The idea that translation is an art rests on two fundamental premises. The first is that effective translation requires a certain amount of skill, its techniques and methods developed over time not only in the hurly-burly of solitary practice or paid translation projects but also under the guidance of a more experienced professional. This explanation would elevate translation into a craft, defined here as cultivated skill applied in a particular context.
Getting from craft to art requires another criterion: that of aesthetic value. This kind of value goes beyond the merely functional. Woodworking, for instance, is a craft; it requires cultivated skill to be applied in a given context, to fulfill a definite purpose such as a cabinet or a door frame for a bedroom. But woodworking can also be an art. A woodworker can make a cabinet that is not only functional but aesthetically pleasing, resonant, evocative, the outcome of hundreds of choices that reflect the unique sensibility of the woodworker.
Many have argued that translation is a kind of imitation rather than creation as such. And yet this argument understates the complexity of translation, which depends on the engagement of a full-blooded creator. The truth is that translators choose from among a given set of options in a process that builds in complexity, hewing lexical pathways through a forest of language that reflects their own unique sensibility as a result of dozens or hundreds of choices, just like the woodworker—or, for that matter, the writer or the painter or the architect. Forests, of course, can have a greater or lesser density, just as texts can have varying quantities of idioms, metaphors, nonliteral phrases, cultural references, and stylistic flourishes.
But there will always be many pathways through a forest, many ways to translate any given text. And the pathway chosen after the dust has settled, the final translation, will always depend on the selection process of the translator. This means—surprise, surprise—that there is no definitive translation for any given text. There are only better and worse translations, all of them determined beforehand by the choices of the translator. And here begins the slick efficiency of artificial intelligence, which can have no sensibility and often sustains the illusion of a single, definitive translation.
Now to the title of this article: most companies don’t need translation in its fullest, aesthetic sense because most companies don’t care about the sensibility of the translator evident in the final draft of a translation. And that is because the creative potential inherent in translation means nothing for the results sought by companies or individuals in the vast majority of cases. This is the reality of translation as a commodity, where the profit motive or a basic utility is the limiting factor rather than another parameter. Most of the time, good enough is simply good enough—we all know that commercial tautology.
And yet there are people who place value on the sensibility of the translator or, for that matter, that of the writer or editor. These are people or teams or companies that make greater demands on how something is written because it has a purpose or an audience that is itself demanding, whether those demands be explicit or implicit. And these higher standards work in harmony with those of the translator, who becomes something of a keystone in the process.
This is where the unique value of creativity makes its stand in the marketplace—where aesthetic matters become the joint concern of a working collaboration. There will always be that minor subset of people for whom this value is of value, for whom sensibility and even artistry can have some kind of commercial value. Look no further than the existence of luxury brands as evidence of that phenomenon. So if you’re a service provider of any kind, it is often better to demand more of yourself—and to keep demanding. Stand, if you can stand; become visible, if you can envision it as a possibility. For this is the kind of standing intended to be understood.
