Julie & Julia

This past weekend I saw Julie and Julia with my family, and aside from the movie itself (it's light, cheerful, and maybe just a little—albeit in a truly wholesome way—subversive), the most indelible impression left is, unsurprisingly, Meryl Streep. She is an unquestionably superb actress, capable of incarnating a pop-cultural deity in a way that supremely announces her presence as a performer by vanishing, deft and quick, into the icon herself, but even more than that, she is a professional. This notion is perhaps one of the few modern myths that I buy into almost wholeheartedly. The idea of the pro: someone who performs their function quietly and efficiently, with a minimum of fuss and a maximum of success; one of the most enduring and realistic cultural legacies of a capitalistic society, and one that I cannot help but aspire to. What is the seductiveness in this notion of the professional, of someone who is not just good at what they do but good at being good? It combines an ability that is just crucially short of being unearthly with a sense of direction and duty that is forever grounded in the task at hand. It is perhaps the focus that makes the difference, the unrelenting drive to succeed. But that only accounts for part of the equation, and moreover, is too romantic a notion by far. The lack of romanticism is part of the professional's defining characteristic, and in its place a kind of clear-sightedness that leads to the endlessly practical. A professional is never a dreamer, never a cynic, but instead a pragmatic idealist: a realist with a firm belief in the unending power of ability. Perhaps the declaration of the professional as capitalistic was overly hasty, as a Marxian work ethic does not seem entirely incompatible. But in feeling, a pro is entirely too individualistic, and too far at odds with any sort of immediate collectivism.

The professional is attainably heroic, and only as capable as he has the power to be. A significant part of it is the sense of traditionalism, seen in the individual's utter dedication to the mastery of a craft. In the traditionalism is seen the existence within a community of professionals, though those of the past and future can suffice. Is the professional an anti-revolutionary figure? Perhaps, as they are almost necessarily dogmatic. Innovation is inevitably inefficient; inventors are always amateurs. Whether actress or soldier or banker, somebody who does what they do well, and for no other sake than to do it. The professional is a kind of livable crucible, a negotiation between extremes that does not compromise but draws strength from the tension instead. Part of it is that they must remain in motion, and dedicated to the task: a professional without a profession is nothing at all. I think the professional is perhaps a paragon of immanent idealism, if such a thing exists: a materialism (they must be craftsmen, not philosophers) that gives rise to a religion, one that exists in tandem with but independent of its origins. To be good, to be great at what you do; to have something to be great at, and know it.