Over the Christmas period it has been impossible to escape from the “standards” of seasonal music. One recording in particular remains very popular in this country, at Christmas time, and that is the unusual album One Voice, recorded in 2016 by the singer and broadcaster Aled Jones. He came to fame initially as a boy soprano in 1984, possessed of a truly remarkable voice. The recent recording is a clever synthesis of his original performance as a boy and his adult voice.
Jones is, as even his friends would admit, not among the first rank of tenors. The spectacular soprano of his boyhood has settled into an acceptable but undistinguished voice. He does have a regular fan club, but these days is possibly more successful as a music presenter on radio and TV than he is as a solo performer. That’s OK. I’m sure that there are many boys who have lovely childhood voices the quality of which doesn’t survive the arrival of adulthood. Tonight over dinner, however, I found myself asking what it must be like to be Aled Jones.
What I have in mind here is the (to me) dreadful thought that his best work was done forty years ago, and that situation will probably never change.
An important part of my activity as a painter is the constant search for improvement. I am sure that this is common among artists, that we are motivated by the sense that there is within us an unrealised potential. There is still a road to be travelled, and new powers of expressiveness to be discovered. What would it feel like if I came to the realisation that this will never take place, and my best work is behind me? I could go on enjoying painting, and might sustain a respectable standard. I would, however, never be surprised by the realisation of some new vision or new capacity for expression. It is a truly dreadful thought. Much preferable is the idea that, although I will never become a Leonardo, in the words of the poet, “the best is yet to be”.