierre White is, I need you to take him seriously as a creative professional. Why? Because the quote that opened this article is probably one of the greatest examples of the paradox that all creatives face.

The Paradox, Explained

Whether you are a writer, a visual artist, a graphic designer, a voice actor, or a theatre performer, your journey likely started out from a place of passion. Even if your parents or guardians made you do it initially (as is sometimes the case), would you have continued if you didn’t feel some sense of personal investment in the skills you were now developing?

And yet, if you then took those skills to a tertiary level, or tried to apply them professionally, you’d have quickly learned how thick a skin you need to succeed as a creative. Your clients (and/or critics) are invariably going to be people with opinions. Get a room of twenty people, ask them what they think of your work, and you’re likely to get 20–60 opinions or more. You can’t afford to take them all personally.

You know why you like to create. Maybe, for you, it’s the technical challenge; you love learning the rules of what makes a good piece of art (or writing) and then perfecting your application of those rules through technique. Then again, maybe your passion lies more in the opportunities your craft gives you for expression; whether that is self-expression, or the expression of a concept, ideal, or creed that’s close to your heart. Or maybe what really gets you going is the ability your craft gives you to make new worlds, to bring characters and events to life — and to the attention of others — in ways that an unguided theatre of the mind never could.

Maybe what you love is to awaken others to ideas they might not have considered on their own.

However, none of this translates smoothly into a professional space. Do you love technical fulfillment and challenge? Be prepared to find clients who really like that one thing you did eons ago, and want you to keep doing things like it. Over and over. Even when it’s easy and unfulfilling.

Do you love self-expression? Well, so does your client. Prepare to put their voice first.

And finally, new worlds… gaze over the remains of multi-hundred-episode serials, milked to the very bone, past all point of substance, and know that anything you create has the possibililty of receiving the same treatment if you don’t have full ownership. And even if you avoid that, expect many of your new worlds to go unappreciated or misunderstood.

This is the artist’s paradox. Becoming a creative requires passion. Remaining a creative, however, cannot happen on passion alone. You cannot put your entire soul into everything you do, because you’re invariably going to get that soul wounded the moment your work doesn’t receive the reception or maintain the direction you were hoping for.

As Mr. Pierre White says, “Don’t expect me to sell my heart.”

When that soul gets wounded, passion tends to get wounded with it. And, contrary to what you may be expecting me to say at this point, passion never becomes unimportant (it is, in fact, always essential). That said, it needs to be shielded, guarded, and lovingly protected by professionalism.

A Vignette of Professionalism

Maybe your heart’s desire is to make the most delicious multi-deck gourmet burger, but if the only thing you’re being paid for is to make the sauce, then just make the sauce.

If you’re a graphic designer being commissioned to develop two concepts for a design, you develop two concepts. Sure, you can make as many other alternatives as you like in your spare time, but when you’re on the clock you need to spend your time wisely, and that means giving people what they are paying you for; no more, no less.

That said, if you’re paid to make sauce, make the greatest sauce you can. As a designer, you might only be commissioned for two concepts, but those two concepts must reflect your ethos and show off what you can reasonably do with your given budget.

Likewise, if you’re a creative writer, but you’ve now accepted a gig to write instruction manuals for Traeger grills, you’d better make those the most engaging instruction manuals you’ve ever penned to paper. Don’t do more than what you’re being commissioned for. But if you’re going to do something, do it well.

That little bit of professional ethos, right there, can be a great way to set important boundaries up, making it harder for you to over-invest your soul in any creative project you might take on. But it’s also important to consider identity.

When I studied Fine Art, identity politics was a big part of our course, and from that background I can insist that it’s essential for you to at least be cognizant of who you are, where you begin, and where your work ends. Whenever Marco Pierre White made salmon in cream sauce, do you think he became the salmon?

No, of course not.

Even though it’s his thoughts, his creative energy, and his skill going into that salmon, the salmon isn’t him. And neither is the cream sauce. Likewise with whatever you create. You are not the characters you write, no matter how similar they may be to you in some regards. You are not the paintings you make. You are not your work.

You Are Not Your Work

Mr. Pierre White, in his heyday, spent eighty hours a week working in his kitchen. That’s nearly eleven and a half hours per day, with no weekends. Did this mean he was a dedicated chef? Yes. Did this bring him any closer to literally becoming the food he made? No.

The painter is not the painting. The designer is not the design. The actor is not the character. The performer is not the persona. And the author is not the book, which is great news if you turn out to be H.P. Lovecraft and wish to reform.

The distinctions may seem obvious now, drawn in the sand like this. But it’s easy for new creatives to forget the difference between the creator and the created. Even experienced creatives sometimes forget. But the difference must be remembered, otherwise you’ll receive an existential crisis every time your work is spurned or slighted.

With how ruthless clients can be, especially with their ever-changing opinions, remembering the distinction is essential. Mr. Pierre White might have made a bad salmon at some point in his life, but did that make him a bad chef? No. It just meant he’d need to check his technique and determine what went wrong. This is a normal step of the process for any creative who seeks to perfect their craft; perfection itself is a process, not a final destination, especially when working in an open-ended creative field.

Just because a client didn’t like what you made, doesn’t mean you’re a bad creator. But if you want to be a good creator, it is your job to determine whether the client’s reaction was a matter of taste, or technique. It’s then your job to adjust your work accordingly, wherever necessary.

This can’t be done if your feelings and identity are over-invested in what you make. And if this can’t be done, then you can’t grow. So do whatever is expected of you to become a great creative. Chop that literary chicken. Marinate the metaphorical mushrooms. Perfect your creative secret sauce. Even risk a cut and bleed a little, if the project is important enough. Just don’t attach your heart to what you make. Otherwise, when you sell your work, you risk selling your heart along with it.

Don’t do that. Never do that. To use your heart, but not lose it—to employ it, yet not give it away—is to beat the artist’s paradox.

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